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/* Copyright 2010 Semantic Discovery, Inc. (www.semanticdiscovery.com) This file is part of the Semantic Discovery Toolkit. The Semantic Discovery Toolkit is free software: you can redistribute it and/or modify it under the terms of the GNU Lesser General Public License as published by the Free Software Foundation, either version 3 of the License, or (at your option) any later version. The Semantic Discovery Toolkit is distributed in the hope that it will be useful, but WITHOUT ANY WARRANTY; without even the implied warranty of MERCHANTABILITY or FITNESS FOR A PARTICULAR PURPOSE. See the GNU Lesser General Public License for more details. You should have received a copy of the GNU Lesser General Public License along with The Semantic Discovery Toolkit. If not, see <http://www.gnu.org/licenses/>. */ package org.sd.atn; import java.io.Writer; import java.io.File; import java.io.IOException; import java.util.Date; import java.util.HashSet; import java.util.List; import java.util.Set; import org.sd.io.FileUtil; import org.sd.util.InputContext; import org.sd.util.MathUtil; import org.sd.atn.extract.Extraction; import org.sd.util.MathUtil; import org.sd.util.tree.Tree; import org.sd.util.tree.Tree2Dot; import org.sd.xml.DomContext; /** * Utility class for building html parse output. * <p> * @author Spence Koehler */ public class HtmlParseOutput { private File tempDir; private Set<String> extractionTypes; private boolean filterInterps; private StringBuilder output; public HtmlParseOutput() { this(null, null, false); } public HtmlParseOutput(File tempDir, String extractionTypes, boolean filterInterps) { this.tempDir = tempDir; this.extractionTypes = null; if (extractionTypes != null && !"".equals(extractionTypes.trim())) { this.extractionTypes = new HashSet<String>(); final String[] types = extractionTypes.split(","); for (String type : types) this.extractionTypes.add(type); } this.filterInterps = filterInterps; this.output = new StringBuilder(); } public void addExtractionGroups(ExtractionGroups extractionGroups, boolean briefResults) { if (extractionGroups == null) return; if (briefResults) { output.append("<table border=\"1\" cellpadding=\"1\" cellspacing=\"1\" style=\"font-size: 80%;\">\n"); output.append(" <tr><th>group</th><th>text</th><th>interp</th><th>label</th><th>conf</th><th>path</th></tr>\n"); extractionGroups.visitExtractions( null, true, new ExtractionGroups.ExtractionVisitor() { ExtractionContainer.ExtractionData priorExtraction = null; public boolean visitExtractionGroup(String source, int groupNum, String groupKey, ExtractionGroup group) { return true; } public void visitInterpretation(String source, int groupNum, String groupKey, ExtractionContainer.ExtractionData theExtraction, int interpNum, ParseInterpretation theInterpretation, String extractionKey) { if (addBriefExtraction(groupNum, groupKey, theExtraction, interpNum, theInterpretation, extractionKey, priorExtraction)) { priorExtraction = theExtraction; } } }); output.append("</table>\n"); } else { for (ExtractionGroup extractionGroup : extractionGroups.getExtractionGroups()) { openExtractionGroup(extractionGroup); for (ExtractionContainer extractionContainer : extractionGroup.getExtractions()) { addExtractionContainer(extractionContainer); } closeExtractionGroup(); } } } public String getOutput() { final StringBuilder result = new StringBuilder(); result. append("<div>\n"). append(output). append("</div>\n"); return result.toString(); } private final void openExtractionGroup(ExtractionGroup extractionGroup) { output. append("<div>\n"). append(" <div>").append(extractionGroup.getKey()).append(" </div>\n"). append(" <table border=\"1\">\n"); } private final void closeExtractionGroup() { output. append(" </table>\n"). append("</div>\n"); } private final boolean addBriefExtraction(int groupNum, String groupKey, ExtractionContainer.ExtractionData theExtraction, int interpNum, ParseInterpretation theInterpretation, String extractionKey, ExtractionContainer.ExtractionData priorExtraction) { if (filterInterps && interpNum > 0) return false; if (extractionTypes != null) { final String extractionType = theExtraction.getExtraction().getType(); if (!extractionTypes.contains(extractionType)) return false; } // ignore consecutive duplicates if (priorExtraction != null) { final Tree<String> priorParseTree = priorExtraction.getParseTree(); final Tree<String> curParseTree = theExtraction.getParseTree(); if (curParseTree.equals(priorParseTree)) return false; } final String parsedText = theExtraction.getParsedText(); output. append("<tr>\n"). append("<td>").append(groupKey).append("</td>\n"). append("<td>").append(getParsedTextHtml(theExtraction)).append("</td>\n"). append("<td>").append(interpNum).append("</td>\n"). append("<td>").append(theInterpretation.getClassification()).append("</td>\n"). append("<td>").append(MathUtil.doubleString(theInterpretation.getConfidence(), 6)).append("</td>\n"). append("<td>").append(extractionKey).append("</td>\n"). append("</tr>\n"); return true; } private String getParsedTextHtml(ExtractionContainer.ExtractionData theExtraction) { if (theExtraction == null) return "???"; final String parsedText = theExtraction.getParsedText(); final StringBuilder result = new StringBuilder(); if (tempDir != null) { final Tree2Dot<String> tree2dot = new Tree2Dot<String>(theExtraction.getParseTree()); tree2dot.setNodeAttribute("fontsize", "8"); File dotFile = null; File dotPng = null; try { dotFile = File.createTempFile("parse.", ".dot", tempDir); final Writer writer = FileUtil.getWriter(dotFile); tree2dot.writeDot(writer); writer.close(); } catch (IOException e) { System.err.println(new Date() + ": WARNING: Unable to convert parseTree to dotFile '" + dotFile + "'!"); e.printStackTrace(System.err); dotFile = null; } if (dotFile != null) { // <a href='webex/genParseGraph.jsp?dotFile=tmp/....dot' target='parseTree'>parsedText</a> result. append("<a href='genParseGraph.jsp?dotFile="). append(dotFile.getName()). append("' target='parseTree'>"). append(parsedText). append("</a>"); dotFile.deleteOnExit(); } } if (result.length() == 0) { result.append(parsedText); } return result.toString(); } private final void addExtractionContainer(ExtractionContainer extractionContainer) { final int curOutputLength = output.length(); openParseResult(extractionContainer.getGlobalStartPosition()); boolean addedOne = false; final ParseInterpretation theInterpretation = extractionContainer.getTheInterpretation(); if (theInterpretation != null) { addedOne = addExtractionData(extractionContainer.getTheExtraction(), extractionContainer.getTheInterpretation()); } else { for (ExtractionContainer.ExtractionData extractionData : extractionContainer.getExtractions()) { addedOne |= addExtractionData(extractionData, null); } } if (!addedOne) { output.setLength(curOutputLength); } else { closeParseResult(); } } private final void openParseResult(int globalStartPos) { output.append("<tr>\n"); } private final void closeParseResult() { output.append("</tr>\n"); } private final boolean addExtractionData(ExtractionContainer.ExtractionData extractionData, ParseInterpretation theInterpretation) { if (extractionData == null) return false; openParse(true, extractionData.getParseNum()); addParseContext(extractionData.getParsedText(), extractionData.getStartPos(), extractionData.getEndPos(), extractionData.getLength(), extractionData.getContext().getInputContext()); addParseExtraction(extractionData.getExtraction()); output.append("<td><table border=\"1\">\n"); // open parseInterpretations if (theInterpretation != null) { output.append('\n'); addParseInterpretation(theInterpretation, 1); } else if (extractionData.getInterpretations() != null && extractionData.getInterpretations().size() > 0) { output.append('\n'); int interpNum = 1; for (ParseInterpretation interpretation : extractionData.getInterpretations()) { addParseInterpretation(interpretation, interpNum++); } } output.append("</table></td>\n"); // close parseInterpretations closeParse(); return true; } private final void addParseContext(String parsedText, int startIndex, int endIndex, int length, InputContext inputContext) { output.append("<td>").append(parsedText).append("</td>\n"); output.append("<td>").append(startIndex).append("</td>\n"); output.append("<td>").append(endIndex).append("</td>\n"); output.append("<td>").append(length).append("</td>\n"); String key = ""; if (inputContext != null && inputContext instanceof DomContext) { final DomContext domContext = (DomContext)inputContext; key = domContext.getIndexedPathString(); } output.append("<td>").append(key).append("</td>\n"); } private final void addParseExtraction(Extraction extraction) { if (extraction == null) return; output.append("<td><table>\n"); doAddParseExtraction(extraction); output.append("</table></td>\n"); } private final void doAddParseExtraction(Extraction extraction) { if (extraction == null) return; output. append("<tr><td align=\"top\">").append(extraction.getType()).append(':').append("</td>\n"). append("<td>\n"); if (extraction.hasFields()) { output.append("<table>\n"); for (List<Extraction> fieldExtractions : extraction.getFields().values()) { if (fieldExtractions != null) { for (Extraction fieldExtraction : fieldExtractions) { doAddParseExtraction(fieldExtraction); } } } output.append("</table>\n"); } else { output.append(extraction.getText()); } output.append("</td>\n"); } private final void addParseInterpretation(ParseInterpretation interpretation, int interpNum) { output.append("<tr><td>").append(interpretation.getClassification()).append("</td>\n"); final double confidence = interpretation.getConfidence(); final String cString = MathUtil.doubleString(confidence, 6); output.append("<td>").append(cString).append("</td>\n"); output.append("<td>").append(interpretation.getToStringOverride()).append("</td>\n"); output.append("</tr>\n"); } private final void openParse(boolean isSelected, int parseNum) { output.append("<td>"); if (isSelected) output.append("*"); output.append("</td><td>").append(parseNum).append("</td>\n"); } private final void closeParse() { } }
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
/* * Copyright 2016 IKS Gesellschaft fuer Informations- und Kommunikationssysteme mbH * * Licensed under the Apache License, Version 2.0 (the "License"); * you may not use this file except in compliance with the License. * You may obtain a copy of the License at * * http://www.apache.org/licenses/LICENSE-2.0 * * Unless required by applicable law or agreed to in writing, software * distributed under the License is distributed on an "AS IS" BASIS, * WITHOUT WARRANTIES OR CONDITIONS OF ANY KIND, either express or implied. * See the License for the specific language governing permissions and * limitations under the License. */ package com.iksgmbh.sql.pojomemodb.dataobjects.persistent; import com.iksgmbh.sql.pojomemodb.SQLKeyWords; import com.iksgmbh.sql.pojomemodb.dataobjects.temporal.ApartValue; import com.iksgmbh.sql.pojomemodb.dataobjects.temporal.ColumnInitData; import com.iksgmbh.sql.pojomemodb.dataobjects.temporal.OrderCondition; import com.iksgmbh.sql.pojomemodb.dataobjects.temporal.WhereCondition; import org.junit.Before; import org.junit.Test; import java.math.BigDecimal; import java.sql.SQLDataException; import java.sql.SQLException; import java.util.ArrayList; import java.util.List; import static org.junit.Assert.*; public class TableTest { private Table sut; @Before public void setup() throws SQLDataException { sut = new Table("Test"); } @Test public void returnsDataWhenAsterixAndAliasAreUsedInCombination() throws SQLDataException { // arrange sut.createNewColumn(createColumnInitData("ID", "Number(5)"), null); sut.createNewColumn(createColumnInitData("Name", "VARCHAR(10)"), null); sut.createNewColumn(createColumnInitData("Date", "Date"), null); final List<ApartValue> values = new ArrayList<ApartValue>(); ApartValue value = new ApartValue("to_date('15.05.16','DD.MM.RR')", "Date"); values.add(value); value = new ApartValue("'Jim'", "Name"); values.add(value); value = new ApartValue("1", "ID"); values.add(value); sut.insertDataRow(values); // act final List<Object[]> result = sut.select(null, new ArrayList<WhereCondition>(), new ArrayList<OrderCondition>()); // assert assertEquals("number of datasets", 1, result.size()); } @Test public void applies_to_char_function() throws SQLDataException { // arrange sut.createNewColumn(createColumnInitData("Column1", "Date"), null); final List<ApartValue> values = new ArrayList<ApartValue>(); ApartValue value = new ApartValue("to_date('15.05.16','DD.MM.RR')", "Column1"); values.add(value); sut.insertDataRow(values); final List<String> selectedColumns = new ArrayList<String>(); selectedColumns.add("to_char(Column1, 'dd.mm.yyyy hh24:mi:ss')"); final List<WhereCondition> whereConditions = new ArrayList<WhereCondition>(); // act final List<Object[]> result = sut.select(selectedColumns, whereConditions, new ArrayList<OrderCondition>()); // assert final String dateAsString = (String) result.get(0)[0]; System.err.println("<" + dateAsString + ">"); assertEquals("date value", "15.05.2016 00:00:00", dateAsString); } @Test public void buildsCloneOfDataRows() throws SQLDataException { // arrange sut.createNewColumn(createColumnInitData("Column1", "Date"), null); sut.createNewColumn(createColumnInitData("Column2", "varchar(50)"), null); sut.createNewColumn(createColumnInitData("Column3", "Number(10,2)"), null); final List<ApartValue> values = new ArrayList<ApartValue>(); values.add(new ApartValue("to_date('15.05.16','DD.MM.RR')", "Column1")); values.add(new ApartValue("'Test'", "Column2")); values.add(new ApartValue("10.2", "Column3")); sut.insertDataRow(values); // act 1 final List<Object[]> result1 = sut.createDataRowsClone(); result1.get(0)[0] = null; result1.get(0)[1] = "New"; result1.get(0)[2] = BigDecimal.ZERO; // act 2 final List<Object[]> result2 = sut.createDataRowsClone(); // assert assertEquals("number value", "10.2", ((BigDecimal)result2.get(0)[2]).toPlainString() ); assertEquals("text value", "Test", result2.get(0)[1]); assertEquals("date value", "Sun May 15 00:00:00 CEST 2016", result2.get(0)[0].toString()); } @Test public void ordersNullValues() throws SQLException { // arrange test table sut.createNewColumn(createColumnInitData("Column1", "Date"), null); sut.createNewColumn(createColumnInitData("Column2", "varchar(50)"), null); sut.createNewColumn(createColumnInitData("Column3", "Number(10,2)"), null); List<ApartValue> values = new ArrayList<ApartValue>(); values.add(new ApartValue("to_date('15.05.16','DD.MM.RR')", "Column1")); values.add(new ApartValue("'NotNull'", "Column2")); values.add(new ApartValue("10.2", "Column3")); sut.insertDataRow(values); // column 2 is NOT null values = new ArrayList<ApartValue>(); values.add(new ApartValue("to_date('15.05.16','DD.MM.RR')", "Column1")); values.add(new ApartValue("10.2", "Column3")); sut.insertDataRow(values); // column 2 is null // arrange select statement data final List<String> columns = new ArrayList<String>(); columns.add("Column2"); final List<OrderCondition> orderConditions = new ArrayList<OrderCondition>(); orderConditions.add(new OrderCondition("Column2", SQLKeyWords.ASC)); // act 1 final List<Object[]> result1 = sut.select(columns, new ArrayList<WhereCondition>(), orderConditions); // act 2 orderConditions.clear(); orderConditions.add(new OrderCondition("Column2", SQLKeyWords.DESC)); final List<Object[]> result2 = sut.select(columns, new ArrayList<WhereCondition>(), orderConditions); // assert assertNull(result1.get(0)[0]); assertEquals("Column2", "NotNull", result1.get(1)[0]); assertEquals("Column2", "NotNull", result2.get(0)[0]); assertNull(result2.get(1)[0]); } @Test public void usesDefaultValueIfDefined() throws SQLDataException { // arrange sut.createNewColumn(createColumnInitData("Column_With_Default", "VARCHAR(20)", "'DefaultValue'", null), null); sut.createNewColumn(createColumnInitData("Column_No_Default", "Date"), null); sut.createNewColumn(createColumnInitData("DateColumn", "Date", "sysdate", null), null); sut.createNewColumn(createColumnInitData("ID", "NUMBER"), null); final List<ApartValue> values = new ArrayList<ApartValue>(); values.add(new ApartValue("1", "ID")); // act sut.insertDataRow(values); // assert final List<Object[]> result = sut.createDataRowsClone(); assertEquals("value of ColumnWithDefault", "DefaultValue", result.get(0)[0]); assertNull(result.get(0)[1]); assertNotNull(result.get(0)[2]); } @Test public void throwsExceptionForDuplicatesInPrimaryKeyColumn() throws SQLDataException { // arrange sut.createNewColumn(createColumnInitData("Column_With_Default", "VARCHAR(20)", "'DefaultValue'", null), null); sut.createNewColumn(createColumnInitData("Column_No_Default", "Date"), null); sut.createNewColumn(createColumnInitData("DateColumn", "Date", "sysdate", null), null); sut.createNewColumn(createColumnInitData("ID", "NUMBER", null, "primaryKeyId"), null); final List<ApartValue> values = new ArrayList<ApartValue>(); values.add(new ApartValue("1", "ID")); sut.insertDataRow(values); // act try { sut.insertDataRow(values); fail("Expected exception was not thrown!"); } catch (SQLDataException e) { // assert assertEquals("Error message", "Primary Key Constraint violated in column 'ID' with value '1'.", e.getMessage().trim()); } } private ColumnInitData createColumnInitData(String colName, String colType) { ColumnInitData toReturn = new ColumnInitData(colName); toReturn.columnType = colType; return toReturn; } private ColumnInitData createColumnInitData(String colName, String colType, String defaultValue, String primKey) { ColumnInitData toReturn = createColumnInitData(colName, colType); toReturn.defaultValue = defaultValue; toReturn.primaryKey = primKey; return toReturn; } }
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
/******************************************************************************* * * Pentaho Data Integration * * Copyright (C) 2002-2012 by Pentaho : http://www.pentaho.com * ******************************************************************************* * * Licensed under the Apache License, Version 2.0 (the "License"); * you may not use this file except in compliance with * the License. You may obtain a copy of the License at * * http://www.apache.org/licenses/LICENSE-2.0 * * Unless required by applicable law or agreed to in writing, software * distributed under the License is distributed on an "AS IS" BASIS, * WITHOUT WARRANTIES OR CONDITIONS OF ANY KIND, either express or implied. * See the License for the specific language governing permissions and * limitations under the License. * ******************************************************************************/ package org.pentaho.di.job.entries.ssh2put; import static org.pentaho.di.job.entry.validator.AndValidator.putValidators; import static org.pentaho.di.job.entry.validator.JobEntryValidatorUtils.andValidator; import static org.pentaho.di.job.entry.validator.JobEntryValidatorUtils.fileExistsValidator; import static org.pentaho.di.job.entry.validator.JobEntryValidatorUtils.integerValidator; import static org.pentaho.di.job.entry.validator.JobEntryValidatorUtils.notBlankValidator; import static org.pentaho.di.job.entry.validator.JobEntryValidatorUtils.notNullValidator; import java.io.BufferedInputStream; import java.io.IOException; import java.io.InputStream; import java.util.ArrayList; import java.util.List; import java.util.regex.Matcher; import java.util.regex.Pattern; import org.apache.commons.vfs.FileObject; import org.apache.commons.vfs.FileType; import org.pentaho.di.cluster.SlaveServer; import org.pentaho.di.core.CheckResultInterface; import org.pentaho.di.core.Const; import org.pentaho.di.core.Result; import org.pentaho.di.core.database.DatabaseMeta; import org.pentaho.di.core.encryption.Encr; import org.pentaho.di.core.exception.KettleDatabaseException; import org.pentaho.di.core.exception.KettleException; import org.pentaho.di.core.exception.KettleFileException; import org.pentaho.di.core.exception.KettleXMLException; import org.pentaho.di.core.vfs.KettleVFS; import org.pentaho.di.core.xml.XMLHandler; import org.pentaho.di.i18n.BaseMessages; import org.pentaho.di.job.JobMeta; import org.pentaho.di.job.entries.ssh2get.FTPUtils; import org.pentaho.di.job.entry.JobEntryBase; import org.pentaho.di.job.entry.JobEntryInterface; import org.pentaho.di.repository.ObjectId; import org.pentaho.di.repository.Repository; import org.pentaho.di.resource.ResourceEntry; import org.pentaho.di.resource.ResourceReference; import org.pentaho.di.resource.ResourceEntry.ResourceType; import org.w3c.dom.Node; import com.trilead.ssh2.Connection; import com.trilead.ssh2.HTTPProxyData; import com.trilead.ssh2.KnownHosts; import com.trilead.ssh2.SFTPv3Client; import com.trilead.ssh2.SFTPv3FileAttributes; import com.trilead.ssh2.SFTPv3FileHandle; /** * This defines a SSH2 Put job entry. * * @author Samatar * @since 17-12-2007 * */ public class JobEntrySSH2PUT extends JobEntryBase implements Cloneable, JobEntryInterface { private static Class<?> PKG = JobEntrySSH2PUT.class; // for i18n purposes, needed by Translator2!! $NON-NLS-1$ private String serverName; private String userName; private String password; private String serverPort; private String ftpDirectory; private String localDirectory; private String wildcard; private boolean onlyGettingNewFiles; /* Don't overwrite files */ private boolean usehttpproxy; private String httpproxyhost; private String httpproxyport; private String httpproxyusername; private String httpProxyPassword; private boolean publicpublickey; private String keyFilename; private String keyFilePass; private boolean useBasicAuthentication; private boolean createRemoteFolder; private String afterFtpPut; private String destinationfolder; private boolean createDestinationFolder; private boolean cachehostkey; private int timeout; static KnownHosts database = new KnownHosts(); public JobEntrySSH2PUT(String n) { super(n, ""); serverName=null; publicpublickey=false; keyFilename=null; keyFilePass=null; usehttpproxy=false; httpproxyhost=null; httpproxyport=null; httpproxyusername=null; httpProxyPassword=null; serverPort="22"; useBasicAuthentication=false; createRemoteFolder=false; afterFtpPut="do_nothing"; destinationfolder=null; createDestinationFolder=false; cachehostkey=false; timeout=0; setID(-1L); } public JobEntrySSH2PUT() { this(""); } public Object clone() { JobEntrySSH2PUT je = (JobEntrySSH2PUT) super.clone(); return je; } public String getXML() { StringBuffer retval = new StringBuffer(128); retval.append(super.getXML()); retval.append(" ").append(XMLHandler.addTagValue("servername", serverName)); retval.append(" ").append(XMLHandler.addTagValue("username", userName)); retval.append(" ").append(XMLHandler.addTagValue("password", Encr.encryptPasswordIfNotUsingVariables(getPassword()))); retval.append(" ").append(XMLHandler.addTagValue("serverport", serverPort)); retval.append(" ").append(XMLHandler.addTagValue("ftpdirectory", ftpDirectory)); retval.append(" ").append(XMLHandler.addTagValue("localdirectory", localDirectory)); retval.append(" ").append(XMLHandler.addTagValue("wildcard", wildcard)); retval.append(" ").append(XMLHandler.addTagValue("only_new", onlyGettingNewFiles)); retval.append(" ").append(XMLHandler.addTagValue("usehttpproxy", usehttpproxy)); retval.append(" ").append(XMLHandler.addTagValue("httpproxyhost", httpproxyhost)); retval.append(" ").append(XMLHandler.addTagValue("httpproxyport", httpproxyport)); retval.append(" ").append(XMLHandler.addTagValue("httpproxyusername", httpproxyusername)); retval.append(" ").append(XMLHandler.addTagValue("httpproxypassword", httpProxyPassword)); retval.append(" ").append(XMLHandler.addTagValue("publicpublickey", publicpublickey)); retval.append(" ").append(XMLHandler.addTagValue("keyfilename", keyFilename)); retval.append(" ").append(XMLHandler.addTagValue("keyfilepass", keyFilePass)); retval.append(" ").append(XMLHandler.addTagValue("usebasicauthentication", useBasicAuthentication)); retval.append(" ").append(XMLHandler.addTagValue("createremotefolder", createRemoteFolder)); retval.append(" ").append(XMLHandler.addTagValue("afterftpput", afterFtpPut)); retval.append(" ").append(XMLHandler.addTagValue("destinationfolder", destinationfolder)); retval.append(" ").append(XMLHandler.addTagValue("createdestinationfolder", createDestinationFolder)); retval.append(" ").append(XMLHandler.addTagValue("cachehostkey", cachehostkey)); retval.append(" ").append(XMLHandler.addTagValue("timeout", timeout)); return retval.toString(); } public void loadXML(Node entrynode, List<DatabaseMeta> databases, List<SlaveServer> slaveServers, Repository rep) throws KettleXMLException { try { super.loadXML(entrynode, databases, slaveServers); serverName = XMLHandler.getTagValue(entrynode, "servername"); userName = XMLHandler.getTagValue(entrynode, "username"); password = Encr.decryptPasswordOptionallyEncrypted(XMLHandler.getTagValue(entrynode, "password")); serverPort = XMLHandler.getTagValue(entrynode, "serverport"); ftpDirectory = XMLHandler.getTagValue(entrynode, "ftpdirectory"); localDirectory = XMLHandler.getTagValue(entrynode, "localdirectory"); wildcard = XMLHandler.getTagValue(entrynode, "wildcard"); onlyGettingNewFiles = "Y".equalsIgnoreCase( XMLHandler.getTagValue(entrynode, "only_new") ); usehttpproxy = "Y".equalsIgnoreCase( XMLHandler.getTagValue(entrynode, "usehttpproxy") ); httpproxyhost = XMLHandler.getTagValue(entrynode, "httpproxyhost"); httpproxyport = XMLHandler.getTagValue(entrynode, "httpproxyport"); httpproxyusername = XMLHandler.getTagValue(entrynode, "httpproxyusername"); httpProxyPassword = XMLHandler.getTagValue(entrynode, "httpproxypassword"); publicpublickey = "Y".equalsIgnoreCase( XMLHandler.getTagValue(entrynode, "publicpublickey") ); keyFilename = XMLHandler.getTagValue(entrynode, "keyfilename"); keyFilePass = XMLHandler.getTagValue(entrynode, "keyfilepass"); useBasicAuthentication = "Y".equalsIgnoreCase( XMLHandler.getTagValue(entrynode, "usebasicauthentication") ); createRemoteFolder = "Y".equalsIgnoreCase( XMLHandler.getTagValue(entrynode, "createremotefolder") ); afterFtpPut = XMLHandler.getTagValue(entrynode, "afterftpput"); destinationfolder = XMLHandler.getTagValue(entrynode, "destinationfolder"); createDestinationFolder = "Y".equalsIgnoreCase( XMLHandler.getTagValue(entrynode, "createdestinationfolder") ); cachehostkey = "Y".equalsIgnoreCase( XMLHandler.getTagValue(entrynode, "cachehostkey") ); timeout = Const.toInt(XMLHandler.getTagValue(entrynode, "timeout"), 0); } catch(KettleXMLException xe) { throw new KettleXMLException(BaseMessages.getString(PKG, "JobSSH2PUT.Log.UnableLoadXML", xe.getMessage())); } } public void loadRep(Repository rep, ObjectId id_jobentry, List<DatabaseMeta> databases, List<SlaveServer> slaveServers) throws KettleException { try { serverName = rep.getJobEntryAttributeString(id_jobentry, "servername"); userName = rep.getJobEntryAttributeString(id_jobentry, "username"); password = Encr.decryptPasswordOptionallyEncrypted( rep.getJobEntryAttributeString(id_jobentry, "password") ); serverPort =rep.getJobEntryAttributeString(id_jobentry, "serverport"); ftpDirectory = rep.getJobEntryAttributeString(id_jobentry, "ftpdirectory"); localDirectory = rep.getJobEntryAttributeString(id_jobentry, "localdirectory"); wildcard = rep.getJobEntryAttributeString(id_jobentry, "wildcard"); onlyGettingNewFiles = rep.getJobEntryAttributeBoolean(id_jobentry, "only_new"); usehttpproxy = rep.getJobEntryAttributeBoolean(id_jobentry, "usehttpproxy"); httpproxyhost = rep.getJobEntryAttributeString(id_jobentry, "httpproxyhost"); httpproxyusername = rep.getJobEntryAttributeString(id_jobentry, "httpproxyusername"); httpProxyPassword = rep.getJobEntryAttributeString(id_jobentry, "httpproxypassword"); publicpublickey = rep.getJobEntryAttributeBoolean(id_jobentry, "publicpublickey"); keyFilename = rep.getJobEntryAttributeString(id_jobentry, "keyfilename"); keyFilePass = rep.getJobEntryAttributeString(id_jobentry, "keyfilepass"); useBasicAuthentication = rep.getJobEntryAttributeBoolean(id_jobentry, "usebasicauthentication"); createRemoteFolder = rep.getJobEntryAttributeBoolean(id_jobentry, "createremotefolder"); afterFtpPut = rep.getJobEntryAttributeString(id_jobentry, "afterftpput"); destinationfolder = rep.getJobEntryAttributeString(id_jobentry, "destinationfolder"); createDestinationFolder = rep.getJobEntryAttributeBoolean(id_jobentry, "createdestinationfolder"); cachehostkey = rep.getJobEntryAttributeBoolean(id_jobentry, "cachehostkey"); timeout = (int)rep.getJobEntryAttributeInteger(id_jobentry, "timeout"); } catch(KettleException dbe) { throw new KettleException(BaseMessages.getString(PKG, "JobSSH2PUT.Log.UnableLoadRep",""+id_jobentry,dbe.getMessage())); } } public void saveRep(Repository rep, ObjectId id_job) throws KettleException { try { rep.saveJobEntryAttribute(id_job, getObjectId(), "servername", serverName); rep.saveJobEntryAttribute(id_job, getObjectId(), "username", userName); rep.saveJobEntryAttribute(id_job, getObjectId(), "password", Encr.encryptPasswordIfNotUsingVariables(password)); rep.saveJobEntryAttribute(id_job, getObjectId(), "serverport", serverPort); rep.saveJobEntryAttribute(id_job, getObjectId(), "ftpdirectory", ftpDirectory); rep.saveJobEntryAttribute(id_job, getObjectId(), "localdirectory", localDirectory); rep.saveJobEntryAttribute(id_job, getObjectId(), "wildcard", wildcard); rep.saveJobEntryAttribute(id_job, getObjectId(), "only_new", onlyGettingNewFiles); rep.saveJobEntryAttribute(id_job, getObjectId(), "usehttpproxy", usehttpproxy); rep.saveJobEntryAttribute(id_job, getObjectId(), "httpproxyhost", httpproxyhost); rep.saveJobEntryAttribute(id_job, getObjectId(), "httpproxyport", httpproxyport); rep.saveJobEntryAttribute(id_job, getObjectId(), "httpproxyusername", httpproxyusername); rep.saveJobEntryAttribute(id_job, getObjectId(), "httpproxypassword", httpProxyPassword); rep.saveJobEntryAttribute(id_job, getObjectId(), "publicpublickey", publicpublickey); rep.saveJobEntryAttribute(id_job, getObjectId(), "keyfilename", keyFilename); rep.saveJobEntryAttribute(id_job, getObjectId(), "keyfilepass", keyFilePass); rep.saveJobEntryAttribute(id_job, getObjectId(), "usebasicauthentication", useBasicAuthentication); rep.saveJobEntryAttribute(id_job, getObjectId(), "createremotefolder", createRemoteFolder); rep.saveJobEntryAttribute(id_job, getObjectId(), "afterftpput", afterFtpPut); rep.saveJobEntryAttribute(id_job, getObjectId(), "destinationfolder", destinationfolder); rep.saveJobEntryAttribute(id_job, getObjectId(), "createdestinationfolder", createDestinationFolder); rep.saveJobEntryAttribute(id_job, getObjectId(), "cachehostkey", cachehostkey); rep.saveJobEntryAttribute(id_job, getObjectId(), "timeout", timeout); } catch(KettleDatabaseException dbe) { throw new KettleException(BaseMessages.getString(PKG, "JobSSH2PUT.Log.UnableSaveRep",""+id_job,dbe.getMessage())); } } /** * @return Returns the directory. */ public String getFtpDirectory() { return ftpDirectory; } /** * @param directory The directory to set. */ public void setFtpDirectory(String directory) { this.ftpDirectory = directory; } /** * @return Returns the password. */ public String getPassword() { return password; } /** * @param password The password to set. */ public void setPassword(String password) { this.password = password; } /** * @return Returns The action to do after transfer */ public String getAfterFTPPut() { return afterFtpPut; } /** * @param afterFtpPut The action to do after transfer */ public void setAfterFTPPut(String afterFtpPut) { this.afterFtpPut = afterFtpPut; } /** * @param httpProxyPassword The HTTP proxy password to set. */ public void setHTTPProxyPassword(String httpProxyPassword) { this.httpProxyPassword = httpProxyPassword; } /** * @return Returns the password. */ public String getHTTPProxyPassword() { return httpProxyPassword; } /** * @param keyFilePass The key file pass to set. */ public void setKeyFilepass(String keyFilePass) { this.keyFilePass = keyFilePass; } /** * @return Returns the key file pass. */ public String getKeyFilepass() { return keyFilePass; } /** * @return Returns the serverName. */ public String getServerName() { return serverName; } /** * @param serverName The serverName to set. */ public void setServerName(String serverName) { this.serverName = serverName; } /** * @param proxyhost The httpproxyhost to set. */ public void setHTTPProxyHost(String proxyhost) { this.httpproxyhost = proxyhost; } /** * @return Returns the httpproxyhost. */ public String getHTTPProxyHost() { return httpproxyhost; } /** * @param keyFilename The key filename to set. */ public void setKeyFilename(String keyFilename) { this.keyFilename = keyFilename; } /** * @return Returns the key filename. */ public String getKeyFilename() { return keyFilename; } /** * @return Returns the userName. */ public String getUserName() { return userName; } /** * @param userName The userName to set. */ public void setUserName(String userName) { this.userName = userName; } /** * @param proxyusername The httpproxyusername to set. */ public void setHTTPProxyUsername(String proxyusername) { this.httpproxyusername = proxyusername; } /** * @return Returns the userName. */ public String getHTTPProxyUsername() { return httpproxyusername; } /** * @return Returns the wildcard. */ public String getWildcard() { return wildcard; } /** * @param wildcard The wildcard to set. */ public void setWildcard(String wildcard) { this.wildcard = wildcard; } /** * @return Returns the localDirectory. */ public String getlocalDirectory() { return localDirectory; } /** * @param localDirectory The localDirectory to set. */ public void setlocalDirectory(String localDirectory) { this.localDirectory = localDirectory; } /** * @return Returns the onlyGettingNewFiles. */ public boolean isOnlyGettingNewFiles() { return onlyGettingNewFiles; } /** * @param onlyGettingNewFiles The onlyGettingNewFiles to set. */ public void setOnlyGettingNewFiles(boolean onlyGettingNewFiles) { this.onlyGettingNewFiles = onlyGettingNewFiles; } /** * @param cachehostkeyin The cachehostkey to set. */ public void setCacheHostKey(boolean cachehostkeyin) { this.cachehostkey = cachehostkeyin; } /** * @return Returns the cachehostkey. */ public boolean isCacheHostKey() { return cachehostkey; } /** * @param httpproxy The usehttpproxy to set. */ public void setUseHTTPProxy(boolean httpproxy) { this.usehttpproxy = httpproxy; } /** * @return Returns the usehttpproxy. */ public boolean isUseHTTPProxy() { return usehttpproxy; } /** * @return Returns the usebasicauthentication. */ public boolean isUseBasicAuthentication() { return useBasicAuthentication; } /** * @param useBasicAuthenticationin The use basic authentication flag to set. */ public void setUseBasicAuthentication(boolean useBasicAuthenticationin) { this.useBasicAuthentication = useBasicAuthenticationin; } /** * @param createRemoteFolder The create remote folder flag to set. */ public void setCreateRemoteFolder(boolean createRemoteFolder) { this.createRemoteFolder = createRemoteFolder; } /** * @return Returns the create remote folder flag. */ public boolean isCreateRemoteFolder() { return createRemoteFolder; } /** * @param createDestinationFolder The create destination folder flag to set. */ public void setCreateDestinationFolder(boolean createDestinationFolder) { this.createDestinationFolder = createDestinationFolder; } /** * @return Returns the create destination folder flag */ public boolean isCreateDestinationFolder() { return createDestinationFolder; } /** * @param publickey The publicpublickey to set. */ public void setUsePublicKey(boolean publickey) { this.publicpublickey = publickey; } /** * @return Returns the usehttpproxy. */ public boolean isUsePublicKey() { return publicpublickey; } public String getServerPort() { return serverPort; } public void setServerPort(String serverPort) { this.serverPort = serverPort; } public void setHTTPProxyPort(String proxyport) { this.httpproxyport = proxyport; } public String getHTTPProxyPort() { return httpproxyport; } public void setDestinationFolder(String destinationfolderin) { this.destinationfolder = destinationfolderin; } public String getDestinationFolder() { return destinationfolder; } /** * @param timeout The timeout to set. */ public void setTimeout(int timeout) { this.timeout = timeout; } /** * @return Returns the timeout. */ public int getTimeout() { return timeout; } public Result execute(Result previousResult, int nr) { Result result = previousResult; result.setResult( false ); try { // Get real variable value String realServerName=environmentSubstitute(serverName); int realServerPort=Const.toInt(environmentSubstitute(serverPort),22); String realUserName=environmentSubstitute(userName); String realServerPassword=Encr.decryptPasswordOptionallyEncrypted(environmentSubstitute(password)); // Proxy Host String realProxyHost=environmentSubstitute(httpproxyhost); int realProxyPort=Const.toInt(environmentSubstitute(httpproxyport),22); String realproxyUserName=environmentSubstitute(httpproxyusername); String realProxyPassword=Encr.decryptPasswordOptionallyEncrypted(environmentSubstitute(httpProxyPassword)); // Key file String realKeyFilename=environmentSubstitute(keyFilename); String relKeyFilepass=environmentSubstitute(keyFilePass); // Source files String realLocalDirectory=environmentSubstitute(localDirectory); String realwildcard=environmentSubstitute(wildcard); // Remote destination String realftpDirectory=environmentSubstitute(ftpDirectory); // Destination folder (Move to) String realDestinationFolder=environmentSubstitute(destinationfolder); try{ // Remote source realftpDirectory=FTPUtils.normalizePath(realftpDirectory); // Destination folder (Move to) realDestinationFolder=FTPUtils.normalizePath(realDestinationFolder); }catch(Exception e){ logError(BaseMessages.getString(PKG, "JobSSH2PUT.Log.CanNotNormalizePath",e.getMessage())); result.setNrErrors(1); return result; } // Check for mandatory fields boolean mandatoryok=true; if(Const.isEmpty(realServerName)) { mandatoryok=false; logError(BaseMessages.getString(PKG, "JobSSH2PUT.Log.ServernameMissing")); } if(usehttpproxy) { if(Const.isEmpty(realProxyHost)) { mandatoryok=false; logError(BaseMessages.getString(PKG, "JobSSH2PUT.Log.HttpProxyhostMissing")); } } if(publicpublickey) { if(Const.isEmpty(realKeyFilename)) { mandatoryok=false; logError(BaseMessages.getString(PKG, "JobSSH2PUT.Log.KeyFileMissing")); }else { // Let's check if folder exists... if(!KettleVFS.fileExists(realKeyFilename, this)) { mandatoryok=false; logError(BaseMessages.getString(PKG, "JobSSH2PUT.Log.KeyFileNotExist")); } } } if(Const.isEmpty(realLocalDirectory)) { mandatoryok=false; logError(BaseMessages.getString(PKG, "JobSSH2PUT.Log.LocalFolderMissing")); } if(afterFtpPut.equals("move_file")) { if(Const.isEmpty(realDestinationFolder)) { mandatoryok=false; logError(BaseMessages.getString(PKG, "JobSSH2PUT.Log.DestinatFolderMissing")); }else{ FileObject folder=null; try{ folder=KettleVFS.getFileObject(realDestinationFolder, this); // Let's check if folder exists... if(!folder.exists()) { // Do we need to create it? if(createDestinationFolder) folder.createFolder(); else logError(BaseMessages.getString(PKG, "JobSSH2PUT.Log.DestinatFolderNotExist",realDestinationFolder)); } }catch(Exception e){throw new KettleException(e);} finally { if(folder!=null) { try{ folder.close(); folder=null; }catch(Exception e){}; } } } } if(mandatoryok) { Connection conn = null; SFTPv3Client client = null; boolean good=true; int nbfilestoput=0; int nbput=0; int nbrerror=0; try { // Create a connection instance conn = getConnection(realServerName,realServerPort,realProxyHost,realProxyPort,realproxyUserName,realProxyPassword); if(timeout>0){ // Use timeout // Cache Host Key if(cachehostkey) conn.connect(new SimpleVerifier(database),0,timeout*1000); else conn.connect(null,0,timeout*1000); }else{ // Cache Host Key if(cachehostkey) conn.connect(new SimpleVerifier(database)); else conn.connect(); } // Authenticate boolean isAuthenticated = false; if(publicpublickey){ String keyContent = KettleVFS.getTextFileContent(realKeyFilename, this, Const.XML_ENCODING); isAuthenticated=conn.authenticateWithPublicKey(realUserName, keyContent.toCharArray(), relKeyFilepass); }else{ isAuthenticated=conn.authenticateWithPassword(realUserName, realServerPassword); } // LET'S CHECK AUTHENTICATION ... if (isAuthenticated == false) logError(BaseMessages.getString(PKG, "JobSSH2PUT.Log.AuthenticationFailed")); else { if(log.isBasic()) logBasic(BaseMessages.getString(PKG, "JobSSH2PUT.Log.Connected",serverName,userName)); client = new SFTPv3Client(conn); if(log.isDetailed()) logDetailed(BaseMessages.getString(PKG, "JobSSH2PUT.Log.ProtocolVersion",""+client.getProtocolVersion())); // Check if remote directory exists if(!Const.isEmpty(realftpDirectory)) { if (!sshDirectoryExists(client, realftpDirectory)) { good=false; if(createRemoteFolder) { good=CreateRemoteFolder(client,realftpDirectory); if(good) logBasic(BaseMessages.getString(PKG, "JobSSH2PUT.Log.RemoteDirectoryCreated")); } else logError(BaseMessages.getString(PKG, "JobSSH2PUT.Log.RemoteDirectoryNotExist",realftpDirectory)); } else if(log.isDetailed()) logDetailed(BaseMessages.getString(PKG, "JobSSH2PUT.Log.RemoteDirectoryExist",realftpDirectory)); } if (good) { // Get files list from local folder (source) List<FileObject> myFileList = getFiles(realLocalDirectory); // Prepare Pattern for wildcard Pattern pattern = null; if (!Const.isEmpty(realwildcard)) pattern = Pattern.compile(realwildcard); // Let's put files now ... // Get the files in the list for (int i=0;i<myFileList.size() && !parentJob.isStopped();i++) { FileObject myFile = myFileList.get(i); String localFilename = myFile.toString(); String remoteFilename = myFile.getName().getBaseName(); boolean getIt = true; // First see if the file matches the regular expression! if (pattern!=null){ Matcher matcher = pattern.matcher(remoteFilename); getIt = matcher.matches(); } // do we have a target directory? if(!Const.isEmpty(realftpDirectory)) remoteFilename=realftpDirectory + FTPUtils.FILE_SEPARATOR +remoteFilename; if(onlyGettingNewFiles) { // We get only new files // ie not exist on the remote server getIt=!sshFileExists(client, remoteFilename); } if(getIt) { nbfilestoput++; boolean putok=putFile(myFile, remoteFilename, client); if(!putok) { nbrerror++; logError(BaseMessages.getString(PKG, "JobSSH2PUT.Log.Error.CanNotPutFile",localFilename)); }else{ nbput++; } if(putok && !afterFtpPut.equals("do_nothing")){ deleteOrMoveFiles(myFile,realDestinationFolder); } } } /********************************RESULT ********************/ if(log.isDetailed()) { logDetailed(BaseMessages.getString(PKG, "JobSSH2PUT.Log.Result.JobEntryEnd1")); logDetailed(BaseMessages.getString(PKG, "JobSSH2PUT.Log.Result.TotalFiles",""+nbfilestoput)); logDetailed(BaseMessages.getString(PKG, "JobSSH2PUT.Log.Result.TotalFilesPut",""+nbput)); logDetailed(BaseMessages.getString(PKG, "JobSSH2PUT.Log.Result.TotalFilesError",""+nbrerror)); logDetailed(BaseMessages.getString(PKG, "JobSSH2PUT.Log.Result.JobEntryEnd2")); } if(nbrerror==0) result.setResult(true); /********************************RESULT ********************/ } } } catch (Exception e) { result.setNrErrors(nbrerror); logError(BaseMessages.getString(PKG, "JobSSH2PUT.Log.Error.ErrorFTP",e.getMessage())); } finally { if (conn!=null) conn.close(); if(client!=null) client.close(); } } } catch(Exception e) { result.setResult(false); result.setNrErrors(1L); logError(BaseMessages.getString(PKG, "JobSSH2PUT.Log.Error.UnexpectedError"), e); } return result; } private Connection getConnection(String servername,int serverport, String proxyhost,int proxyport,String proxyusername,String proxypassword) { /* Create a connection instance */ Connection connect = new Connection(servername,serverport); /* We want to connect through a HTTP proxy */ if(usehttpproxy) { connect.setProxyData(new HTTPProxyData(proxyhost, proxyport)); /* Now connect */ // if the proxy requires basic authentication: if(useBasicAuthentication) { connect.setProxyData(new HTTPProxyData(proxyhost, proxyport, proxyusername, proxypassword)); } } return connect; } private boolean putFile(FileObject localFile, String remotefilename, SFTPv3Client sftpClient) { long filesize=-1; InputStream in = null; BufferedInputStream inBuf = null; SFTPv3FileHandle sftpFileHandle=null; boolean retval=false; try { // Put file in the folder sftpFileHandle=sftpClient.createFileTruncate(remotefilename); // Associate a file input stream for the current local file in = KettleVFS.getInputStream(localFile); inBuf = new BufferedInputStream(in); byte[] buf = new byte[2048]; long offset = 0; long length = localFile.getContent().getSize(); if(log.isDetailed()) logDetailed(BaseMessages.getString(PKG, "JobSSH2PUT.Log.SendingFile",localFile.toString() ,""+length,remotefilename)); // Write to remote file while(true){ int len = in.read(buf, 0, buf.length); if(len <= 0) break; sftpClient.write(sftpFileHandle, offset, buf, 0, len); offset += len; } // Get File size filesize=getFileSize(sftpClient, remotefilename) ; if(log.isDetailed()) logDetailed(BaseMessages.getString(PKG, "JobSSH2PUT.Log.FileOnRemoteHost", remotefilename,""+filesize)); retval= true; } catch(Exception e) { // We failed to put files logError(BaseMessages.getString(PKG, "JobSSH2PUT.Log.ErrorCopyingFile",localFile.toString())+":"+e.getMessage()); } finally { if (in != null) { try { in.close(); in = null; } catch (Exception ex) {} } if(inBuf!=null) { try { inBuf.close(); inBuf = null; } catch (Exception ex) {} } if(sftpFileHandle!=null) { try { sftpClient.closeFile(sftpFileHandle); sftpFileHandle=null; } catch (Exception ex) {} } } return retval; } /** * Check existence of a file * * @param sftpClient * @param filename * @return true, if file exists * @throws Exception */ public boolean sshFileExists(SFTPv3Client sftpClient, String filename) { try { SFTPv3FileAttributes attributes = sftpClient.stat(filename); if (attributes != null) { return (attributes.isRegularFile()); } else { return false; } } catch (Exception e) { return false; } } /** * Checks if a directory exists * * @param sftpClient * @param directory * @return true, if directory exists */ public boolean sshDirectoryExists(SFTPv3Client sftpClient, String directory) { try { SFTPv3FileAttributes attributes = sftpClient.stat(directory); if (attributes != null) { return (attributes.isDirectory()); } else { return false; } } catch (Exception e) { return false; } } /** * Create remote folder * * @param sftpClient * @param foldername * @return true, if foldername is created */ private boolean CreateRemoteFolder(SFTPv3Client sftpClient, String foldername) { boolean retval=false; if(!sshDirectoryExists(sftpClient, foldername)) { try { sftpClient.mkdir(foldername, 0700); retval=true; }catch (Exception e) { logError(BaseMessages.getString(PKG, "JobSSH2PUT.Log.Error.CreatingRemoteFolder",foldername)); } } return retval; } /** * Returns the file size of a file * * @param sftpClient * @param filename * @return the size of the file * @throws Exception */ public long getFileSize(SFTPv3Client sftpClient, String filename) throws Exception { return sftpClient.stat(filename).size.longValue(); } private List<FileObject> getFiles(String localfolder) throws KettleFileException { try { List<FileObject> myFileList = new ArrayList<FileObject>(); // Get all the files in the local directory... FileObject localFiles = KettleVFS.getFileObject(localfolder, this); FileObject[] children = localFiles.getChildren(); if (children!=null) { for (int i=0; i<children.length; i++) { // Get filename of file or directory if (children[i].getType().equals(FileType.FILE)) { myFileList.add(children[i]); } } // end for } return myFileList; } catch(IOException e) { throw new KettleFileException(e); } } private boolean deleteOrMoveFiles(FileObject file, String destinationFolder) throws KettleException { try { boolean retval=false; // Delete the file if this is needed! // if (afterFtpPut.equals("delete_file")) { file.delete(); retval=true; if (log.isDetailed()) logDetailed(BaseMessages.getString(PKG, "JobSSH2PUT.Log.DeletedFile",file.toString())); } else if (afterFtpPut.equals("move_file")) { // Move File FileObject destination=null; FileObject source=null; try { destination = KettleVFS.getFileObject(destinationFolder + Const.FILE_SEPARATOR + file.getName().getBaseName(), this); file.moveTo(destination); retval=true; } catch (Exception e) { logError(BaseMessages.getString(PKG, "JobSSH2PUT.Cant_Move_File.Label",file.toString(),destinationFolder,e.getMessage())); } finally { if ( destination != null ) {try {destination.close();}catch (Exception ex ) {};} if ( source != null ) {try {source.close();} catch (Exception ex ) {}; } } if (log.isDetailed()) logDetailed(BaseMessages.getString(PKG, "JobSSH2PUT.Log.MovedFile",file.toString(),ftpDirectory)); } return retval; } catch(Exception e) { throw new KettleException(e); } } public boolean evaluates() { return true; } public List<ResourceReference> getResourceDependencies(JobMeta jobMeta) { List<ResourceReference> references = super.getResourceDependencies(jobMeta); if (!Const.isEmpty(serverName)) { String realServerName = jobMeta.environmentSubstitute(serverName); ResourceReference reference = new ResourceReference(this); reference.getEntries().add( new ResourceEntry(realServerName, ResourceType.SERVER)); references.add(reference); } return references; } @Override public void check(List<CheckResultInterface> remarks, JobMeta jobMeta) { andValidator().validate(this, "serverName", remarks, putValidators(notBlankValidator())); //$NON-NLS-1$ andValidator() .validate(this, "localDirectory", remarks, putValidators(notBlankValidator(), fileExistsValidator())); //$NON-NLS-1$ andValidator().validate(this, "userName", remarks, putValidators(notBlankValidator())); //$NON-NLS-1$ andValidator().validate(this, "password", remarks, putValidators(notNullValidator())); //$NON-NLS-1$ andValidator().validate(this, "serverPort", remarks, putValidators(integerValidator())); //$NON-NLS-1$ } }
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
Passage 1: Bianca Moon Bianca Moon( born 14 December) is an Australian songwriter, actress and activist. Moon trained at the National Institute of Dramatic Art, Australian Theatre for Young People, Screenwise and the Australian Institute of Music. She gained exposure early on in her career for her exceptional ability as a songwriter and producer. Her close friend is Katherine Kelly Lang. In 2013 Both Lang and Moon were nominated for their first Emmy Awards. Lang for acting and Moon for outstanding original song. Moon is only the second Australian to be nominated for a Daytime Emmy and is also the youngest person ever to be nominated for a technical Emmy Award. Passage 2: Willem Brakman Willem Pieter Jacobus Brakman( 1922 – 2008) was a Dutch writer who made his literary debut with the novel" Een winterreis" in 1961. Brakman received the P. C. Hooft Award in 1980. He was born on June 13th, 1922 in The Hague, Netherlands, and died on May 8th, 2008 in the same country. Passage 3: Sun and Moon Bay railway station Sun and Moon Bay railway station is a railway station of Hainan East Ring Intercity Rail located at Sun and Moon Bay, near Wanning, Hainan, China. Passage 4: Sun and Moon Bay Sun and Moon Bay, also known as Riyue Bay, is located approximately 25 km south of Wanning, Hainan, China. It is around 4.5 km long, and has been the site of numerous surfing events. The" Sun and Moon Bay Haimen Tourism Area" is located here. The Sun and Moon Bay Railway Station will be situated approximately 1 km inland from this bay. Passage 5: Eight Thousand Li of Cloud and Moon Eight Thousand Li of Cloud and Moon may refer to: Passage 6: Godwin Davy Godwin Davy( born 15 December 1979) is an Anguillan international footballer who plays as a goalkeeper. He made his international debut in a World Cup qualifying match against El Salvador, resulting in a lopsided match, losing 12- 0 in February 2008, and also played in the 4 – 0 loss to the same country in the return match in March 2008. Passage 7: Emiliano Purita Emiliano Purita( born 25 March 1997) is an Argentine professional footballer who plays as a midfielder for San Martín, on loan from San Lorenzo. Passage 8: Lillie (Pokémon) Lillie is a character in the 2016 video game" Pokémon Sun" and" Moon", of which she is regarded as the central character. Passage 9: Moon Hyang-ja Moon Hyang- Ja( born May 5, 1972) is a South Korean team handball player and Olympic champion. She received a gold medal with the Korean team at the 1992 Summer Olympics in Barcelona. She received a silver medal at the 1996 Summer Olympics in Atlanta. Passage 10: 2001–02 UEFA Champions League second group stage Eight winners and eight runners- up from the first group stage were drawn into four groups of four teams, each containing two group winners and two runners- up. Teams from the same country or from the same first round group could not be drawn together. The top two teams in each group advanced to the quarter- finals. Question: Are Emiliano Purita and Moon Hyang-Ja both from the same country? Answer: no
{ "task_name": "2WikiMultihopQA" }
// Copyright (c) Microsoft. All Rights Reserved. Licensed under the MIT license. See License.txt in the project root for license information. using System.Collections.Generic; using System.Collections.Immutable; using System.Linq; using Analyzer.Utilities; using Analyzer.Utilities.Extensions; using Microsoft.CodeAnalysis; using Microsoft.CodeAnalysis.Diagnostics; using Microsoft.CodeAnalysis.NetAnalyzers; using Microsoft.CodeAnalysis.Operations; namespace Microsoft.NetCore.Analyzers.Runtime { using static MicrosoftNetCoreAnalyzersResources; /// <summary> /// CA1307: Specify StringComparison /// </summary> [DiagnosticAnalyzer(LanguageNames.CSharp, LanguageNames.VisualBasic)] public sealed class SpecifyStringComparisonAnalyzer : AbstractGlobalizationDiagnosticAnalyzer { private const string RuleId_CA1307 = "CA1307"; private const string RuleId_CA1310 = "CA1310"; private static readonly ImmutableArray<string> s_CA1310MethodNamesWithFirstStringParameter = ImmutableArray.Create("Compare", "StartsWith", "EndsWith", "IndexOf", "LastIndexOf"); internal static readonly DiagnosticDescriptor Rule_CA1307 = DiagnosticDescriptorHelper.Create( RuleId_CA1307, CreateLocalizableResourceString(nameof(SpecifyStringComparisonCA1307Title)), CreateLocalizableResourceString(nameof(SpecifyStringComparisonCA1307Message)), DiagnosticCategory.Globalization, RuleLevel.Disabled, description: CreateLocalizableResourceString(nameof(SpecifyStringComparisonCA1307Description)), isPortedFxCopRule: true, isDataflowRule: false); internal static readonly DiagnosticDescriptor Rule_CA1310 = DiagnosticDescriptorHelper.Create( RuleId_CA1310, CreateLocalizableResourceString(nameof(SpecifyStringComparisonCA1310Title)), CreateLocalizableResourceString(nameof(SpecifyStringComparisonCA1310Message)), DiagnosticCategory.Globalization, RuleLevel.IdeHidden_BulkConfigurable, description: CreateLocalizableResourceString(nameof(SpecifyStringComparisonCA1310Description)), isPortedFxCopRule: false, isDataflowRule: false); public override ImmutableArray<DiagnosticDescriptor> SupportedDiagnostics { get; } = ImmutableArray.Create(Rule_CA1307, Rule_CA1310); protected override void InitializeWorker(CompilationStartAnalysisContext context) { var stringComparisonType = context.Compilation.GetOrCreateTypeByMetadataName(WellKnownTypeNames.SystemStringComparison); var stringType = context.Compilation.GetSpecialType(SpecialType.System_String); // Without these symbols the rule cannot run if (stringComparisonType == null) { return; } var overloadMap = GetWellKnownStringOverloads(context.Compilation, stringType, stringComparisonType); var linqExpressionType = context.Compilation.GetOrCreateTypeByMetadataName(WellKnownTypeNames.SystemLinqExpressionsExpression1); context.RegisterOperationAction(oaContext => { var invocationExpression = (IInvocationOperation)oaContext.Operation; var targetMethod = invocationExpression.TargetMethod; if (targetMethod.IsGenericMethod || targetMethod.ContainingType == null || targetMethod.ContainingType.IsErrorType()) { return; } // Check if we are in a Expression<Func<T...>> context, in which case it is possible // that the underlying call doesn't have the comparison option so we want to bail-out. if (invocationExpression.IsWithinExpressionTree(linqExpressionType)) { return; } // Report correctness issue CA1310 for known string comparison methods that default to culture specific string comparison: // https://docs.microsoft.com/dotnet/standard/base-types/best-practices-strings#string-comparisons-that-use-the-current-culture if (targetMethod.ContainingType.SpecialType == SpecialType.System_String && !overloadMap.IsEmpty && overloadMap.ContainsKey(targetMethod)) { ReportDiagnostic( Rule_CA1310, oaContext, invocationExpression, targetMethod, overloadMap[targetMethod]); return; } // Report maintainability issue CA1307 for any method that has an additional overload with the exact same parameter list, // plus as additional StringComparison parameter. Default StringComparison may or may not match user's intent, // but it is recommended to explicitly specify it for clarity and readability: // https://docs.microsoft.com/dotnet/standard/base-types/best-practices-strings#recommendations-for-string-usage IEnumerable<IMethodSymbol> methodsWithSameNameAsTargetMethod = targetMethod.ContainingType.GetMembers(targetMethod.Name).OfType<IMethodSymbol>(); if (methodsWithSameNameAsTargetMethod.HasMoreThan(1)) { var correctOverload = methodsWithSameNameAsTargetMethod .GetMethodOverloadsWithDesiredParameterAtTrailing(targetMethod, stringComparisonType) .FirstOrDefault(); if (correctOverload != null) { ReportDiagnostic( Rule_CA1307, oaContext, invocationExpression, targetMethod, correctOverload); } } }, OperationKind.Invocation); static ImmutableDictionary<IMethodSymbol, IMethodSymbol> GetWellKnownStringOverloads( Compilation compilation, INamedTypeSymbol stringType, INamedTypeSymbol stringComparisonType) { var objectType = compilation.GetSpecialType(SpecialType.System_Object); var booleanType = compilation.GetSpecialType(SpecialType.System_Boolean); var integerType = compilation.GetSpecialType(SpecialType.System_Int32); var stringCompareToNamedMethods = stringType.GetMembers("CompareTo").OfType<IMethodSymbol>(); var stringCompareToParameterString = stringCompareToNamedMethods.GetFirstOrDefaultMemberWithParameterInfos( GetParameterInfo(stringType)); var stringCompareToParameterObject = stringCompareToNamedMethods.GetFirstOrDefaultMemberWithParameterInfos( GetParameterInfo(objectType)); var stringCompareNamedMethods = stringType.GetMembers("Compare").OfType<IMethodSymbol>(); var stringCompareParameterStringStringBool = stringCompareNamedMethods.GetFirstOrDefaultMemberWithParameterInfos( GetParameterInfo(stringType), GetParameterInfo(stringType), GetParameterInfo(booleanType)); var stringCompareParameterStringStringStringComparison = stringCompareNamedMethods.GetFirstOrDefaultMemberWithParameterInfos( GetParameterInfo(stringType), GetParameterInfo(stringType), GetParameterInfo(stringComparisonType)); var stringCompareParameterStringIntStringIntIntBool = stringCompareNamedMethods.GetFirstOrDefaultMemberWithParameterInfos( GetParameterInfo(stringType), GetParameterInfo(integerType), GetParameterInfo(stringType), GetParameterInfo(integerType), GetParameterInfo(integerType), GetParameterInfo(booleanType)); var stringCompareParameterStringIntStringIntIntComparison = stringCompareNamedMethods.GetFirstOrDefaultMemberWithParameterInfos( GetParameterInfo(stringType), GetParameterInfo(integerType), GetParameterInfo(stringType), GetParameterInfo(integerType), GetParameterInfo(integerType), GetParameterInfo(stringComparisonType)); var overloadMapBuilder = ImmutableDictionary.CreateBuilder<IMethodSymbol, IMethodSymbol>(); overloadMapBuilder.AddKeyValueIfNotNull(stringCompareToParameterString, stringCompareParameterStringStringStringComparison); overloadMapBuilder.AddKeyValueIfNotNull(stringCompareToParameterObject, stringCompareParameterStringStringStringComparison); overloadMapBuilder.AddKeyValueIfNotNull(stringCompareParameterStringStringBool, stringCompareParameterStringStringStringComparison); overloadMapBuilder.AddKeyValueIfNotNull(stringCompareParameterStringIntStringIntIntBool, stringCompareParameterStringIntStringIntIntComparison); foreach (var methodName in s_CA1310MethodNamesWithFirstStringParameter) { var methodsWithMethodName = stringType.GetMembers(methodName).OfType<IMethodSymbol>(); foreach (var method in methodsWithMethodName) { if (!method.Parameters.IsEmpty && method.Parameters[0].Type.SpecialType == SpecialType.System_String && !method.Parameters[^1].Type.Equals(stringComparisonType)) { var recommendedMethod = methodsWithMethodName .GetMethodOverloadsWithDesiredParameterAtTrailing(method, stringComparisonType) .FirstOrDefault(); if (recommendedMethod != null) { overloadMapBuilder.AddKeyValueIfNotNull(method, recommendedMethod); } } } } return overloadMapBuilder.ToImmutable(); } } private static void ReportDiagnostic( DiagnosticDescriptor rule, OperationAnalysisContext oaContext, IInvocationOperation invocationExpression, IMethodSymbol targetMethod, IMethodSymbol correctOverload) { oaContext.ReportDiagnostic( invocationExpression.CreateDiagnostic( rule, targetMethod.ToDisplayString(SymbolDisplayFormat.CSharpErrorMessageFormat), oaContext.ContainingSymbol.ToDisplayString(SymbolDisplayFormat.CSharpErrorMessageFormat), correctOverload.ToDisplayString(SymbolDisplayFormat.CSharpErrorMessageFormat))); } private static ParameterInfo GetParameterInfo(INamedTypeSymbol type, bool isArray = false, int arrayRank = 0, bool isParams = false) { return ParameterInfo.GetParameterInfo(type, isArray, arrayRank, isParams); } } }
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
Passage 1: Marian Shields Robinson Marian Lois Robinson( née Shields; born July 29, 1937) is the mother of Michelle Obama, former First Lady of the United States, and Craig Robinson, a basketball executive, and the mother- in- law of former U.S. President Barack Obama. Passage 2: Priscilla Pointer Priscilla Marie Pointer( born May 18, 1924) is an American stage, film and television character actress. She began her career in the theater, including productions on Broadway. Later, Pointer moved to Hollywood to act in films and on television. She is the mother of Amy Irving, therefore making her the former mother- in- law of filmmakers Steven Spielberg and Bruno Barreto and the mother- in- law of documentary filmmaker Kenneth Bowser, Jr. Passage 3: Maureen Reagan Maureen Elizabeth Reagan (January 4, 1941 – August 8, 2001) was an American political activist, the first child of U.S. President Ronald Reagan and his first wife, actress Jane Wyman. Her adoptive brother was Michael Reagan and her half-siblings were Patti Davis and Ron Reagan, from her father's second marriage (to Nancy Davis). Passage 4: Vera Miletić Vera Miletić (Serbian Cyrillic: Вера Милетић; 8 March 1920 – 7 September 1944) was a Serbian student and soldier. She was notable for being the mother of Mira Marković, posthumously making her the mother-in-law of Serbian president Slobodan Milošević. Passage 5: Baroness Gösta von dem Bussche-Haddenhausen Baroness Gösta von dem Bussche- Haddenhausen( 26 January 1902 – 13 June 1996) was the mother of Prince Claus of the Netherlands, who was the Prince Consort of Queen Beatrix of the Netherlands, thus making her the mother- in- law of the former Dutch Queen. She is also the paternal grandmother of King Willem- Alexander of the Netherlands, who is the current Dutch King. Passage 6: Maria Thins Maria Thins( c. 1593 – 27 December 1680) was the mother- in- law of Johannes Vermeer and a member of the Gouda Thins family. Passage 7: David Sills David George Sills (March 21, 1938 – August 23, 2011) was an American jurist. Sills served as the presiding justice for the California Court of Appeal for the Fourth Appellate District, Division Three. He is a former mayor of Irvine, California, the largest planned city in the United States. From 1964 to 1968, Sills was married to Maureen Reagan, the daughter of U.S. President Ronald Reagan. He was a member of the Republican State Central Committee of California from 1966 to 1968 and Chairman of the Republican Associates of Orange County from 1968 to 1969. Sills was appointed as a judge to California's Superior Court in 1985 by Governor George Deukmejian and served there until being promoted to be the Presiding Justice at the Court of Appeal again by Governor Deukmejian in 1990, where he served with distinction and exemplary leadership. He authored approximately 2,400 legal opinions. He received a B.S. from Bradley University in 1959 and his legal degree from the University of Illinois College of Law in 1961. Prior to being named to the bench he served in the U.S. Marine Corps between 1960 and 1965, reaching the rank of captain. He had a private law practice in Orange County, California between 1965 and 1985 and was an elected member of the Irvine City Council between 1976 and 1985, serving as mayor for four years during that period. During his tenure he worked with the Council to responsibly manage the rapid growth Irvine was experiencing at the time. Sills was also the Irvine Health Foundation's founding Chairman and remained for 26 years. During his service over $25 Million was granted to philanthropic organizations in Orange County to improve health issues for those in need. Prior to developing knee problems, Sills was a marathon runner who often competed in the Boston Marathon. He enjoyed wood working and had a full range of tools and machines in his garage, fondly known as the "Sills Cabinet Shop. " Sills had an extensive library at his Irvine home and studied history and politics. Passage 8: Ebba Eriksdotter Vasa Ebba Eriksdotter Vasa (circa 1491 – 21 November 1549) was a Swedish noblewoman. She was the mother of Queen Margaret Leijonhufvud and the second cousin and mother-in-law of King Gustav Vasa. Passage 9: Eldon Howard Eldon Howard was a British screenwriter. She was the mother- in- law of Edward J. Danziger and wrote a number of the screenplays for films by his company Danziger Productions. Passage 10: Cornelia (mother of the Gracchi) Cornelia( c. 190s – c. 115 BC) was the second daughter of Publius Cornelius Scipio Africanus, the hero of the Second Punic War, and Aemilia Paulla. She is remembered as a prototypical example of a virtuous Roman woman. She was the mother of the Gracchi brothers, and the mother- in- law of Scipio Aemilianus. Question: Who is David Sills's mother-in-law? Answer: Jane Wyman
{ "task_name": "2WikiMultihopQA" }
package net.craftstars.general.util; import java.lang.reflect.Field; import java.lang.reflect.InvocationTargetException; import java.lang.reflect.Method; import java.util.HashMap; import java.util.Iterator; import java.util.List; import java.util.Map; import java.util.Map.Entry; import com.ensifera.animosity.craftirc.CommandEndPoint; import com.ensifera.animosity.craftirc.CraftIRC; import org.bukkit.Bukkit; import org.bukkit.command.Command; import org.bukkit.command.CommandMap; import org.bukkit.command.CommandSender; import org.bukkit.command.PluginCommand; import org.bukkit.command.SimpleCommandMap; import org.bukkit.configuration.Configuration; import org.bukkit.craftbukkit.CraftServer; import org.bukkit.plugin.Plugin; import org.bukkit.plugin.PluginDescriptionFile; import net.craftstars.general.General; import net.craftstars.general.command.CommandBase; import net.craftstars.general.text.LanguageText; public final class CommandManager { public static boolean setAliases = false; private static SimpleCommandMap commandMap = null; private static Map<String,Command> knownCommands = null; private static Method register = null; public static String[] compassAliases; public static String[] posAliases; public static HashMap<CommandEndPoint, String> cmdTags = null; private CommandManager() {} public static void setup(Configuration config) { if(setAliases) return; getCommandMap(); if(!config.getKeys(false).contains("aliases")) General.logger.warn(LanguageText.LOG_COMMAND_NO_ALIASES.value()); Plugin chat = Bukkit.getPluginManager().getPlugin("CraftIRC"); boolean foundIRC = isCraftIRC3(chat); PluginDescriptionFile plug = General.plugin.getDescription(); try { Map<String,Map<String,Object>> commands = plug.getCommands(); for(String key : commands.keySet()) { PluginCommand generalCommand = General.plugin.getCommand(key); //General.logger.debug("Registering aliases for command: " + key); try { Class<? extends CommandBase> clazz = General.class.getClassLoader() .loadClass("net.craftstars.general.command." + generalCommand.getName() + "Command") .asSubclass(CommandBase.class); CommandBase commandInstance = clazz.getConstructor(General.class, Command.class) .newInstance(General.plugin, generalCommand); generalCommand.setExecutor(commandInstance); if(foundIRC) { if(cmdTags == null) cmdTags = new HashMap<CommandEndPoint, String>(); CraftIRC irc = (CraftIRC) chat; String tag = generalCommand.getLabel(); try { CommandEndPoint ep = commandInstance.new CraftIRCForwarder(irc, tag); cmdTags.put(ep, tag); } catch(Exception e) { General.logger.warn(LanguageText.LOG_COMMAND_IRC_REG_ERROR.value("command", generalCommand.getName())); } } } catch(ClassNotFoundException e) { General.logger.error(LanguageText.LOG_COMMAND_REG_ERROR.value("command", generalCommand.getName()),e); } catch(IllegalArgumentException e) { General.logger.error(LanguageText.LOG_COMMAND_REG_ERROR.value("command", generalCommand.getName()),e); } catch(SecurityException e) { General.logger.error(LanguageText.LOG_COMMAND_REG_ERROR.value("command", generalCommand.getName()),e); } catch(InstantiationException e) { General.logger.error(LanguageText.LOG_COMMAND_REG_ERROR.value("command", generalCommand.getName()),e); } catch(IllegalAccessException e) { General.logger.error(LanguageText.LOG_COMMAND_REG_ERROR.value("command", generalCommand.getName()),e); } catch(InvocationTargetException e) { General.logger.error(LanguageText.LOG_COMMAND_REG_ERROR.value("command", generalCommand.getName()),e); } catch(NoSuchMethodException e) { General.logger.error(LanguageText.LOG_COMMAND_REG_ERROR.value("command", generalCommand.getName()),e); } if(register != null && key.contains(".")) register(key.split("\\.")[1], generalCommand); if(knownCommands != null) { Iterator<Entry<String,Command>> iter = knownCommands.entrySet().iterator(); while(iter.hasNext()) { Entry<String,Command> cmd = iter.next(); if(cmd.getValue() != generalCommand) continue; cmd.setValue(new GeneralCommand(generalCommand)); } } List<String> aliases = config.getStringList("aliases." + key); if(aliases == null) { //General.logger.warn("No aliases defined for " + key + " command; skipping."); continue; } for(String alias : aliases) register(alias, generalCommand); } } catch(NullPointerException e) { e.printStackTrace(); return; } catch(ClassCastException e) { General.logger.error("Commands are of wrong type!",e); } } private static boolean isCraftIRC3(Plugin irc) { if(irc != null && irc instanceof CraftIRC && irc.getDescription().getVersion().startsWith("3")) return true; return false; } public static boolean register(String label, Command command) { try { boolean success = (Boolean) register.invoke(commandMap, label, "General.dynalias", command, true); if(!success) { Command cmd = Bukkit.getPluginCommand(label); String claimant; if(cmd instanceof PluginCommand) claimant = ((PluginCommand) cmd).getPlugin().getDescription().getName(); else claimant = Bukkit.getName(); General.logger.info(LanguageText.LOG_COMMAND_TAKEN.value("alias", label, "plugin", claimant)); } return success; } catch(IllegalArgumentException e) { General.logger.warn(e.getMessage()); } catch(IllegalAccessException e) { General.logger.warn(e.getMessage()); } catch(InvocationTargetException e) { General.logger.warn(e.getMessage()); } return false; } @SuppressWarnings("unchecked") private static boolean getCommandMap() { CraftServer cs = (CraftServer) Bukkit.getServer(); Field cm; try { cm = CraftServer.class.getDeclaredField("commandMap"); } catch(SecurityException e) { General.logger.warn(e.getMessage()); return false; } catch(NoSuchFieldException e) { General.logger.warn(e.getMessage()); return false; } cm.setAccessible(true); try { commandMap = (SimpleCommandMap) cm.get(cs); } catch(IllegalArgumentException e) { General.logger.warn(e.getMessage()); return false; } catch(IllegalAccessException e) { General.logger.warn(e.getMessage()); return false; } if(commandMap == null) return false; try { register = SimpleCommandMap.class.getDeclaredMethod("register", String.class, String.class, Command.class, boolean.class); } catch(SecurityException e) { General.logger.warn(e.getMessage()); return false; } catch(NoSuchMethodException e) { General.logger.warn(e.getMessage()); return false; } register.setAccessible(true); try { Field commands = SimpleCommandMap.class.getDeclaredField("knownCommands"); commands.setAccessible(true); knownCommands = (Map<String,Command>)commands.get(commandMap); } catch(SecurityException e) { return false; } catch(NoSuchFieldException e) { General.logger.warn(e.getMessage()); return false; } catch(IllegalArgumentException e) { General.logger.warn(e.getMessage()); return false; } catch(IllegalAccessException e) { General.logger.warn(e.getMessage()); return false; } return true; } public static class GeneralCommand extends Command { private PluginCommand command; public GeneralCommand(PluginCommand cmd) { super(cmd.getName(), cmd.getDescription(), cmd.getUsage(), cmd.getAliases()); command = cmd; } @Override public boolean execute(CommandSender sender, String commandLabel, String[] args) { return command.execute(sender, commandLabel, args); } @Override public String getName() { return command.getName(); } @Override public String getPermission() { return command.getPermission(); } @Override public void setPermission(String permission) { command.setPermission(permission); } @Override public boolean testPermission(CommandSender target) { return command.testPermission(target); } @Override public boolean testPermissionSilent(CommandSender target) { return command.testPermissionSilent(target); } @Override public String getLabel() { return command.getLabel(); } @Override public boolean setLabel(String name) { return command.setLabel(name); } @Override public boolean register(CommandMap map) { return command.register(map); } @Override public boolean unregister(CommandMap map) { return command.unregister(map); } @Override public boolean isRegistered() { return command.isRegistered(); } @Override public List<String> getAliases() { return command.getAliases(); } @Override public String getPermissionMessage() { return command.getPermissionMessage(); } @Override public String getDescription() { return command.getDescription(); } @Override public String getUsage() { return command.getUsage(); } @Override public GeneralCommand setAliases(List<String> aliases) { command.setAliases(aliases); return this; } @Override public GeneralCommand setDescription(String descr) { command.setDescription(descr); return this; } @Override public GeneralCommand setPermissionMessage(String permissionMessage) { command.setPermissionMessage(permissionMessage); return this; } @Override public GeneralCommand setUsage(String usage) { command.setUsage(usage); return this; } public CommandBase getExecutor() { return (CommandBase)command.getExecutor(); } } }
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
Passage 1: Mark J. Sullivan Mark J. Sullivan was the Director of the United States Secret Service from May 31, 2006 to March 27, 2013. Sullivan succeeded W. Ralph Basham and was sworn in as the 22nd Director of the Secret Service on May 31, 2006. He was succeeded by Julia Pierson on March 27, 2013. Passage 2: J. Walter Ruben Jacob Walter Ruben (August 14, 1899 – September 4, 1942) was an American screenwriter, film director and producer. He wrote for 35 films between 1926 and 1942. He also directed 19 films between 1931 and 1940. His great-grandson is actor Hutch Dano. He was born in New York City and died in Hollywood. He is interred at Glendale's Forest Lawn Memorial Park Cemetery. Passage 3: Elmer Washburn Elmer Washburn was the 3rd Director of the United States Secret Service. Passage 4: Olav Aaraas Olav Aaraas( born 10 July 1950) is a Norwegian historian and museum director. He was born in Fredrikstad. From 1982 to 1993 he was the director of Sogn Folk Museum, from 1993 to 2010 he was the director of Maihaugen and from 2001 he has been the director of the Norwegian Museum of Cultural History. In 2010 he was decorated with the Royal Norwegian Order of St. Olav. Passage 5: Ian Barry (director) Ian Barry is an Australian director of film and TV. Passage 6: Peter Levin Peter Levin is an American director of film, television and theatre. Passage 7: William P. Wood William Patrick Wood (March 11, 1820 – March 20, 1903) was the first Director of the United States Secret Service. He was the son of James Wood and Margaret Turner. He was sworn in on July 5, 1865 by Secretary of the Treasury Hugh McCulloch. He then headed the newly formed Secret Service for four years until he resigned in 1869. Wood was a veteran of the Mexican–American War and was once Keeper of the Old Capitol Prison. He was considered the best in battling financial crime, and within a year of its founding, the Secret Service had arrested over 200 counterfeiters. He died on March 20, 1903, and was buried in the Congressional Cemetery in Washington, D.C. Passage 8: Secret Service (1931 film) Secret Service is a 1931 American Pre-Code drama film directed by J. Walter Ruben and written by Bernard Schubert. The film based on a play by William Gillette, stars Richard Dix, Shirley Grey, and Nance O'Neil. The film was released on November 14, 1931, by RKO Pictures. Passage 9: U. E. Baughman Urbanus Edmund Baughman( 21 May 1905 – 6 November 1978) was the chief of the United States Secret Service between 1948 and 1961, under Presidents Truman, Eisenhower, and Kennedy. Baughman was the first Secret Service Chief to pen a memoir concerning the office he held. Entitled" Secret Service Chief", it was a veritable tell- all on the intricacies and inner workings of the Secret Service and its evolution from a counterfeit detection department to the presidential protection unit. Baughman was appointed to head the Secret Service by President Harry S. Truman shortly after the 1948 election. According to the book" American Gunfight", by Stephen Hunter and John Bainbridge Jr., Truman dismissed Baughman's predecessor James J. Maloney in part because he had dispatched most of Truman's Secret Service detail to New York to prepare to guard New York Governor Thomas E. Dewey. Dewey was widely expected to be elected president but was beaten by Truman in one of the greatest upsets in presidential election history. Passage 10: Brian Kennedy (gallery director) Brian Patrick Kennedy( born 5 November 1961) is an Irish- born art museum director who has worked in Ireland and Australia, and now lives and works in the United States. He is currently the director of the Peabody Essex Museum. He was the director of the Toledo Museum of Art in Ohio from 2010 to 2019. He was the director of the Hood Museum of Art from 2005 to 2010, and the National Gallery of Australia( Canberra) from 1997- 2004. Question: Where was the place of death of the director of film Secret Service (1931 Film)? Answer: Hollywood
{ "task_name": "2WikiMultihopQA" }
#pragma warning disable 109, 114, 219, 429, 168, 162 namespace haxe.io { public class Bytes : global::haxe.lang.HxObject { public Bytes(global::haxe.lang.EmptyObject empty) { unchecked { #line 24 "C:\\HaxeToolkit\\haxe\\std/haxe/io/Bytes.hx" { } } #line default } public Bytes(int length, byte[] b) { unchecked { #line 29 "C:\\HaxeToolkit\\haxe\\std/haxe/io/Bytes.hx" global::haxe.io.Bytes.__hx_ctor_haxe_io_Bytes(this, length, b); } #line default } public static void __hx_ctor_haxe_io_Bytes(global::haxe.io.Bytes __temp_me34, int length, byte[] b) { unchecked { #line 30 "C:\\HaxeToolkit\\haxe\\std/haxe/io/Bytes.hx" __temp_me34.length = length; __temp_me34.b = b; } #line default } public static new object __hx_createEmpty() { unchecked { #line 24 "C:\\HaxeToolkit\\haxe\\std/haxe/io/Bytes.hx" return new global::haxe.io.Bytes(((global::haxe.lang.EmptyObject) (global::haxe.lang.EmptyObject.EMPTY) )); } #line default } public static new object __hx_create(global::Array arr) { unchecked { #line 24 "C:\\HaxeToolkit\\haxe\\std/haxe/io/Bytes.hx" return new global::haxe.io.Bytes(((int) (global::haxe.lang.Runtime.toInt(arr[0])) ), ((byte[]) (arr[1]) )); } #line default } public int length; public byte[] b; public override double __hx_setField_f(string field, int hash, double @value, bool handleProperties) { unchecked { #line 24 "C:\\HaxeToolkit\\haxe\\std/haxe/io/Bytes.hx" switch (hash) { case 520590566: { #line 24 "C:\\HaxeToolkit\\haxe\\std/haxe/io/Bytes.hx" this.length = ((int) (@value) ); #line 24 "C:\\HaxeToolkit\\haxe\\std/haxe/io/Bytes.hx" return @value; } default: { #line 24 "C:\\HaxeToolkit\\haxe\\std/haxe/io/Bytes.hx" return base.__hx_setField_f(field, hash, @value, handleProperties); } } } #line default } public override object __hx_setField(string field, int hash, object @value, bool handleProperties) { unchecked { #line 24 "C:\\HaxeToolkit\\haxe\\std/haxe/io/Bytes.hx" switch (hash) { case 98: { #line 24 "C:\\HaxeToolkit\\haxe\\std/haxe/io/Bytes.hx" this.b = ((byte[]) (@value) ); #line 24 "C:\\HaxeToolkit\\haxe\\std/haxe/io/Bytes.hx" return @value; } case 520590566: { #line 24 "C:\\HaxeToolkit\\haxe\\std/haxe/io/Bytes.hx" this.length = ((int) (global::haxe.lang.Runtime.toInt(@value)) ); #line 24 "C:\\HaxeToolkit\\haxe\\std/haxe/io/Bytes.hx" return @value; } default: { #line 24 "C:\\HaxeToolkit\\haxe\\std/haxe/io/Bytes.hx" return base.__hx_setField(field, hash, @value, handleProperties); } } } #line default } public override object __hx_getField(string field, int hash, bool throwErrors, bool isCheck, bool handleProperties) { unchecked { #line 24 "C:\\HaxeToolkit\\haxe\\std/haxe/io/Bytes.hx" switch (hash) { case 98: { #line 24 "C:\\HaxeToolkit\\haxe\\std/haxe/io/Bytes.hx" return this.b; } case 520590566: { #line 24 "C:\\HaxeToolkit\\haxe\\std/haxe/io/Bytes.hx" return this.length; } default: { #line 24 "C:\\HaxeToolkit\\haxe\\std/haxe/io/Bytes.hx" return base.__hx_getField(field, hash, throwErrors, isCheck, handleProperties); } } } #line default } public override double __hx_getField_f(string field, int hash, bool throwErrors, bool handleProperties) { unchecked { #line 24 "C:\\HaxeToolkit\\haxe\\std/haxe/io/Bytes.hx" switch (hash) { case 520590566: { #line 24 "C:\\HaxeToolkit\\haxe\\std/haxe/io/Bytes.hx" return ((double) (this.length) ); } default: { #line 24 "C:\\HaxeToolkit\\haxe\\std/haxe/io/Bytes.hx" return base.__hx_getField_f(field, hash, throwErrors, handleProperties); } } } #line default } public override void __hx_getFields(global::Array<object> baseArr) { unchecked { #line 24 "C:\\HaxeToolkit\\haxe\\std/haxe/io/Bytes.hx" baseArr.push("b"); #line 24 "C:\\HaxeToolkit\\haxe\\std/haxe/io/Bytes.hx" baseArr.push("length"); #line 24 "C:\\HaxeToolkit\\haxe\\std/haxe/io/Bytes.hx" { #line 24 "C:\\HaxeToolkit\\haxe\\std/haxe/io/Bytes.hx" base.__hx_getFields(baseArr); } } #line default } } }
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
The Project Gutenberg EBook of Up and Down, by Edward Frederic Benson This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license Title: Up and Down Author: Edward Frederic Benson Release Date: May 24, 2014 [EBook #45742] Language: English *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK UP AND DOWN *** Produced by Clare Graham & Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org (Images generously made available by the Internet Archive.) UP AND DOWN BY E. F. BENSON Author of "Dodo," "David Blaize," etc. NEW YORK GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 1918 TABLE OF CONTENTS MAY, 1914 JUNE, 1914 JULY, 1914 AUGUST, 1914 SEPTEMBER, 1915 OCTOBER, 1915 DECEMBER, 1915 JANUARY, 1917 FEBRUARY, 1917 MARCH, 1917 APRIL, 1917 MAY, 1914 I do not know whether in remote generations some trickle of Italian blood went to the making of that entity which I feel to be myself, or whether in some previous incarnation I enjoyed a Latin existence, nor do I greatly care: all that really concerns me is that the moment the train crawls out from its burrowings through the black roots of pine-scented mountains into the southern openings of the Alpine tunnels, I am conscious that I have come home. I greet the new heaven and the new earth, or, perhaps more accurately, the beloved old heaven and the beloved old earth; I hail the sun, and know that something within me has slept and dreamed and yearned while I lived up in the north, and wakes again now with the awakening of Brünnhilde.... The conviction is as unfathomable and as impervious to analysis as the springs of character, and if it is an illusion I am deceived by it as completely as by some master-trick of conjuring. It is not merely that I love for their own sakes the liquid and dustless thoroughfares of Venice, the dim cool churches and galleries that glow with the jewels of Bellini and Tintoret, the push of the gliding gondola round the corners of the narrow canals beneath the mouldering cornices and mellow brickwork, for I should love these things wherever they happened to be, and the actual spell of Venice would be potent if Venice was situated in the United States of America or in Manchester. But right at the back of all Venetian sounds and scents and sights sits enthroned the fact that the theatre of those things is in Italy. Florence has her spell, too, when from the hills above it in the early morning you see her hundred towers pricking the mists; Rome the imperial has her spell, when at sunset you wander through the Forum and see the small blue campanulas bubbling out of the crumbling travertine, while the Coliseum glows like a furnace of molten amber, or pushing aside the leather curtain you pass into the huge hushed halls of St. Peter's; Naples has her spell, and the hill-side of Assisi hers, but all these are but the blossoms that cluster on the imperishable stem that nourishes them. Yet for all the waving of these wands, it is not Bellini nor Tintoret, nor Pope nor Emperor who gives the spells their potency, but Italy, the fact of Italy. Indeed (if in soul you are an Italian) you will find the spell not only and not so fully in the churches and forums and galleries of cities, but on empty hill-sides and in orchards, where the vine grows in garlands from tree to tree, and the purple clusters of shadowed grapes alternate with the pale sunshine of the ripened lemons. There, more than among marbles, you get close to that which the lover of Italy adores in her inviolable shrine, and if you say that such adoration is very easily explicable since lemon trees and vines are beautiful things, we will take some example that shall be really devoid of beauty to anyone who has not Italy in his heart, but to her lover is more characteristic of her than any of her conventional manifestations. So imagine yourself standing on a hilly road ankledeep in dust. On one side of it is a wine-shop, in the open doorway of which sits a lean, dishevelled cat, while from the dim interior there oozes out a stale sour smell of spilt wine mingled with the odour of frying oil. A rough wooden balcony projects from the stained stucco of the house-front, and on the lip of the balcony is perched a row of petroleum tins, in which are planted half a dozen unprosperous carnations. An oblong of sharp-edged shadow stretches across the road; but you, the lover of Italy, stand in the white of the scorching sunshine, blinded by the dazzle, choked by the dust, and streaming with the heat. On the side of the road opposite the wine-shop is a boulder-built wall, buttressing the hillside; a little behind the wall stands a grey-foliaged olive-tree, and on the wall, motionless but tense as a curled spring, lies a dappled lizard. From somewhere up the road comes the jingle of bells and the sound of a cracked whip, and presently round the corner swings a dingy little victoria drawn by two thin horses decorated between their ears with a plume of a pheasant's tail feathers. The driver sits cross-legged on the box, with a red flower behind his ear, and inside are three alien English folk with puggarees and parasols and Baedekers. You step aside into the gutter to avoid the equipage, and as he passes, the driver, with a white-toothed smile, raises and flourishes his hat and says, "Giorno, signor!" The lizard darts into a crevice from which his tail protrudes, the carriage yaws along in a cloud of dust.... It all sounds marvellously ugly and uncomfortable, and yet, if you are an exiled Italian, the thought of it will bring your heart into your mouth. It was just this, of which I have given the unvarnished but faithful jotting, that I saw this morning as I came up from my bathe, and all at once it struck me that this, after all, more than all the forums and galleries, and gleams of past splendour and glory of light and landscape, revealed Italy. But that was all there was to it, the sense of the lizard and the dust and the _trattoria,_ and yet never before had my mistress worn so translucent a veil, or so nearly shown me the secret of her elusive charm. Never had I come so near to catching it; for the moment, as the Baedekers went by, I thought that by contrast I should comprehend at last what it is that makes to me the sense of home in the "dark and fierce and fickle south," as one of our Laureates so inappropriately calls it, having no more sympathy with Italy than I with Lapland. For the moment the secret was trembling in the spirit, ready to flower in the understanding.... But then it passed away again in the dust or the wine-smell, and when I tried to express to Francis at lunch in beautiful language what I have here written, he thought it over impartially, and said: "It sounds like when you all but sneeze, and can't quite manage it." And there was point in that prosaic reflection: the secret remained inaccessible somewhere within me, like the sneeze. Francis has been an exceedingly wise person in the conduct of his life. Some fifteen years ago he settled, much to the dismay of his uncle, who thought that all gentlemen were stockbrokers, that he liked Italy much better than any other country in the world, and that, of all the towns and mountains and plains of Italy, he loved best this rocky pinnacle of an island that rises sheer from the sapphire in the mouth of the Bay of Naples. Thus, having come across from Naples for the inside of a day, he telegraphed to his hotel for his luggage and stopped a month. After a brief absence in England, feverish with interviews, he proceeded to stop here for a year, and, when that year was over, to stop here permanently. He was always unwell in England and always well here; there was no material reason why he should ever return to the fogs, nor any moral reason except that the English idea of duty seems to be inextricably entwined with the necessity of doing something you dislike and are quite unfitted for. So herein he showed true wisdom, firstly, in knowing what he liked, and secondly, in doing it. For many otherwise sensible people have not the slightest idea what they like, and a large proportion of that elect remainder have not the steadfastness to do it. But Francis, with no ties that bound him to the island of England, which did not suit him at all, had the good sense to make his home in this island of Italy that did. Otherwise he most certainly would have lived anæmically in an office in the City, and have amassed money that he did not in the least want. And though it was thought very odd that he should have chosen to be cheerful and busy here rather than occupied and miserable in London, I applaud the unworldliness of his wisdom. He settled also (which is a rarer wisdom) that he wanted to think, and, as you will see before this record of diary is out, he succeeded in so doing. Many Mays and Junes I spent with him here, and six months ago now, while I was groping and choking in the fogs, he wrote to me, saying that the Villa Tiberiana, at which we had for years cast longing glances as at a castle in Spain, was to be let on lease. It was too big for him alone, but if I felt inclined to go shares in the rent, we might take it together. I sent an affirmative telegram, and sat stewing with anxiety till I received his favourable reply. So, when a fortnight ago I returned here, I made my return home not to Italy alone, but to my home in Italy. The Villa Tiberiana, though not quite so imperial as it sounds, is one of the most "amiable dwellings." It stands high on the hill-side above the huddled, picturesque little town of Alatri, and is approachable only by a steep cobbled path that winds deviously between other scattered houses and plots of vineyard. Having arrived at the piazza of the town, the carriage road goes no further, and you must needs walk, while your luggage is conveyed up by strapping female porters, whom on their arrival you reward with _soldi_ and refresh with wine. Whitewashed and thick-built, two-storied and flat-roofed, it crouches behind the tall rubble wall of its garden that lies in terraces below it. A great stone-pine rears its whispering umbrella in the middle of this plot, and now in the May-time of the year there is to be seen scarcely a foot of the earth of its garden beds, so dense is the tapestry of flowers that lies embroidered over it. For here in the far south of Europe, the droughts of summer and early autumn render unpractical any horticultural legislation with a view to securing colour in your flower-beds all the year round. However much you legislated, you would never get your garden to be gay through July and August, and so, resigning yourself to emptiness then, you console yourself with an intoxication of blossom from March to June. And never was a garden so drunk with colour as is ours to-day; never have I seen so outrageous a riot. Nor is it in the garden-beds alone that rose and carnation and hollyhock and nasturtium and delphinium unpunctually but simultaneously sing and blaze together. The southern front of the house is hidden in plumbago and vines with green seed-pearl berries, and as for the long garden wall, it is literally invisible under the cloak of blue morning-glory that decks it as with a raiment from foundation to coping-stone. Every morning fresh battalions of blue trumpets deploy there as soon as the sun strikes it, and often as I have seen it thus, I cannot bring myself to believe that it is real; it is more like some amazing theatrical decoration. Beyond on the further side lies the orchard of fig and peach, and I observe with some emotion that the figs, like the lady in Pickwick, are swelling visibly. Within, the house has assumed its summer toilet, which is another way of saying that it has been undressed; carpets and curtains have been banished; doors are latched back, and the air sweeps softly from end to end of it. A sitting-room that faces south has been dismantled, and its contents put in the big studio that looks northwards, and even in the height of summer, we hope, will not get over-hot, especially since a few days ago we had the roof whitewashed and thick matting hung over its one southern window. Breakfast and dinner, now that the true May weather has begun, we have on the terrace-top of the big cistern in the garden, roofed over between the pilasters of its pergola with trellis, through which the vineleaves wriggle and wrestle. But now at noon it is too hot in the garden, and to-day I found lunch ready in the square vaulted little dining-room, with Pasqualino bringing in macaroni and vine-leaf-stoppered decanter, and Francis, who refrained from bathing this morning owing to the Martha-cares of the household, debating with Seraphina (the cook) as to whether the plumbago ought not to be pruned. It has come right into the room, and, as Seraphina most justly remarks, it is already impossible to shut the window. But since we shall not need to shut the window for some months to come, I give my vote to support Francis, and suffer the plumbago to do exactly as it likes. So we are two to one, and Seraphina takes her defeat, wreathed in smiles, and says it is not her fault if burglars come. That is a poor argument, for there are no burglars in Alatri, and, besides, there is nothing to steal except the grand piano.... Just now social duties weigh rather heavily on Francis and me, for the British colony in Alatri consider that, as we have moved into a new house, they must behave to us as if we were new-comers, and have been paying formal visits. These civilities must be responded to, and we have had two house-warmings and are going to have a third and last to-day. The house-warmings should perhaps be described as garden-warmings, since we have tea on the terrace in great pomp, and then get cool in the house afterwards. Rather embarrassing incidents have occurred, as, for instance, when Miss Machonochie came to a garden-warming the day before yesterday. She is a red amiable Scotchwoman, with a prodigious Highland accent, which Francis, whom she has for years tried to marry, imitates to perfection. So perfect, indeed, is his mimicry of it, that when Miss Machonochie appeared and began to talk about the wee braw garden, Pasqualino, who was bringing out a fresh teapot, had to put it hurriedly down on the ground, and run back again into the kitchen, from which issued peal after peal of laughter. So overcome was he, that after a second attempt (Miss Machonochie being still full of conversation) he had to retire again, and Seraphina must serve us till Miss Machonochie went away. This she did not do for a long time, since, after just a little vermouth, she wanted no persuasion at all to sing a quantity of Scotch ditties about Bonnie Charlie and Loch Lomond, and other beautiful and interesting topics. Technically, I should say that she had one note in her voice, which she was in a great hurry to get on to and very loath to leave. This had an amazing timbre like a steam siren, and as I played her accompaniment for her, my left ear sang all the evening afterwards. But her accent was indubitably Highland, and Mrs. Macgregor declared she could smell the heather. I was glad of that, for I was afraid that what I smelled (it being now near dinner-time) was the _fritura_ that Seraphina was preparing in the kitchen. This island-life is the busiest sort of existence, though I suppose a stockbroker would say it was the laziest, and, in consequence, these social efforts give one a sense of rush that I have never felt in London. The whole of the morning is taken up with bathing (of which more presently), and on the way up you call at the post-office for papers and letters. The letters it is impossible to answer immediately, since there is so much to do, and the pile on my table grows steadily, waiting for a wet day. After lunch you read the papers, and then, following the example of the natives, who may be supposed to know the proper way of living in their own climate, you have a good siesta. After tea, the English habit of physical exercise asserts itself, and we walk or water the garden till dinner. After dinner it is, I take it, permissible to have a little relaxation, and we either play a game or two of picquet up here in the studio, or more often stroll down to the piazza and play in the café, or attend a thrilling cinematograph show. In the country it is natural to go to bed early, and, behold, it is to-morrow almost before you knew it was to-day. When it rains, or when the weather is cold, it is possible to do some work, and Francis asserts that he does an immense quantity during the winter. I daresay that is so; I should be the last person to quarrel with the statement, since he so amiably agrees that it is impossible to behave like that in the summer. The mind is equally well occupied, for we always take down books to the bathing-place, and for the rest the affairs of the island, Pasqualino and his family, Seraphina and her family, the fact that Mrs. Macgregor has dismissed her cook, that Mr. Tarn has built a pergola, completely absorb the intellectual and speculative faculties. What happens outside the island seems not to matter at all. England, with its fogs and its fuss, is less real and much further away than the hazy shores of the mainland, where all that concerns us is the smoke of Vesuvius, which during the last week has been increasing in volume, and now stands up above the mountain like a huge stone-pine. The wiseacres shake their heads and prophesy an eruption, but _che sarà, sarà_--if it comes, it comes, and meantime it is a marvellous thing to see the red level rays at sunset turn the edges of the smoke-cloud into wreaths of rose-colour and crimson; the denser portions they are unable to pierce, and can but lay a wash of colour on them, through which the black shows like a thing of nightmare. In the calm weather, which we have been having, this stone-pine of smoke is reflected in the bay, and the great tree of vapour steals slowly across the water, nearer and nearer every day. The observatory reports tell us that its topmost wreaths are eight vertical miles away from the earth. Sometimes when it is quite calm here we see these tops torn by winds and blown about into fantastic foliage, but the solidity of the trunk remains untouched. But Vesuvius is far away, twenty-five miles at the least, and here in this siren, lotus-eating island nothing across the sea really interests us. But island affairs, as I have said, are perfectly absorbing, and during this last fortnight we have been in vertiginous heights of excitement. Only yesterday occurred the _finale_ of all this business, and Francis thinks with excellent reason, that he is accomplice to a felony. The person chiefly concerned was Luigi, nephew of our cook Seraphina, who till six months ago was valet, butler, major-domo, and gardener to Francis. Then, in a misguided moment, he thought to "better himself" by going as hall-boy to the Grand Hotel in Alatri. There were tips, no doubt, in the tourist season at the Grand Hotel, but there was also trouble. It happened like this. From the day of the supposed crime the sympathy of the island generally was on the side of Luigi, in the fiery trials that awaited him. It was felt to be intolerable that a boy who had just changed into his best clothes, and had taken a carnation from one of the tables in the dining-room, and was actually going out of the hotel gate to spend the afternoon of the _festa_ in the Piazza, should have been summarily ordered back by the porter, and commanded to show a fat white German gentleman, who was staying in the hotel, the way to the bathing-place at the _Palazzo a mare,_ and carry his towels and bathing-dress for him, the latter of which included sandals, so that the fat white gentleman should not hurt his fat white toes on the shingle. This abominable personage had also preferred, in the unaccountable manner of foreigners, to go all the way on foot, instead of taking a victoria, which would have conveyed him three-quarters of the distance and saved much time. But he would go on his feet, and being very fat had walked at tortoise-pace along the dusty road, under a large green umbrella, perspiring profusely, and stopping every now and then to sit down. There was Luigi standing by, carrying the sandals and the bathing-dress and the towels, while all the time the precious moments of this holiday afternoon were slipping along, and the Piazza, where Luigi should have been (having been granted a half-holiday on account of the _festa_), was full of his young friends, male and female, all in their best clothes, conversing and laughing together, and standing about and smoking an occasional cigarette, in the orthodox fashion of a holiday afternoon. Then, after this interminable walk, during which the German gentleman kept asking the baffled Luigi a series of questions in an unknown tongue, and appeared singularly annoyed when the boy was unable to answer him except in a Tower-of-Babel manner, he drew three coppers from his pocket, and after a prolonged mental struggle, presented Luigi with two of them, as a reward for his services. He then told him that he could find his way up again alone, and having undressed, swam majestically off round the promontory of rock that enclosed the bathing-beach. An hour afterwards Luigi, defrauded of half his holiday afternoon, returned to the gaiety and companionship of the Piazza, and recounted to an indignant audience this outrageous affair. But some time during the afternoon, Francis, looking out of his bedroom window after his siesta, thought he saw Luigi slipping across the garden of the Villa Tiberiana, and climbing down over the wall at the bottom. He says he was not sure, being still sleepy, and when he shouted Luigi's name out of his window, there came no answer. Luigi returned to the Grand Hotel in time to get into his livery again before dinner, and on entrance was summoned into the manager's bureau, where he was confronted with his Teutonic taskmaster of the afternoon, and charged with having picked his pocket while he was bathing. A portfolio was missing, containing a note for a hundred liras, and this the German gentleman was gutturally certain he had on his person when he started off to bathe, and equally certain that he had lost when he came to dress for dinner. His certainty was partly founded on the fact that he had tipped the boy when they arrived at the _Palazzo a mare,_ and to have tipped him he must have had his money in his pocket. In answer, Luigi absolutely denied the charge, and then made a dreadful mistake by suggesting that the Signor had a hole in his pocket, through which the portfolio had slipped. This was quite the most unfortunate thing he could have said, for, as the German gentleman instantly demonstrated, the hole in his pocket was undoubtedly there. But how, so he overpoweringly urged, could Luigi have known there was a hole there, unless he had been examining his pockets? And an hour later poor Luigi, with gyves upon his wrists, was ignominiously led through the Piazza, all blazing with acetylene lights and resonant with the blare of the band, and was clapped into prison to await the formal charge. Arrived there, he was searched, and a similar examination was made in his room at his mother's house, where he went to sleep at night, but nothing that ever so remotely resembled a German portfolio or a note for a hundred liras was found, and he still doggedly denied his guilt. Then, since nothing incriminating could be got out of him, the key was turned, while through the small high-grated window came the sound of the band in the Piazza for this _festa_ night. Later, by standing on his board bed, he could see the fiery segment of the aspiring path of the rockets, as they ascended from the peak above the Piazza, and listen to the echo of their explosions flap and buffet against the cliffs of Monte Gennaro. But it was from prison that he saw and heard. Outside in the Piazza the tragic history of his incarceration formed a fine subject for talk, and public opinion, which cheerfully supposed him guilty, found extenuating circumstances that almost amounted to innocence. The provocation of being obliged to spend the best part of a _festa_ afternoon in walking down to the sea with a fat white Tedesco was really immense, and the reward of twopence for those lost hours of holiday was nothing less than an insult. What wonder if Luigi for a moment mislaid his honesty, what wonder if when so smooth-faced and ready-made a temptation came, he just yielded to it for a second? Certainly it was wrong to steal, everyone knows that--_Mamma mia,_ what a rocket, what a _bellezza_ of stars!--but it was also primarily wrong to dock a jolly boy of his promised half-holiday. No wonder, when the German signor--ah, it was the same, no doubt, as was sick in Antonio's carriage the other day, and refused to pay for a new rug--no wonder, when that fat-head, that pumpkin (for who but a pumpkin would carry a hundred liras about with him?) swam away round the corner of those rocks, that Luigi's hand just paid a visit to his great pockets to see if he was as poor as that miserable tip of twopence seemed to say! Then he found the portfolio, and turned bitter with the thought of the _quattro soldi_ which was all that had been given him for his loss of the half-holiday. Ah, look! Was it really a wheel like that on which Santa Caterina had been bound? How she must have spun round! What giddiness! What burning! A steadfast soul not to have consented to worship Apollo; no wonder that Holy Church made a saint of her. But what could Luigi have done with the portfolio and the note for a hundred liras? He had been searched and on him was nothing found; his room had been searched, but there was nothing there. Was it possible that he was innocent, _il povero?_ Could the sick German gentleman really have lost his foolish pocket-book by natural means as he came up from his bathe? It might be worth while taking a walk there to-morrow, always keeping a peeled eye on the margin of the path. It was possible, after all, that he had lost his pocket-book all by himself, without aid from Luigi, for the hole in his pocket was admitted, and shown to the manager of the Grand Hotel. But then there was Luigi's fatal knowledge of the hole in his pocket. That was very bad; that looked like guilt. If only the boy had held his tongue and not said that fatal thing! He only suggested that there was a hole in his pocket? No, no; he said there _was_ a hole in his pocket, didn't he? What a lesson to keep the tongue still! Luigi had always a lot to learn about keeping the tongue still, for who will soon forget the dreadful things he shouted out last winter at the priest, his mother's cousin's uncle, when he had smacked his head? They were quite true, too, like the hole in the pocket.... Ah, there is the great bomb. Pouf! How it echoes! So the fireworks are over! _Buona notte! Buona notte!_ All this, while lounging in the Piazza, listening to the band and watching the fireworks, I heard from the tobacconist and the barber and a few other friends. I coupled with this information that which Francis told me as we strolled up homewards again, namely, that he thought he had seen Luigi that afternoon slipping through the garden. He was not sure about it, so leaving it aside, he recalled a few facts about Luigi when he was in his service. He used to hurry over his house-work always, for he preferred his rôle of gardener to all others, and used to wander among the flower-beds, making plants comfortable, and giving this one a drop of water, and that a fresh piece of stick to lean on. Then he would make a mud pie by turning on the cistern tap, and plant verbenas in it, or in more mysterious fashion made _caches_ in a hole behind loose masonry in the cistern wall. Francis has got a just appreciation of the secrecy and rapture of making _caches,_ and never let Luigi know that he was aware of this hidden treasure. But after Luigi had gone home to his mother's of an evening, he would yield to curiosity and see what the boy had put there. Sometimes there would be a matchbox, or a pilfered cigarette, or a piece of string carefully wrapped up in paper.... And now poor Luigi was behind his grated window, and Seraphina, with deepest sarcasm, said that this was what he called bettering himself. He would have done better to have done worse and remained at the Villa Tiberiana in the service of the Signori. But suddenly next day, like a change in the weather coming from a cloudless sky, a fresh train of thought was suggested by the Luigi-episode, and the mention of the lottery, and how the various incidents and personages bore on the luck of numbers. On the instant Luigi and all he had done or not done ceased to interest anybody except in so far as the events were concerned with the science and interpretation of numbers in the lottery as set forth in the amazing volume called "Smorfia." There you will find what any numeral means, so that should an earthquake occur or an eclipse, the wise speculator looks out "earthquake" or "eclipse" in "Smorfia," and at the next drawing of the National Lottery or the lottery at Naples backs the numbers to which these significations are attached. As it happened, no event of striking local interest had occurred in Alatri since, in April last, the carpenter in the Corso Agosto had unsuccessfully attempted to cut his throat with a razor, after successfully smothering his aunt. This had been the last occasion on which there was clear guidance as to the choice of numbers in the Naples lottery, and nobody of a sporting turn of mind who had the smallest sense of the opportunities life offers had failed to back No. 17, which among other things means "aunt," and numbers which signified "razor," "throat," "blood" and "bolster." Nor had "Smorfia," the dictionary that gives this useful information, disappointed its adherents, for Carmine, Pasqualino's brother, had backed the numbers that meant "throat," "razor," "carpenter," "aunt" and "Sunday," the last being the day on which those distressing events occurred, and went to bed that night to dream of the glories which awaited him who nominated a _quinterno secco._ (This means that you back five numbers, all of which come out in the order named.) Once, so succulent tradition said, a baker at the Marina had accomplished this enviable feat, after which Alatri saw him no more, for his reward was a million francs, a marquisate and an estate in Calabria, where soon afterwards he was murdered for the sake of his million. This stimulating page of history was not wholly repeated in the case of Carmine and the carpenter's aunt, but by his judicious selection he had certainly reaped two hundred francs where he had only sowed five. The doctor also, who had attended the abortive suicide, had done very well by backing salient features of the tragedy, and astute superstition had, on the whole, been adequately rewarded. Next day, accordingly, the Piazza seethed with excitement as to the due application of the Luigi episode to the enchanting Lorelei of the lottery. It had magnificent and well-marked features; "Smorfia" shouted with opportunities. First of all, there was Luigi himself to be backed, and, as everyone knew, "boy" was the number 2. Next there was the German gentleman. ("Michele, turn up 'German.'") Then there was "pocket" and "hole" and "portfolio" and "bathe." All these were likely chances. Other aspects of the affair struck the serious mind. "_Festa_" was connected with it; so, too, was "prison," where now Luigi languished. Then there was "theft" and "denial." Here were abundant materials for a _quinterno secco_, when once the initial difficulty of selecting the right numbers was surmounted. And marquisates and millions hovered on the horizon, ready to move up and descend on Alatri. Among those who were thus interested in the _affaire Luigi_ from the purely lottery point of view, there was no more eager student than the boy's mother. Maria was a confirmed and steadfast gambler, of that optimistic type that feels itself amply rewarded for the expenditure of ten liras on a series of numbers that prove quite barren of reward, if at the eleventh attempt she gained five. She had been to see her son in prison, had wept a little and consoled him a little, had smuggled a packet of cigarettes into his hand, and had reminded him that the same sort of thing, though far worse, had happened to his father, with whom be peace. For at the most Luigi would get but a couple of months in prison, owing to his youth (and the cool of the cell was really not unpleasant in the hot weather), and the severity of his sentence would doubtless be much mitigated if he would only say where he had hidden the portfolio and the hundred liras. But nothing would induce Luigi to do this; he still firmly adhered to his innocence, and repeated _ad nauseam_ his unfortunate remark that there was a hole in the fat German's pocket. Expostulation being useless, and Luigi being fairly comfortable, Maria left him, and on her way home gave very serious consideration to the features of the case which she intended to back at the lottery. She had ascertained that Luigi had his new clothes on (which was the sort of flower on which that butterfly Chance alighted), and on looking up the number of "new clothes, novelty, freshness," found that it was 8. Then, on further study of "Smorfia," she learned that the word "thief" was represented by No. 28, and following her own train of thought, discovered that No. 88 meant "liar." Here was a strange thing, especially when, with an emotional spasm, she remembered that "boy" was No. 2. Here was the whole adventure nutshelled for her. For was there not a boy (2) who put on his new clothes (8), showed himself a thief (28) and subsequently a liar (88)? 2 and 8 covered the whole thing, and almost throttled by the thread of coincidence, she hurried down to the lottery-office, aflame with the premonition of some staggering success, and invested fifteen liras in the numbers 2, 8, 28, 88. She lingered in the Piazza a little, after laying this touching garland on the altar of luck, to receive the condolences of her friends on Luigi's wickedness, and had a kind word thrown to her by Signor Gelotti, the great lawyer, who had come over for a week's holiday to his native island. Ah, there was a man! Why, if he got you into the witness-box, he could make you contradict yourself before you knew you had opened your mouth. Give him a couple of minutes at you, and he would make you say that the man you had described as having a black coat and a moustache had no coat at all and whiskers, and that, though you had met him at three o'clock precisely in the Piazza, you had just informed the Court that at that hour you were having a siesta in your own house. Luigi's father had at one time been in his service, and though he had left it, handcuffed, for a longer period of imprisonment than his son was threatened with, Lawyer Gelotti had always a nod and a smile for his widow, and to-day a pleasant little joke about heredity. Ah, if Lawyer Gelotti would only take up the case! He would muddle everybody up finely, and in especial that fat German fellow, who, like his beastly, swaggering, truculent race, was determined to press home his charge. But Lawyer Gelotti, as all the world knew, never held up his forefinger at a witness under a thousand liras. What a forefinger. It made you tell two more lies in order to escape from each lie that you had already told. Three days passed, while still Luigi languished behind bars, and then a sudden thrill of excitement emanating from the offices of the lottery swept over the island. For the Naples lottery had been drawn, and the five winning numbers were issued, which in due order of their occurrence were 2, 8, 28, 4, 91. Alatri grew rosy with prospective riches, for in this _affaire Luigi_ it would have been slapping the face of the Providence that looks after lotteries not to have backed No. 2 (boy) and No. 28 (thief). At least ten dutiful folk had done that. But--_che peccato_--why did we not all back No. 8, as Luigi's mother had done, for we all knew that Luigi must have had his new clothes on, as did every boy on a _festa?_ What a thing it is to use rightly the knowledge you possess! The lucky woman! She had won a _terno,_ for the first three numbers she backed came out in the order she nominated. Never was such a thing seen since the days of the classical baker! Why, her _terno_ would be worth three thousand liras at least, which was next door to the title of a marchioness. But No. 91 now: what does No. 91 mean? Quick, turn it up in "Smorfia"! Who has a "Smorfia?" Ernesto, the tobacconist, of course, but he is a mean man, and will not lend his "Smorfia" to any who does not buy a packet of cigarettes. Never mind, let us have both; a cigarette is always a cigarette. There! No. 91! What does No. 91 signify? _Dio!_ What a lot of meanings! "The man in the moon" ... "the hairs on the tail of an elephant" ... "an empty egg-shell." ... Who ever heard the like? There is no sense in such a number! And No. 4--what does No. 4 mean? Why, the very first meaning of all is "truth." There is a curious thing when we all thought that Luigi was telling lies! And No. 4, look you, was the fourth number that came out. It would have been simple to conjecture that No. 4 would be No. 4. Pity that we did not think of that last week. But it is easy to be wise after the event, as the bridegroom said. The talk on the Piazza rose to ever loftier peaks of triumph as fresh beneficiaries of Luigi, who had made a few liras over "boy" and "thief," joined the chattering groups. He had done very well for his friends, had poor Luigi, though "pocket" and "portfolio" had brought in nothing to their backers. And it was like him--already Luigi was considered directly responsible for these windfalls--it was like him to have turned up that ridiculous No. 91, with its man in the moon, and its empty egg-shell. Luigi, the gay _ragazzo,_ loved that extravagant sort of joke, of which the point was that there was no point, but which made everybody laugh, as when he affixed a label, "Three liras complete," to the fringe of Donna Margherita's new shawl from Naples as she walked about the Piazza, showing it off and never guessing what so many smiles meant. But No. 4, which stood for "truth," it was strange that No. 4 should have turned up, and that nobody dreamed of supposing that Luigi was telling the truth. His mother, for all her winnings, must be finely vexed that she had not trusted her son's word, and backed "truth," instead of putting her money on "liar." Why, if she backed "truth," she would have gained a _quaterno,_ and God knows how many liras! Ah, there she is! Let us go and congratulate the good soul. Her winnings will make up to her for having a son as well as a husband who was a thief. But Luigi's mother was in a hot haste. She had put on all her best clothes, not, as was at first conjectured, because in the affluence that had come to her they had been instantly degraded into second-best, but because she was making a business call on Lawyer Gelotti. She was not one to turn her broad back on her own son--though it is true that she had confidently selected No. 88 with its signification of "liar"--and if the satanic skill of Lawyer Gelotti could get Luigi off, that skill was going to be invoked for his defence. A hundred thanks, a hundred greetings to everybody, but she had no time for conversation just now. Lawyer Gelotti must be seen at once, if he was at home; if not, she must just sit on his doorstep and wait for him. Yes; she had heard that a thousand liras was his fee, and he should have it, if that was right and proper. There was plenty more where they came from! And this _bravura_ passage pleased the Piazza; it showed the gaiety and swagger proper to a lady of property. In due course followed the event which Alatri was quite prepared for when it knew that Lawyer Gelotti was engaged on Luigi's behalf, and that the full blast of his hurricane of interrogations would be turned on the fat German gentleman. Never was there such a tearing to shreds of apparently stout evidence; its fragments were scattered to all points of the compass like the rocket-stars which Luigi had watched from his grated window. The Tedesco was forced to allow that he had not looked in his pockets, to see if his portfolio was safe, till full three hours after he had returned from his bathe. What had he done in those three hours? He did not know? Then the Court would guess! (That was nasty!) Again he had told the manager of the hotel that he knew he had his portfolio with him when he went to bathe, because he had tipped the boy. Ah, that wonderful tip! Was it, or was it not twopence? Yes: Lawyer Gelotti thought so! Twopence for carrying a basket of towels and a bathing costume and two elephant sandals all over the island! _Tante grazie!_ But was it really his custom to carry coppers in his portfolio? Did he not usually carry pence loose in a pocket? Had he ever to his knowledge carried pennies in his portfolio? Would he swear that he had? Come, sir, do not keep the Court waiting for a simple answer! Very good! This magnificent tip did not come out of the portfolio at all, as he had previously affirmed. Lawyer Gelotti had a tremendous lunch at this stage of the proceedings, and tackled his German afterwards with renewed vigour. Was it credible that a man so careful--let us say, so laudably careful--with his money as to make so miserly a tip, would have taken a portfolio containing a hundred liras down to the bathing-place, and left it in his clothes? And what was the number of this note? Surely this prudent, this economical citizen of Germany, a man so scrupulously careful of his money as to tip on this scale, would have taken the precaution to have registered the number of his note. Did he not usually do so? Yes. So Lawyer Gelotti suspected. But in this case, very strangely, he had not. That was odd; that was hard to account for except on the supposition that there was no such note. And this portfolio, about which it seemed really impossible to get accurate information? It was shabby, was it, and yet an hour before we had been told it was new! And who else had ever set eyes on this wonderful portfolio, this new and ragged portfolio with its note of unknown number? Nobody; of course, nobody. * * * * * There followed a most disagreeable forensic picture of the fat German gentleman, while above him, as a stained glass window looks down on Mephistopheles, Lawyer Gelotti proceeded to paint Luigi's portrait in such seraphic lines and colour that Maria, brimming with emotion, felt that sixteen years ago she had given birth to a saint and had never known it till now. Here was a boy who had lost his father--and Gelotti's voice faltered as he spoke of this egregious scamp--who from morning till night slaved to support his stricken mother, and through all the self-sacrificing days of his spotless boyhood never had suspicion or hint of sin come near him. The Court had heard how blithely and eagerly he had gone down to the _Palazzo a mare_--it was as well the Court had not heard his blithe remarks as he passed through the Piazza--on the afternoon of what should have been his holiday. What made him so gay? Gentlemen, the thought that inspired him was that by his service he might earn a franc or perhaps two francs, since it was a _festa,_ to bring home to his aged parent. And what was his reward? Twopence, twopence followed by this base and unfounded and disproved and diabolical accusation. Prison had been his reward; he languished in a dungeon while all Alatri kept holiday and holy festival. As for the admission of which the prosecution had made so much, namely, that Luigi had said that the German gentleman had a hole in his pocket, how rejoiced was Lawyer Gelotti that he had done so. It was suggested that Luigi must have searched his clothes, and found there the apocryphal portfolio and the note that had no number. But it was true that Luigi was intimately acquainted with those voluminous trousers. But how and why and when?... And Lawyer Gelotti paused, while Luigi's friends held their breath, not having the slightest idea of the answer. Lawyer Gelotti wiped his eyes and proceeded. This industrious saintly lad, the support of his mother's declining years, was hall-boy at the Grand Hotel. Numerous were the duties of a hall-boy, and Lawyer Gelotti would not detain them over the complete catalogue. He would only tell them that while others slept, while opulent German gentlemen dreamed about portfolios, the hall-boy was busy, helping his cousin, the valet of the first floor, to brush the clothes of those who so magnificently rewarded the services rendered them. Inside and outside were those clothes brushed: not a speck of dust remained when the supporter of his mother had done with them. They were turned inside and out, they were shaken, they were brushed again, they were neatly folded. In this way, gentlemen, and in no other came the knowledge of the hole in the pocket.... _Dio mio!_ Who spoke of fireworks? * * * * * That evening Luigi came up to the villa to receive Francis's congratulations on his acquittal and departed through the garden. Next morning Francis, strolling about, came to the wall of the cistern, where Luigi's cache used to lurk behind the loosened masonry. The garden-bed just below it looked as if it had been lately disturbed, and with a vague idea in his mind he began digging with his stick in it. Very soon he came upon some shredded fragments of leather buried there.... I am rather afraid Francis is an accomplice. JUNE, 1914 We have had a month of the perfect weather, days and nights of flawless and crystalline brightness, with the sun marching serene all day across the empty blue, and setting at evening unveiled by cloud or vapour into the sea, and a light wind pouring steadily as a stream from the north. But one morning there gathered a cloud on the southern horizon no bigger than a man's hand, which the weather-wise say betokens a change. On that day, too, there appeared in the paper that other cloud which presaged the wild tempest of blood and fire. Here in this secure siren isle we hardly gave a thought to it. We just had it hot at lunch and cold at dinner, and after that we thought of it no more. It seemed to have disappeared, even as the column of smoke above Vesuvius disappeared a few weeks ago. It had been a very hot clear morning, and since, the evening before, it had been necessary to tell Pasqualino that the wages he received, the food he ate, and the room he occupied were not given him gratis by a beneficent Providence in order that he should have complete leisure to make himself smart and spend his whole time with his Caterina, he had been very busy sweeping and embellishing the house, while it was still scarcely light, in order to put into practice the fervency of his reformed intentions. He had come into my bedroom while dawn was yet grey, on tiptoe, in order not to awaken me, and taken away the step-ladder which he needed. As a matter of fact, I was already awake, and so his falling downstairs or throwing the step-ladder downstairs a moment afterwards with a crash that would have roused the dead did not annoy but only interested me, and I wondered what he wanted the step-ladder for, and whether it was much broken. Soon the sound of muffled hammering began from the dining-room below, which showed he was very busy, and the beaming face with which he called me half an hour later was further evidence of his delighted and approving conscience. It was clear that he could hardly refrain from telling me what he had been doing, but the desire to surprise and amaze me prevailed, and he went off again with a broad grin. Soon I came downstairs, and discovered that he had woven a great wreath of flowering myrtle, gay with bows of red riband, and had nailed it up over the door into the dining-room. A cataract of whitewash and plaster had been dislodged in the fixing of it, which he was then very busy sweeping up, and he radiantly told me that he had been on the hill-side at half-past four to gather materials for his decoration. Certainly it looked very pretty, and when the plaster and whitewash was cleared away, you could not tell that any damage had been done to the fabric of the house. Soon after Caterina came in with the week's washing balanced in a basket on her head, and Pasqualino took her through to show her his wreath. She highly approved, and he kissed her in the passage. I may remark that she is sixteen and he seventeen, so there is plenty of time for him to do a little work as domestic servant before he devotes himself to Caterina. Of all the young things in the island these two are far the fairest, and I have a great sympathy with Pasqualino when he neglects his work and goes strutting before Caterina. But I intend that he shall do his work all the same. There is no such delicious hour in this sea-girt south as that of early morning ushering in a hot day. The air is full of a warm freshness. The vigour of sea and starlight has renewed it, and though for several weeks now no drop of rain has fallen, the earth has drunk and been refreshed by the invisible waters of the air. The stucco path that runs along the southern face of the house, still shadowed by the stone-pine, glistened with heavy dews, and the morning-glory along the garden walls, drenched with moisture, was unfolding a new galaxy of wet crumpled blossoms. Yet in spite of the freshness of the early hour, there was a certain hint of oppression in the air, and strolling along the lower terrace, I saw the cloud of which I have spoken, already forming on the southern horizon. But it looked so small, so lost, in the vast dome of blue that surrounded it, that I scarcely gave it a second thought. Presently afterwards Francis and I set out to walk down to the bathing-place. We stopped in the Piazza to order a cab to come down to the point where the road approaches nearest to the beach from which we bathed, for the midday walk up again would clearly be intolerable in the heat that was growing greater every moment, and set out through narrow ways between the vineyards, in order to avoid the dust of the high road. The light north wind, which for the past month had given vigour to the air, had altogether fallen, and not a breath disturbed the polished surface of the bay, where twenty miles away Naples and the hills above it were unwaveringly mirrored on the water. So clear was it that you could see individual houses there, so still that the hair-like stalks of the campanulas which frothed out of the crevices of the walls stood stiff and motionless, as if made of steel. Above us the terraced vineyards rose in tiers to the foot of the sheer cliffs of Monte Gennaro, fringed with yellow broom; below they stretched, in an unbroken staircase down to the roofs of the Marina, to which at midday comes the steamer from Naples carrying our post and a horde of tourists who daily, for the space of three or four hours, invade the place. Still downwards we went between vines and lemon orchards, and an occasional belt of olive-trees, till the bay opened before us again and the flight of steps that led to the enchanted beach of the _Palazzo a mare_. Here on the edge of the sea the Emperor Tiberius built one of his seven island palaces, but in the course of centuries this northern shore has subsided, so that the great halls that once stood on the margin of the bay are partly submerged, and the waves wash up cubes of green and red marble from tesselated pavements that once formed the floors of the palace. Portions of the cliff-side are faced with the brickwork of its walls, from the fissures in which sprout spurge and tufts of valerian, and tumbled fragments of its foundations lie about on the beach and project into the water, in lumps twenty feet thick of compounded stone and mortar. The modern historian has been busy lately with Tiberius, devoting to his memory pailfuls of antiquarian whitewash, and here, where tradition says there lay the scene of infamous orgies, we are told now to reconstruct a sort of Sunday-school presided over by an aged and benevolent emperor, who, fatigued with affairs of state, found here an innocent and rural retreat, where he could forget his purple, and refresh himself with the beauties of Nature. Whatever the truth of that may be, there is no doubt that he built this palace in a most delectable place, and I sincerely hope that he was as happy in it as I am every morning among its ruins. At one end of this little bay project huge masses of the palace walls, forming the promontory round which the fat and thwarted German swam, the day that he brought Luigi down to carry his clothes and his towels and his shoes. These latter were to enable him to cross the shingly beach, which, when the feet are unaccustomed to it, is undeniably painful. Along it, and by the edge of this tideless water, are pockets and streaks of grey sand, and to-day the sea lies as motionless as if it was the surface of some sheltered lake. Not a ripple disturbs it, not a breath of wind ruffles its surface. Standing knee-deep in it and looking down, you might think, but for a certain fullness and liquid clarity in the pebbles that lie at the bottom, that there was no water there at all, so closely does its translucence approach to invisibility. But it is impossible to stand dry-skinned there for long, so hotly does the sun strike on the shoulders, and soon I fall forward in it, and lie submerged there like a log, looking subaqueously at the bright diaper of pebbles, with a muffled thunder of waters in my ears, longing to have a hundred limbs in order to get fuller contact with this gladdest and loveliest of all the creatures of God. But even in this hedonistic bathing one's ridiculous mind makes tasks for itself, and it has become an affair of duty with me to swim backwards and forwards twice to a certain rock that lies some three hundred yards away. There (for Luigi is not alone in this island in the matter of caches) I have what you may really call an emporium stowed away in a small seaweed-faced nook which I believe to be undiscoverable. If you know exactly where that nook is (it lies about two feet above the surface of the water), and put your hand through the seaweed at exactly the right spot, you will find a tin box containing (_i_) a box of matches, (_ii_) a handful of cigarettes, (_iii_) a thermometer. The first time that I arrive at the rock I have no truck with my cache, but only touch the rock with a finger, and swim back to the beach again. There I touch another rock with my finger (these two rocks, in fact, are like the creases at cricket, which you must touch with your bat in order to score a run), and swim back for the second time to my wicket out at sea. Then, oh then, after a cautious survey, in order to see that no one, not even Francis, can observe my movements, I take the tin box from its place, get out of the water on to the rock, and having dried my fingers on wisps of seaweed, light a cigarette and smoke it. As I smoke it, I submerge the thermometer in the sea, and when the cigarette is finished, read the temperature. After that the thermometer has to be dried, and is put back in the box with the cigarettes and matches, and the treasure is stowed away again in its seaweed-fronted cave. Once a fortnight or so I must go through a perilous manoeuvre, for I have to bring the box back to be refilled. This entails swimming with one hand in the air holding the box like Excalibur above the sea, and it can only be done on very calm mornings, for otherwise there is danger of some ripples intruding through the hinges or edge of the lid, which does not shut very well. And all the time the risk of detection is imminent, for if Francis saw me swimming to land with a bright tin box in my hand, he would be certain to make inquires. But so far no such heartbreaking disaster has befallen, and without detection (and I humbly trust without suspicion) the cache-box has been twice taken back to be refilled and gone on its return journey again to its romantic hiding-place. Sometimes I have been within an ace of discovery, as when, to my horror, two days ago Francis swam out to my rock, instead of going to his own, while I was in the middle of my cigarette. I had time to put the box back, but somehow it never occurred to me to throw the cigarette away. By a special dispensation of Providence, however, it was not permitted that it should occur to him as odd that I should be seated on a rock in the middle of the sea, smoking. He was accustomed to the sight, I must suppose, of my smoking on land, and the question of locality did not occur to him. But it seemed a weary, weary time before he slid off into the sea again, I airily remarking that I should sit there a little longer. Sometimes, when Francis has been unusually communicative about private matters that concern himself alone, I wonder whether I ought to tell him about my cache. But I don't, for those who understand the true science of caches understand that if you have made a cache alone, you might just as well not have made it at all if you share your secret with anybody. You can have joint caches, of course.... * * * * * This morning the thermometer registered seventy-six degrees, which gave me a feeling of personal pride in the sea and Italy generally, and I swam lazily back through the warm clinging water. The sun flamed overhead, and the line of the beach was reeling and dancing in the heat. But if you think that now my bathe was over, you are miserably mistaken; you might as well suppose that the play of _Hamlet_ was finished when the ghost appeared. The swim to the rock is only the first act, the main bathe; and now begins the second or basking act, which may or may not be studious. Some dozen bathers, English and American, for the most part, are dotted about the beach. Francis is already out of the water, and is lying on his back in a pocket of sand, with his hands across his eyes to keep the glare out, and I take my volume of "The Ring and the Book," which I have made it my task to read through, put on a hat, and, wet and cool, sit down propped up against a smooth white rock. This is so hot that I must needs hang a towel over it, and then I open my book where I last turned down the page. For ten minutes perhaps I am a model of industry, and then insensibly my eye wanders from the dazzling white page where the words by some optical delusion seem printed in red.... The sea is still a mirror of crystal; some little way out a big steamer, high in the water, so that the screw revolves in a smother of foam, is kicking her way into Naples, and soon the dark blue lines of her wash will come creaming to land. Otherwise nothing stirs; the sun-burned figures disposed about the beach might be asleep, and on the steep hill-side behind there is no sound or movement of life. Perhaps a little draught draws downward towards the sea, for mixed with the aromatic smells of the dried seaweed on the beach there is a faint odour of the broom flower that flames on the slope. Already my book has slipped from my knee on to the pebbles, and gradually--a phenomenon to which I am getting accustomed in these noonday baskings--thought fades also, and I am only conscious, though very vividly conscious; I know vividly, acutely, that this is Italy, that here is the sea and the baking beach, and the tumbled fragments of Tiberius's palace, that a dozen yards away Francis, having sat up, is clasping his knees with his arms, and is looking seaward, but all these things are not objects of thought, but only of consciousness. They seem part of me, or I of them; the welding of the world to me gets closer and more complete every moment; I am so nearly _the same thing_ as the stones on the beach, and the liquid rim of the sea; so nearly too, am I Francis, or, indeed, any other of these quiet dreaming basking figures. The line of the steamer's wash which is now on the point of breaking along the shore is so nearly realizable as one with the sun or the sky, or me, or any visible or tangible part of the whole, for each is the expression of the Absolute.... I do not know whether this is Paganism or Pantheism, or what, but that it is true seems beyond all power of doubt; it is certain, invariable, all that varies is our power of feeling it. To me personally the sense of home that Italy gives quickens my perception and assimilation of it, and this is further fulfilled by the intimacy with external things produced by these sun-soaked and sea-pickled mornings. Here in the south one gets closer to the simple facts of the world, one is welded to sun and sea; the communications between soul and body and the external world are cleaned and fortified. It is as if the buzz and clatter of a telephone suddenly cleared away, and the voice came through unhindered. In England the distraction and complications that necessarily crowd in on one in the land where one lives and earns one's living, and is responsible for a house and is making arrangements and fitting them into the hours of the day, choke the lines of communication; here I strip them off even as I strip off my clothes to wallow in the sea and lie in the sand. The barriers of individualism, in which are situated both the sense of identity, and the loneliness which the sense of _being oneself_ brings, are drawn up like the sluices of a lock, letting the pour of external things, of sun and sea and human beings into the quiet sundered pool. I begin to realize with experience that I am part of the whole creation to which I belong. You will find something of this consciousness in all that school of thought known as mysticism; it is, indeed, the basis of mysticism, whether that mysticism is pagan or Christian. In Greek thought you will find it, expressed guardedly and tentatively, and it undoubtedly lies at the base of some of their myths. It lurks in that myth of Narcissus, the youth who, beholding his own fair image in tranquil water, was drawn in by the spirits of the stream, and became a flower on the bank of the pool where he had lost himself, becoming merged in creation. So, too, in the story of Hyacinthus, whom Apollo loved. Him, as he was playing with the discus, the sun-god inadvertently slew, and from his blood came up the flowers that bear his name. And more especially, for here we get not the instance only but the statement of the idea itself, we find it in the myth of Pan, the god of all Nature, the spirit of all that is. He was not to be found in town or market-place, nor where men congregate, but it might happen that the lonely wayfarer, as he passed through untenanted valley or over empty hill-side, might hear the sound of his magical fluting of the tune that has no beginning and no ending, for it is as young as spring and as old as Time. He might even see him seated in some vine-wreathed cave, and though the sight of him meant, even as to Narcissus or to Hyacinthus, the death of the body, who shall doubt that he to whom that vision was vouchsafed died because he had utterly fulfilled himself as an individual, and his passing was the bursting of his heart with the greatness of the joy that illuminated him? He had beheld Nature--Nature itself with true eyes, and could no longer exist in separate individual consciousness; seeing the spirit of the All, he knew and was merged in his union with it. Here is the pagan view of the All-embracing, All-containing God, and it is hardly necessary to point out how completely it is parallel to, even identical with, the revelations of Christian mysticism. The bridal of the soul with her Lord, as known to St. Theresa, the dissolution and bathing of the soul in love, its forsaking of itself and going wholly from itself, which is the spirit of what Thomas à Kempis tells us of the true way, are all expressions of the same spiritual attainment. To them it came in the light of Christian revelation, but it was the same thing as the Greek was striving after in terms of Pan. And in every human soul is planted this seed of mystic knowledge, which grows fast or slow, according to the soil where it is set, and the cultivation it receives. To some the knowledge of it comes only in fitful faraway flashes; others live always in its light. And the consciousness of it may come in a hundred manners: to the worshipper when he receives the mystery of his faith at the altar, to the lover when he beholds his beloved, to the artist when the lift of cloud or the "clear shining after rain" suddenly smites him personally and intimately, so that for the moment he is no longer an observer but is part of what he sees. But to none of us does the complete realization come until the time when our individuality, as known to us here and now, breaks like the folded flower from the sheath of the body. Often we seem nearly to get there; we feel that if only we could stay in a state of mind that is purely receptive and quiescent, the sense of it would come to us with complete comprehension. But as we get near it, some thought, like a buzzing fly, stirs in our brain, and with a jerk we are brought back to normal consciousness, with the feeling that some noise has brought us back from a dream that was infinitely more vivid and truer than the world we awake to. So it happened to me now. I saw and heard the hissing of the wash of the steamer break on the shore, observing it and thinking about it. I saw, too, that Francis had got up and was walking along towards me, ankle-deep in the shallow water. He groped among the pebbles with his hand, and picked something up. Then he came and lay down alongside, and before he spoke I think I knew the gist of what he was going to say. He held out to me what he had picked up. It was one of those fragments of green mottled marble, such as we often find here, washed up from the ruined pavements of the palace. "What is it?" he said. "What is it really? God somehow, you know." "Or you or me?" I suggested. "Yes, of course. Either, both. But there is something, Someone, call it the Absolute or the First Cause or God, which is quite everywhere. It can't be local. That's the only explanation of All-there-is which will hold water, and it holds water and everything else. But you don't get at it by discussion and arguments, or even by thought. You've got to open the windows and doors; let the air in. Perhaps you've got to knock down and blow up the very house of your identity, and sit on the ruins and wait. But it's the idea of that which makes me so busy in my lazy life." The ripple of the steamer's wash died away again. "Funny that you should have said that just now," I remarked. "Why? Just because you had been thinking about it? I don't see that. If the wind blew here, it would be odder that it didn't blow when I was sitting over there." "But did you know I had been thinking about it?" "Well, it seemed likely. Let's have another swim before we dress. There's trouble coming in the sky. It's the last of the serene days for the present." "But there was a high barometer this morning." "There won't be when we get up to the Villa again," he said. "The sun has got the central-heating touch to-day. It's been stuffy heat for the last hour, not the heat of the fire. And look at the sky." Certainly a curious change had taken place all over the firmament. It was as if some celestial painter had put body-colour into what had been a wash of pure blue; there was a certain white opacity mingled with the previous clarity of it. The sun itself, too, was a little veiled, and its heat, as Francis had said, seemed more like the radiation from hot-water pipes than the genial glow of an open fire. Round it at a distance of three or four of its diameters ran a pale complete halo, as of mist. Yet what mist could live in such a burning and be unconsumed? "'Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimmed,'" quoted Francis. "But here we have the two things occurring simultaneously, which Shakespeare did not mean. But what, after all, _didn't_ Shakespeare mean?" We swam out round the fat German's promontory, floated, drifting with the eastward setting current, came lazily in again, and even more lazily walked up through the narrow cobbled path to where the rickety little victoria was waiting for us on the road. The tourist boat had arrived, and clouds of dust hung in the air, where their vehicles had passed, undispersed by any breeze. The intolerable oppression of the air was increasing every moment; the horse felt himself unable to evolve even the semblance of a trot, and the driver, usually the smartest and most brisk of charioteers, sat huddled up on his box, without the energy to crack his whip or encourage his steed to a livelier pace. Usually he sits upright and sideways, with bits of local news for his passengers, and greetings for his friends on the road; to-day he had nothing beyond a grunt of salutation, and a shrug of the shoulders for the tip which he usually receives with a wave of his hat, and a white-toothed "_Tante grazie!_" The Piazza, usually a crowded cheerful sort of outdoor club at midday, was empty, but for a few exhausted individuals who sat in the strips of narrow shadow, and the post-office clerk just chucked our letters and papers at us. The approach of Scirocco, though as yet no wind stirred, made everyone cross and irritable, and set every nerve on edge, and from the kitchen, when we arrived at the Villa, we heard sounds of shrill altercation going on between Pasqualino and Seraphina, a thing portentously unusual with those amicable souls. Pasqualino banged down the macaroni on the table, and spilt the wine and frowned and shrugged till Francis told him abruptly to mend his manners or let Seraphina serve us; on which for a moment the sunny Italian child looked out from the clouds and begged pardon, and said it was not he but the cursed Scirocco. And then, following on the cloud in the sky that had spread so quickly over the heavens, came the second cloud. Francis had just opened the Italian paper which we had got at the post-office and gave one glance at it. "Horrible thing!" he said. "The Archduke Ferdinand, heir to the Austrian throne, and his wife have been murdered at Serajevo. Where is Serajevo? Pass the mustard, please." * * * * * Pasqualino's myrtle wreath fell down during lunch (he told us that it had done the same thing a good deal all morning), and he, exhausted by his early rising to pick it, and the increasing tension of Scirocco, went and lay down on the bench by the cistern in the garden as soon as his ministrations were over, and after the fashion of Italians took off his coat and put it over his head, which seemed odd on this broiling and airless day. From the kitchen came the choking reverberation of snores, and looking in, I saw Seraphina reposing augustly on the floor, with her back propped up against the kitchen dresser and her mouth wide, as if for presentation to a dentist. Francis retired to his bedroom to lie down and sleep, and, feeling like Oenone that "I alone awake," I went to my sitting-room to read the paper, and, if possible, write a letter that ought to have been sent quite a week ago. This room is furnished exactly as I chose to furnish it; consequently it has got exactly all that I want in it, and, what is even more important, it has nothing that I don't want. There is a vast table made of chestnut wood, so big that a week's arrears can accumulate on it, and yet leave space to write, to play picquet at the corner and to have tea. (If there are any other uses for a table, I don't know them.) This table stands so that the light from the window number one falls on it, and close behind it along the wall is the spring mattress of a bed. On it lies another thick comfortable mattress; above that a stamped linen coverlet, and on that are three enormous cushions and two little ones. The debilitated author, therefore, when the fatigue of composition grows to breaking-point, can thus slide from his chair at the enormous table, and dispose the cushions so as to ensure a little repose. Opposite this couch stands a bookcase, where are those few works that are necessary to salvation, such as "Wuthering Heights," "Emma," and "The Rubáiyát," books that you can open anywhere and be instantly wafted, as on a magic carpet, to familiar scenes that never lose the challenge of novelty (for this is the reason of a book, just as it is also of a friend). After the bookcase comes the door into my bedroom, and after that, on the wall at right angles, window number two, looking south. A chair is set against the wall just beyond it, and beyond again (coming back to window number one, which looks west) another chair, big, low and comfortable, convenient to which stands a small table, on which Pasqualino has placed a huge glass wine-flask, and has arranged in it the myrtle that was left over from his wreath. The walls of this abode of peace are whitewashed and ungarnished by pictures, the ceiling is vaulted, the tiled floor is uncarpeted, and outside window number one is a small terrace, on the walls of which stand pots of scarlet geraniums, where, when nights are too hot within, I drag a mattress, a pillow and a sheet. There are electric lamps on both tables and above the couch, and I know nothing that a mortal man can really want, which is not comprised in this brief catalogue. I wrote the letter that should have been written a week ago, found that it didn't meet the case, and after tearing it up, lay down on the couch (completely conscious of my own duplicity of purpose) in order, so I said to myself, to think it over. But my mind was all abroad, and I thought of a hundred other things instead, of the bathe, of the garden, and wondered whether if I went into the studio and played the piano very softly, it would disturb anybody. Then I had the idea that there was someone in the studio, and found myself listening as to whether I heard steps there or not. Certainly I heard no steps, but the sense that there was someone there was rather marked. Then, simultaneously I remembered how both Pasqualino and Seraphina had heard steps there, when the house was otherwise empty, and had gone there, both singly and together, to see if Francis or I had come in. But even as I did now, they have entered and found the studio empty. Often I have hoped that a ghost might lurk in those unexplained footfalls, but apparently the ghost cannot make itself more manifest than this. I stood there a moment still feeling that there was somebody there, though I neither saw nor heard anything, and then went quietly along the passage, under the spur of the restlessness that some people experience before Scirocco bursts, and looked into Francis's room, the door of which was open. He lay on his bed in trousers and opened shirt, sleeping quietly. From here I could catch the sound of Seraphina's snoring, and from the window could see the head-muffled Pasqualino spread out in the shade of the awning above the garden cistern. And feeling more Oenone-ish than ever, I went back and lay down again. It was impossible in this stillness and stagnation of the oppressed air to do more than wait, as quiescently as possible, for the passing of the hours. I was not in the least sleepy, but I had hardly lain down when the muddle and blur of sudden slumber began to steal over my brain. I thought I remembered seeing the murdered Archduke once in London, and was I wrong in recollecting that he always wore a fur-tippet over his mouth? I recognized that as nonsense, for I had never seen him at all, and fell to thinking about Francis lying there on his bed, with doors and windows open. It seemed to me rather dangerous that he should lie there, relaxed and defenceless, for it was quite possible that Miss Machonochie, recognizing that everything was one (even as I had felt this morning on the beach) might easily prove to be Artemis, and coming in moon-wise through Francis's window might annex her Endymion. This seemed quite sensible ... or Caterina might float into the garden in similar guise, and carry off Pasqualino ... perhaps both of these love-disasters might happen, and then Seraphina and I alone would be left.... I should certainly swim away to my _cache_, and live on cigarettes and seaweed, and mercury from the thermometer.... I should have to break the bulb to get at it, and I thought that I was actually doing so. It broke with a terrific crash, which completely awoke me. Another crash followed and a scream: it was the second shutter of my window that faced south being blown against the sash, and the scream was that of the pent-up wind that burst with the suddenness of lightning out of the sky. On the instant the house was full of noises, other shutters clattered and banged, my open door slammed to, as the Scirocco howled along the passage, as if making a raid to search the house. My pile of unanswered businesses rose like a snowdrift from the table, and were littered over the room; the wine flask and its myrtle overturned; a pot of geraniums on the edge of the terrace came crashing down. In a moment the whole stagnation of the world was rent to ribands, and the ribands went flying on the wings of the wind. There was no doubt about footsteps now: Pasqualino came rushing in from the garden, Seraphina left her kitchen and bundled upstairs, and I collided with Francis as we ran into the studio to close the windows. Never have I known so surprising a pounce of the elemental forces of the world. A volcano bursting in flame and lava at one's feet, a war suddenly springing full-armed in a peaceful country, could not have shattered stillness with so unheralded an uproar. Five minutes served to bolt and bar the southern and western aspects of the house from the quarter of the gale, and five more to repair the damage of its first assault. After that we listened with glee to its bellowing, and while Seraphina made tea, I went out of an eastern entrance to gain further acquaintance with this savage south-wester at first hand. It threw me back like a hot wave when I emerged from the sheltered side of the house into its full blast, but soon, leaning against it, I crept across the garden to the lower terrace. The olive-trees were bending to it, as if some savage, invisible fish had taken a bait they held out; twigs and branches were scurrying along the paths, and mixed with them were the petals and the buds of flowers that should have made July gay for us. A whirl of blue blossoms was squibbing off the tangle of morning-glory; even the red pillar-trunk of the stone-pine groaned as the wind drove through its umbrella of dense foliage. The sun was quite hidden; only a pale discolourment in the sky showed where it travelled, and to the south the sea was already a sheet of whipped wave-tops under this Niagara of wind. It was impossible to stand there long, and soon I let myself be blown back up the garden and round the corner of the house into calm. Upstairs Francis was already at tea; he had picked up the sheet of the Italian paper which he had only glanced at during lunch. "Serajevo appears to be in Servia," he said, "or Bosnia. One of those countries." "Oh, the murder!" said I. "The garden's in an awful mess." "I suppose so. Tea?" JULY, 1914 For the last seven weeks not a drop of rain has fallen on the island. The great Scirocco of June brought none with it, and when that three days' hurricane was over, we returned to the wonderful calm weather that preceded it. Already nearly a month before the ordinary time the grape clusters are beginning to grow tight-skinned on the vines, and we expect an unprecedented vintage, for the Scirocco, though violent enough on the south of the island, did no damage to the northern slopes, where are the most of the vineyards. But the dearth of water is already becoming serious, for depending, as we do, on the cisterns where the rain is stored, it is full time that replenishment came to their ebbing surfaces. For the last fortnight, unable to spare water for other than household purposes, we have been obliged to maroon the garden, so to speak, on a desert island, and already many householders are buying water for purposes of ablution and cooking. Indeed, when, last night, the sprightly Pasqualino announced that there was only half a metre of water left in the second cistern (the first one we improvidently emptied in order to clean it), and that the Signori would have to have their risotto and macaroni boiled in the wine-juice, of which there promised so remarkable a supply, Seraphina, who had come upstairs for orders, told him pretty roundly that if this was meant for a joke, it was in the worst possible taste, for it was she who ordered the wine, and was responsible for the lowness of the Signori's bills. Upon which Pasqualino sinuously retired with a deprecating smile, leaving Seraphina, flushed with victory, in possession of the field.... In fact the situation is so serious, she proceeded to tell us, that the priests have arranged that the silver image of San Costanzo is to-night to be taken in procession from the cathedral, where it usually abides, down to the Marina, where an altar is to be set up for him close to the quay, and fireworks to be let off, so that he may be gratified and by making intercession cause the rain we so sorely need to fall. Certainly that seems a very sensible idea. The islanders adore fireworks and processions, and it is only reasonable of them to endow their saints with the same amiable tastes. San Costanzo, like all sensible folk, whether saints or sinners, delights in fireworks and processions, and of course he will be pleased to do his best after that. (As a matter of fact, though I hate cynicism, I cannot help remembering that the barometer has been falling these last three days, and I wonder whether the priests who have arranged this _festa_ for San Costanzo know that. I hope not.) Seraphina's informant on these matters was not the priest, anyhow, but Teresa of the cake shop. "And is Teresa then going down to the Marina?" I asked. Seraphina threw open her hands and tossed back her head in emphatic denial. The Signor surely knew very well (or if he did not, Signorino Francesco did) that it was twelve years now since Teresa had gone down to the port, and never again would she set foot on that ill-omened quay. _La povera!..._ And Seraphina stood in silence a moment, gravely shaking her head. Then she threw off the melancholy train of thought into which the mention of Teresa had led her. "The meat comes from Naples to-morrow," she announced. "For dinner then a piece of roast meat and the fish that Nino has promised and a soup of vegetables. _Ecco!_ And there will be no cooking in wine as that scamp said." * * * * * Afterwards Francis told me why Teresa of the cake shop never goes down to the Marina, though _festas_ and fireworks beckon, and though San Costanzo's silver image is borne there in solemn procession, so that he may intercede for us, and cause to break up the brazen sky. It filled up in the telling the studious or basking stage of our bathe next morning. "Fifteen years ago," he said, "when first I came to the enchanted island, Teresa Stali was the prettiest maid and the daintiest cook in all Alatri. That year I took for six months the Villa Bardi, which belonged to her father, who told me that if I was in need of a cook he could supply me with one of whom I should have no complaints. So, if I had not already got one, Teresa would do everything I needed--cook my food, look after the garden, and keep the house as bright as a Sunday brooch. Teresa, he explained, was his daughter, a good girl, and would I interview her. In answer to his loud cries of 'Teresa! Teresina!' taken up by shrill voices along the street, there came to the door a vision of tall black-haired maidenhood. "'She is strong, too,' said her grinning parent, clapping her on the shoulder. 'Eh, the Signor should have seen her bump the heads of her two brothers together last week, when they threw stones at the washing she had hung up to dry. Bang! bang! they will not meddle with Teresina's washing again!' "Of course I engaged this paragon, and never has a house been so resplendent, never were such meals offered for the refreshment of the esurient sons of men, as when Teresa was Prime Minister in the Villa Bardi. She was scarcely capable, it seemed, of walking, for her nimble feet broke into a run whenever more than a yard or two must be traversed; household work was a festival to her, and she sang as she emptied slops. Flowers, fresh every day, decked my table; you could have eaten off the floors, and each morning my shoes shone with speckless whitening. One thing alone had power to depress her, and that if by chance I went out to dine with friends, so that there was no opportunity that evening for her kitchen-magic. The antidote was that on another day someone would dine with me, so that others beside her own signor should taste the perfect fruits of her oven. "Often, when the table was cleared in the evening, and she came to get orders for next day before going back to her father's house for the night, she would stop and talk to me, for, in that she was in my household, she was of my family, identified with my interests and I with hers. By degrees I learned her domestic history, how there was a brother doing his military service, how there were two younger boys still at home, whom Satan continually inspired to unspeakable deeds (of which the stoning of her washing was among the milder); how her mother had taught her all she knew of cooking, how her father was the best carpenter in all South Italy, so that he had orders from Naples, from Salerno, from Rome even. And, finally, she told me about herself, how that she was engaged to Vincenzo Rhombo, of Santa Agatha, who had gone to Buenos Ayres to seek his fortune, and was finding it, too, with both hands. He had been gone for two years now, and last year he had sent her seven hundred francs to keep for him. Every year he was going to send her all he saved, and when he came home, Dio!... "The post used to arrive about half-past eight in the morning, and was announced by sepulchral knocking on the garden door, on which Teresa, if she was brushing and tidying upstairs, flew down to take in the letters, duster in hand, or with whatever occupied her busy fingers at the moment. From there she rushed along the garden terrace to where I was breakfasting underneath the pergola, bringing me my letters. But one morning, I saw her take them in, and instead of coming to me, she sat down on the steps and remained there a long time, reading. Eventually I called to her. "'Nothing for me, Teresa?' I asked. "Instantly she sprang up. "'Pardon--a thousand pardons,' she said. 'There are two letters, and a packet, a great packet.' "'And you have had a packet?' I asked. "'Jesu! Such a packet! May I show the Signor? Look, here is Vincenzo, his very self! And again seven hundred francs. Ah, it _is_ Vincenzo! I can hear him laughing.' "She laid the photograph before me, and, indeed, you could hear Vincenzo laughing. The merry handsome face was thrown back, with mouth half open. "'And such news!' she said. 'He has done better than ever this year, and has bought a piece of land, or he would have sent even more money home. And at the end----' she turned over the sheets, 'at the end he writes in English, which he is learning. What does it mean, Signor?' "This is what Vincenzo had written: "'My corrospondence must now stopp, my Teresina, but never stopps my love for you. Across the sea come my kisses, O my Teresina, and from the Heart of your Vincenzo. I kiss my corrospondence, and I put it in the envelop.' "I translated this and turned to the dim-eyed Teresina. "'And that is better than all the money,' she said. "Then she became suddenly conscious that she was carrying my trousers, which she was brushing when the knock of the postman came. "'Dio! What a slut is Teresina!' she exclaimed. 'Scusi, Signor.' "I went back to England at the termination of my lease of the Villa Bardi, for interviews with stormy uncles, and the settlement of many businesses, and it was some months later that I set off on my return here, with finality in my movements. On the way I had intended to stop half a week in Naples to take my last draught of European culture. But the sight of Alatri on the evening I arrived there, harp-shaped and swimming molten in a June sunset, proved too potent a magnet. Besides, there was reputed to be a great deal of cholera in Naples, and I have no use for cholera. So, early next morning I embarked at the Castello d'Ovo to come back to my beloved island. "It was a morning made for such islanders as I: the heat was intense but lively, and the first thing to do on landing was to 'Mediterranizer' myself, as Nietzsche says, and bathe, wash off the stain of the mainland and of civilization, and be baptized, finally baptized, into this dreamland life. I often wonder whether dreams----" "Stick to your story," said I. "It's about Teresa." Francis shifted on his elbow. "There was a bucketful of changes here," he said, "and I was disconcerted, because I expected to find everything exactly as I had left it. Alatri is the sleeping-beauty--isn't it true?--and the years pass, and you expect to see her exactly as she was in the nineties. But now they were talking of a funicular railway to connect the Marina with the town, and Giovanni the boatman had married, and they said his wife had already cured him of his habits. Oh, she brushed his hair for him, she did! And a damned American had started a lending library, and we were all going to enlarge our minds on a circulating system, and there was a bathing establishment planned, where on Sunday afternoon you could drink your sirop to the sound of a band, and see the sluts from Naples. But it fell into the sea all right, and the posts of it are covered with barnacles. Far more important it was that Teresa had opened a cake-shop in a superb position, as you know, close to the Piazza, so that when you come in from your walk you cannot help buying a cake: the force of its suggestion is irresistible. She opened it with good money, too, the money that Vincenzo had sent her back from Buenos Ayres. The cake-shop was now proceeding famously, and it was believed that Teresa was making twenty per cent. on her outlay, which is as much as you can hope to get with safety. But it had been--the cake-shop--a prodigious risk; for a month when the island was empty it had not prospered, and Teresa's family distended their poor stomachs nightly with the cakes that were left unsold that day, for Teresa had high ideas, and would have nothing stale in her shop. She brought the unsold things home every night in a bag, for fresh every morning must be her cakes, and so the family ate the old ones and saved the money for their supper. Rich they were, many of them, and stuffed with cream. "But after an anxious four weeks the _forestieri_ began to arrive, and under their patronage, up went Teresa's cake-shop like a rocket. Customers increased and jostled; and Teresa, the daring, the audacious, took good luck on the wing, and started a tea-place on the balcony above the cake-shop, and bought four iron-legged, marble-topped tea-tables, and linen napkins, no less. She washed these incessantly, for her tea-place was always full, and Teresa would no more have dirty napkins than she would have stale cakes. That is Teresa! "Business expanded. One of the two young brothers (whose heads she so soundingly knocked together) she now employed in the baking of her cakes, and for the other she bought, straight off, a suit of white drill with ten thousand bone buttons, and gave him employment in bringing the tea-trays up to the customers in the balcony. She paid them both good wages, but Satan, as usual, entered into their malicious heads, and once in the height of the season they confabulated, and thought themselves indispensable, and struck for higher wages. Else they would no longer bake or hand the bakeries. "A less supreme spirit than Teresa's might have given in, and raised their wages. Instead she hurried their departure, and no whit discouraged, she rose at four in the morning, and baked, and when afternoon came had all ready, and flew upstairs and downstairs, and never was there so good a tea as at Teresa's, nor so quickly served. In three days she had broken the fraternal strike, and the baffled brothers begged to be taken back. Then Teresa, who had been too busy to attend to them before, for she was doing their work in addition to her own, condescended to them, and told them what she really thought of them. She sat in a chair, did Teresa, and loosed her tongue. There was a blistering of paint that day on the balcony, though some said it was only the sun which had caused it.... "Two sad-faced males returned to their work next day, at a stipend of five francs per month less than they had hitherto received. The island, which had watched the crisis with the intensest interest, loudly applauded her spirit, and told the discouraged but repentant labour-party that only a good-hearted sister would have taken them back at all. She had not even smacked them, which she was perfectly capable of doing, in spite of their increasing inches, but perhaps her tongue was even more stinging than the flat of her hand. Great was Teresa of the cake-shop! "All this I heard, and the best news of all remained to tell, for Vincenzo was even now on his way back from Buenos Ayres. He had made a tremendous hit with the land he had bought last summer, had money enough to pay off the mortgages on his father's farm at Santa Agatha, and he and Teresa would marry at once. Then, alas! Alatri would know Teresa no more, for she would live with her husband on the mainland. Already she had been made a very decent offer for the appurtenances and goodwill of the cake-shop, which, so she told me, she was secretly inclined to accept. But according to the proper ritual of bargaining, she had, of course, refused it, and told Giorgio Stofa that when he had a sensible proposition to make to her, he might call again. Giorgio, a mean man by all accounts, had been seen going to the bank that morning, and Teresa expected him to call again very soon. "This conversation took place in the cake-shop while all the time she bustled about, now diving into the bake-house to stimulate the industry of Giovanni, now flying up to the balcony to see if Satan's other limb had put flowers on the marble-topped tables. Then, for a moment there was peace, and love looked out of Teresa's eyes. "'Eh, Signor,' she said. 'Vincenzo will be home, if God wills, by the day of Corpus Domini. What a _festa! Dio!_ What a _festa_ will that be!' "The serene island days began to unroll themselves again, with long swimmings, long baskings on the beach, long siestas on grilling afternoons, when the whole island lay mute till the evening coolness began, and only the cicalas chirped in the oleanders. Then, as the heat of the day declined, I would often have tea on Teresa's balcony, and on one such afternoon the great news came, and Teresa put into my hand the telegram she had just received from Naples, which told her that Vincenzo's ship had arrived, and that her lover had come back. Business necessary to transact would detain him there for a day, and for another day he must be at Santa Agatha, but on the morning of Corpus Domini he would come to Alatri, by the steamer that arrived at noon.... "'Six years since he went,' said Teresa. 'And oh, Signor, it is but as a day. We shall keep the _festa_ together and see the fireworks.... We shall go up into the rockets,' she cried in a sudden kindling of her tongue. 'We shall be golden rain, Vincenzo and I.' "'And I shall stand below, oh, so far below,' said I, 'and clap my hands, and say "Eccoli!" That is, if I approve of Vincenzo.' "Teresa put her hands together. "'Eh! but will Vincenzo approve of me?' she said. 'Will he think I have grown old? Six years! Oh, a long time.' "'It is to be hoped that Vincenzo will not be a pumpkin,' I remarked. 'Give me the large sort of cake, Teresa. I will carry it up to the Villa.' "Teresa frowned. "'The cakes are a little heavy to-day,' she said. 'I had a careless hand. You had better take two small ones, and if you do not like them, you will send back the second. _Grazie tante, Signor._' "The news that Vincenzo was to arrive by the midday boat on Corpus Domini, spread through the town, and all Teresa's family and friends were down at the Marina to give him welcome. A heavy boat-load of visitors was expected, and the little pier was cleared of loungers, so that the disembarkation in small boats from the steamer might, be unimpeded. But by special permission Teresa was given access to the landing-steps, so that she might be the first to meet her lover, even as he set foot on the shore, and there, bare-headed and twinkling with all her _festa_ finery, she waited for him. In the first boat-load that put off from the steamer he came, standing in the prow, and waving to her, while she stood with clasped hands and her heart eager with love. He was the first to spring ashore, leaping across to the steps before the boat had come alongside, and with a great cry, jubilant and young, he caught Teresa to him, and for a supreme moment they stood there, clasped in each other's arms. And then he seemed to fall from her and collapsed suddenly on the quay, and lay there writhing.... The cholera that was prevalent in Naples had him in his grip, and in two hours he was dead...." Francis sat silent a little after the end of his story. "So now you know," he said, "why for fourteen years Teresa of the cake-shop has never gone down to the Marina." * * * * * That night, when the thud and reverberation of the fireworks began down on the Marina, Francis and I went into the town to see them from above. The Piazza was deserted, for all Alatri had gone down to the port to take part in this procession and explosion in honour of San Costanzo, so that he might make intercession and send rain to the parched island, and we went out on to the broad paved platform which overlooks the Marina. This, too, seemed to be deserted, and perched on the railing that surrounds it, we watched the golden streaks of the ascending rockets, and their flowering into many-coloured fires. At this distance the reports reached the ear some seconds after their burstings; their plumes of flame had vanished before their echoes flapped in the cliffs of Monte Gennaro. The moon was not yet risen, and their splendour burned brilliantly against the dark background of the star-sown sky. By and by a whole sheaf of them went up together, and afterwards a detonating bomb showed that the exhibition was over. And then we saw that we were not alone, for in the dark at the far end of the railings a black figure was watching. She turned and came towards us, and I saw who it was. "You have been looking at the fireworks, Teresa?" said Francis. "_Sissignor._ They have been very good. San Costanzo should send us rain after that. But who knows? It is God's will, after all." "Surely. And how goes it?" She smiled at him with that sweet patient face, out of which fourteen years ago all joy and fire died. "The cake-shop?" she said. "Oh, it prospers. It always prospers. I am trying a new recipe to-morrow--a meringue." "And you--you yourself?" he asked. "I? I am always well. But often I am tired of waiting. _Pazienza!_ Shall I send some of the new meringues up to the Villa, if they turn out well, Signor?" Francis had an inexplicable longing that evening to play chess, and as he despises the sort of chess I play with the same completeness as I despise parsnips, I left him with someone less contemptible at the café, and strolled up to the Villa again alone, going along the paved way that overlooks the sea to the south. High up was hung an amazing planet, and I felt rather glad I was no astronomer, and knew not which it was, for the noblest of names would have been unworthy of that celestial jewel. As if it had been a moon, the reflection of its splendour made a golden path across the sea, and posturing in its light, I found that it actually cast a vague shadow of me against a whitewashed wall. To the east the rim of the hill, where is situated the wireless station, was beginning to stand out very black against a dove-coloured sky, and before I had reached the steep steps that lead past the garden wall, the rim of the full moon had cut the hill-top, dimming the stars around it, and swiftly ascending, a golden bubble in the waters of the firmament, it had shot up clear of the horizon and refashioned the world again in ivory and black. All the gamut of colours was dipped anew; blues were translated into a velvety grey, so too were greens, and though the eye could see the difference, it was impossible to say what the difference was. Simply what we call blue by daylight became some kind of grey; what we call green a totally distinct kind of grey and blacker than the darkest shadow of the stone-pine was the shouting scarlet of the geraniums. No painter (pace the Whistlerians) has ever so faintly suggested the magic of moon-colouring, and small blame to him, since the tone of it cannot be rendered in pictures that are seen in the daylight. But if you take the picture of a sunny day, and look at it in moonlight, you will see, not a daylight picture, but a moonlight scene. The same thing holds with daylight scents and night-scents, and the fragrance of the verbena by the house wall was not only dimmer in quality, but different in tone. It was recognizable but different, ghost-like, disembodied without the smack of the sun in it. I strolled about for a little, and then having (as usual) writing on hand that should have been done days before, I went reluctantly into the house. I was quite alone in it, for Seraphina had gone home, Pasqualino was down at the Marina taking part in fireworks and _festa,_ and I had left Francis in a stuffy café pondering on gambits. We had dined early by reason of the fireworks, and before going up to my sitting-room to work, I foraged for cake and wine in the kitchen, and carried these upstairs. It was very hot, and I went first into the studio, where I set the windows wide, and next into Francis's room and Pasqualino's, where I did the same. Then I came back to my own room, exactly opposite the studio, and, stripped to shirt and trousers, with door and windows wide, I sat down for an hour's writing. * * * * * There is no such incentive to constructive thought as the knowledge that, humanly speaking, interruption is impossible. Seraphina would not return till morning, while _festa_ and chess would undoubtedly detain Pasqualino and Francis for the next couple of hours. I had a luxurious sense of security; should I be so fortunate as to strike the vein I was delving for, I could go on mining there without let or hindrance. Reluctant though I had been to begin, I speedily found myself delightfully engrossed in what I was doing. Probably it did not amount to much, but the illusion in the author's mind, when he tinkers away at his tale, that he is doing something vastly important, is one that is never shaken, even though he continually finds out afterwards that the masterpiece has missed fire again. While he is engaged on his scribbling (given that his pen is in an interpreting frame of mind, and records without too many stumblings the dictation his brain gives it), he is in that Jerusalem that opens its gates of pearl only to the would-be artist, be he painter or poet or writer or sculptor. He is constructing, recording his impressions, and though (I hasten to repeat) they may be totally unworthy of record, he doesn't think so when he is engaged on them, for if he did, he would be conscious of external affairs, his mind would wander, and he would stop. Often, of course, that happens, but there are other blessed occasions when he is engulfed by his own imaginings, and absorbed in the reproduction of them. It was so with me that night, when I sat quite alone in the silent house, knowing that none could disturb me for a couple of hours to come. Italy, even the fact that I was in Italy, vanished from my mind, and for the sake of the curious, at the risk of egoism, I may mention that I was with Mrs. Hancock in her bedroom in her horrid villa called Arundel, and looking over her jewels with her, to see what she could spare, without missing it, as a wedding present for her daughter. Engaged in that trivial pursuit, I lost conscious touch with everything else. Quite suddenly a very ordinary noise, though as startling as the ringing of a telephone-bell at my elbow, where there was no telephone, snatched me away from my imaginings. There was a step in the studio just opposite, and I made no doubt that Francis had got home, had come upstairs without my hearing him, and no doubt thinking that I was at work, had passed into the studio. But then, looking at my watch, which lay on the table before me, I saw that it was still only half-past ten, and that I had been at work (and he at chess) for barely half an hour. But there was no reason that I should not go on working for an hour yet, and though my sense of security from interruption was gone, I anchored myself to my page again. But something had snapped; I could not get back into Mrs. Hancock's bedroom again, and after a few feeble sentences, and a corresponding number of impatient erasures, I came to a full stop. I sat there for some ten minutes more, vainly endeavouring to concentrate again over Mrs. Hancock's jewels, but Francis's steps were in some way strangely disturbing. They passed up the studio, paused and returned, and paused and passed up again. Then, but not till then, there came into my mind the fact that Seraphina and Pasqualino had at different times heard (or thought they heard) footsteps in the studio, and on investigation had found it empty, and I began to wonder, still rather dimly and remotely, whether these were indeed the pacings of Francis up and down the room. My reasonable mind told me that they were, but the recollection of those other occasions became momently more vivid, and I got up to see. The door of my room and that of the studio were exactly opposite each other, with the width of a narrow passage between them. Both doors were open, and on going into the passage I saw that the studio was dark within. It seemed odd that Francis should walk up and down, as he was still continuing to do, in the dark. I suddenly felt an intense curiosity to know whether this was Francis walking up and down in the dark, or rather an intense desire to satisfy myself that it was not. The switch of the electric light was just inside the door, and even as my hand fumbled for it I still heard the steps quite close to me. Next moment the studio leaped into light as I pressed the switch, and I looked eagerly up and down it. There was no one there, though half a second before I had heard the footsteps quite close to me. I stood there a moment, not conscious of fear, though I knew that for some reason my heart was creaking in my throat, and that I felt an odd prickly sensation on my head. But my paramount feeling was curiosity as to who or what it was that went walking here, my paramount consciousness that, though I could see no one, and the steps had ceased, there was someone close to me all the time, watching me not unkindly. But beyond doubt, for all visible presence, the studio was empty, and I knew that the search which I now carried out, visiting the darker corners, and going on to the balcony outside, from which there was no external communication further, was all in vain. Whatever it was that I, like Pasqualino and Seraphina, had heard, it was not a thing that hid itself. It was there, waiting for us to perceive it, waiting for the withdrawal of the shutter that separates the unseen world from the seen. The shutter had been partly withdrawn, for I had heard it; I had also the strong sense of its presence. But I had no conception as to what it was, except that I felt it was no evil or malignant thing. I went back to my room, and, oddly enough, directly after so curious an experience, I found myself able to concentrate on Mrs. Hancock again without the slightest difficulty, and spent an absorbed hour. Then I heard the garden gate open, there were steps on the stairs, and a moment afterwards Francis came up. I told him what had happened, exactly as I have set it down. He asked a few slightly scornful questions, and then proceeded to tell me how he had lost his king's bishop. I could not ask scornful questions about that, but it seemed very careless of him. * * * * * The very next morning there turned up information which seems to my mind (a mind which Francis occasionally describes as credulous) to bear upon the watcher and walker in the studio, and it happened in this wise. Ten days before, the careful Seraphina had collected certain table-cloths, sheets and socks that needed darning, and with a view to having them thoroughly well done, and with, I make no doubt, another motive as well in her superstitious mind, had given the job to Donna Margherita, a very ancient lady, but nimble with her needle, to whom we are all very polite. Even Francis (though he has admirable manners with everybody) goes out of his way to be civil to Donna Margherita, and no one, who is at all prudent, will fail to give her a "Good day" if he passes her in the street. But if the wayfarer sees Donna Margherita coming in his direction, and thinks she has not yet seen him, he will, if he is prudent, turn round and walk in another direction. I have known Francis to do that on some paltry excuse (and he says I have a credulous mind!), but his real reason is that though he would not admit it, he is aware that Donna Margherita has the evil eye. Consequently we islanders must not vex her or be other than scrupulously civil to her, though we keep out of her way if we can, and when we must pass her it is wise to make the sign of the Cross surreptitiously. We do not talk about her much, for it is as well not to get near the confines of dangerous things; but before now Pasqualino has told me of various occurrences which to his mind put it beyond all doubt that Donna Margherita has the _jettatura._ There was the affair of his uncle's fig-tree: he had been foolish and said sharp things to her because her goat strayed into his vineyard. And Donna Margherita just looked at the fig-tree which grows by his gate, and said: "You have a fine fig-tree there; there will be plenty of fruit this summer." Within a fortnight all the crop of little half-ripe figs dropped off. There was her landlord who threatened to turn her out unless her quarter's overdue rent was paid the same evening. Was it paid? Not a bit of it; but the very same day the landlord's kitchen roof fell in.... There is no end to such evidence, and so when ten days ago Donna Margherita asked Seraphina if there was not any mending for her to do, it is no wonder (especially since she is so neat with her needle) that Seraphina gave her our lacerated linen. * * * * * Such is the history of Donna Margherita, and so when this morning, as we were breakfasting, her knock came at the garden door, and she entered, Francis jumped up, and called Seraphina from the kitchen to pay for the mending and give Donna Margherita a glass of wine on this hot morning. It was cool and shady under the pergola where we were breakfasting, and as the old lady had a fancy to sit down for a little after her walk, she came along and sat down with us. And, vying with each other in courtesies, Pasqualino brought her a slice of cake, and Seraphina a glass of wine, and then hastily retired from the dangerous neighbourhood, and looked out on the interview with troubled faces from an upper window. To judge by her dried-apple cheek, and her gnarled and knotted hands, Donna Margherita might almost number the years with which Alatri credits her, asserting that she is a hundred summers old. Eighty, at any rate, she must be, since she has good recollection of the events of more than seventy years ago, and as she sipped her wine and clinked the soldi Seraphina (grossly overpaying) had given her, she talked amiably enough about our house and her early memories of it. "Yes, it's a fine villa that the Signori have," she said; "but I can remember it as but a farm-house before additions were made to it. The farm buildings used to lean against it on the north, where later the big room was built by the English artist; byre and cow-house were there, and when I was a little girl a strange thing happened." She mumbled her cake a little in her toothless jaws and proceeded: "The farm in those days belonged to Giovanni Stofa, long since dead, and there he lived alone with his son, who is long dead also. One night after the house was shut up, and they sat together before going to bed, there came a noise and a clatter from the cow-house, very curious to hear. Giovanni thought that one of the cows had convulsions and ran out of the house and round by the kitchen, and into the shed where the two cows were stabled. And as he opened the door he was near knocked down, for both of them ran out with hoofs in the air and tails switching. Then, not knowing what should meet his eyes, he turned the lantern that he carried into the cow-house, and there standing in the middle was a _strega_ (witch). But she looked at him not unkindly, and said: 'I have come to guard the house, and from henceforth I shall always guard it, walking up and down, ever walking up and down.' "The _strega_ smiled at him as she spoke, and his knees ceased to tremble, for this was no black visitant. "'Your cattle will not be frightened again,' she said. 'Look, even now they come back.' "As she spoke, first one and then the other of the cows came into the stable again, and walked right up to where the _strega_ stood, blowing hard through their nostrils. And next moment they lay down close to her, one on each side. "'You will often hear me walking about here,' said the _strega;_ 'but have no fear, for I guard the house.' "And with that there came just one puff of wind, and Giovanni's lantern flickered, and lo! when the flame was steady again there was no _strega_ there." * * * * * Donna Margherita took a sip of wine after her recitation. "And does she still walk up and down where the cow-house was?" I asked. "Surely; but fat ears cannot hear even the thunder," quoted Donna Margherita. "And now, Signori, I will be walking. And thanks for the soldi and the cake and the wine." Francis got up too. "You are active still, Donna Margherita," he said. Donna Margherita stepped briskly down the path. "Eh, yes, Signor," she said. "I am old but active; I can still do such a day's work as would surprise you." Francis's eye and mine met; we were behind her, so that she could not see the exchanged glance. What was in both our minds was the affair of Pasqualino's uncle's fig-tree, for that had certainly been a surprising day's work. But after she had gone, he alluded again to the steps I had heard in the studio in a far more respectful manner. The fact is, so I made bold to tell him, that he does not like Donna Margherita's unconscious innuendo that he has fat ears. The hot, serene days pursued their relentless course without our experiencing any of the watery benefits we had hoped for from the treat of fireworks that we had given to San Costanzo, for immediately after that improvised _festa_ the falling barometer retraced its downward steps, and the needle stood, steady as if it had been painted there, on the "V" of "Very Dry." Miss Machonochie's cistern, so she informed us, had barely a foot of water in it, and she came up to ask if she might borrow a few pailfuls from ours of a morning. "Borrow" was good, since naturally she could not pay it back till the rain came and replenished her store, and the moment the rain came it would be a foolish thing to go carrying pailfuls of water from one house to another when all were plentifully supplied. But she made a great point of putting down exactly how many pailfuls she borrowed, and also made a great point of coming to thank Francis every other afternoon about tea-time for his kindness. She did not care about thanking me, though I had been just as kind as Francis, and eventually, owing to the awful frequency of these visits, we posted Pasqualino on the balcony overlooking the path to give warning (like Brangäene from her tower) of Miss Machonochie's fell approach, while we had tea, so that we could effect an exit through the kitchen door, and live, like outlaws, in the heather, till Miss Machonochie had left her gratitude behind her. It was not sufficient to instruct Pasqualino to say we were out, for then Miss Machonochie would sit and rest in the garden for a little, or come up to the studio to write a letter of thanks (always to Francis). But with Pasqualino on the balcony, we can sit in peace over tea, till with a broad grin that occasionally explodes into laughter, he comes in to say that the Scotch Signorina's sunshade is a-bobbing up the path. Then we hastily scald ourselves with tea and go for a walk, for no longer in this dearth of water can the garden be refreshed, but must needs lie waterless, till the rain revisits us. To-day we made an expedition up Monte Gennaro, the great crag that rises sheer from the south side of the island in two thousand feet of unscalable cliff. From the west the ascent is a mild, upward path over a stony hill-side, and the more delectable way is on its east side, where a very steep ascent burrows among thick growing scrub of laburnum and arbutus till it reaches the toppling precipices that frown above it. There, squeezing through interstices and fissures, it conducts to a huge grassy upland, unsuspected from below, that sweeps upward to the summit. A pine-tree or two stand sentinel here, but there is little anchorage of soil for trees, and for the most part the hill-side is clothed in long jungle grasses and spaces of sunny broom, the scent of which hangs sweet and heavy in the windless air. Here the dews are thicker, and the heat less intense, and though the rain has been so long withheld, the hill-side is still green and unwithered, and deep among the grasses we saw abundance of the great orange-coloured lilies that we had come to gather. But that task was for the downward journey, and first we ascended to the peak itself. As we climbed, the island dwindled below us, and at last at the summit it had shrunk to a pin's-head in the girdle of the dim sea, domed with huge blue. West, south and north, straight to the high horizon, stretched the untarnished and liquid plain; here and there, like some minute fly walking on a vast sheet of sapphire glass, moved an ocean-going steamer. Eastwards there floated, distant and dreamlike but curiously distinct, the shores and peaks of the mainland, and from it, on this side and that, there swam the rocks of the Siren isles, as if trying to join Alatri, the boldest swimmer of them all. The remoteness and tranquillity of mountain tops lay round us, and curious it was to think that down there, where Naples sparkled along the coast, there moved a crowd of insatiable ant-like folk, busy on infinitesimal things that absorbed and vexed and delighted them. Naples itself was so little; it was as if, in this great emptiness of sea and sky, some minute insect was seen, and one was told that that minute insect swarmed with other minute forms of life. To look at it was to look at a piece of coral, and remember that millions of animalculæ built up the structure that was but a bead in a necklace. And here, lying at ease on the grass, were just two more of the coral-insects that mattered so much to themselves and to each other.... We slewed round again seawards, and looked over the precipitous southern cliffs. A little draught of wind blew up them, making the grasses at the rim shake and tremble. From below a hawk swooped upwards over the cliff edge, saw us, and fell away again with a rustle of reversed feathers into the air. Round the base of the cliffs the sapphire of the sea was trimmed with brilliant bottle-green, and not the faintest line of foam showed where it met the land. To the left on the island, the town of Alatri, with all its house-roofs and spires, looked as flat as on a map, and on the hill-side above it we could just make out the stone-pine cutting the white façade of the Villa Tiberiana. For a moment that anchored me to earth; but slipping my cable again, I spread myself abroad in the openness and the emptiness. Was I part of it, or it part of me? That did not matter much; we were certainly both part of something else, something of tumultuous energy that whirled the stars on their courses, and was yet the peace that passed understanding.... * * * * * The days had slipped away. Before the orange lilies, which we gathered that afternoon on Monte Gennaro, were withered, there remained to me but a week more for the present of island life, which flowed on hour by hour in the normal employments that made up the day. But all the small events, the sights and sounds, had to me then, as they have now, a curious distinctness, as when before a storm outlines of hills and houses are sharp and defined, and the details of the landscape are etched vividly in the metallic tenseness of the preceding calm. But, as far as I knew, there were in life generally no threats of approaching storm, no clouds that broke the serenity of the sky. Privately, my friendships and affairs were prosperous, and though by the papers it appeared that politicians were turning anxious eyes to Ireland, where ferment was brewing over Home Rule, I supposed, in the happy-go-lucky way in which the average English citizen goes whistling along, that those whose business it was to attend to such things would see to it. Personally I intended to go back to England for a couple of months, and then return here for the warm golden autumn that often lasts into the early days of December. Established now, in this joint house, "_piccolo nido in vasto mar,_" I meant to slide back often and for prolonged periods down the golden cord that has always bound me to Italy. But though these days were so soon to be renewed, I found myself clinging to each minute as it passed with a sense that they were numbered; that the sands were running out, and that close behind the serenity of the heavens there lurked the flare of some prodigious judgment. Yet, day by day there was nothing to warrant those ominous presages. I swam to my cache, smoked my cigarette, basked on the beach, and continued weaving the adventures of Mrs. Hancock. The same sense of instability, I found, beset Francis also, and this in spite of the fact that the beleaguerings of Miss Machonochie were suddenly and celestially put a stop to. We had strolled down to the Piazza one evening after dinner, and mingled with the crowd that stood watching a great display of thunderstorm that was bursting over the mainland twenty miles away. Above us here was a perfectly clear sky, in which the full moon rode high, and by its light we could see that the whole of the coast was smothered in cloud, out of which broke ten times to the minute flashes of lightning, while the low, remote roar of the thunder, faintly echoed on the cliffs of Monte Gennaro, boomed without ceasing. Then we saw that long streamers of cloud were shooting out of that banked rampart towards us, and we had barely got back to the Villa again before the moon and the stars were obscured, and hot single drops of rain, large as a five-franc piece, steamed and vanished on the warm cement of the terrace. All night long the rain fell in sheets, and through the slats of the shutters I saw the incessant flashes, while the thunder roared and rattled overhead, and the pipe from the house-roof, that feeds our depleted cistern, gurgled and gulped and swallowed the rain it was thirsting for. Hour after hour the downpour continued, and when morning broke the garden-paths were riddled with water-courses, and the gathered waters gleamed in the cisterns, and Miss Machonochie need "borrow" no more, nor come up about tea-time to thank Francis for his largesse, and hound us from our tea to seek refuge on arid hill-sides. Pasqualino remarked that San Costanzo had been a long time thanking us for the fireworks; did I suppose that----And as Pasqualino's remarks about the hierarchy of Heaven are sometimes almost embarrassingly child-like in their reasonableness, I skilfully changed the subject by telling him to measure the water in the cistern. But though Francis need no longer be afraid of Miss Machonochie, "the arrow that flieth by day" so constantly transfixing him, and though after prolonged thought he confessed that there was nothing else in life which bothered him, except that in two years' time Pasqualino would have to go for his military service, and he himself would have to find another servant (which really seemed a trial, the fieriness of which need not be allowed to scorch so soon), he shares my sense of instability and uneasiness, and, like me, cannot in any way account for it. To encourage him and myself on the morning of my departure as we had our last bathe, I was noble enough to let him into the secret of my cache of cigarettes in the seaweed-hung recess in the rock, and together we lit the farewell incense to the _Palazzo a mare,_ sitting on the rock. "And there are two left," said I, "which we will smoke together here the first day that I come back." "Is that a promise?" he said. "Surely." "And when will you keep it?" "About the middle of September." "And if you don't?" he asked. "Well, it will only mean that I have been run over by a motor-car, or got cancer, or something of the sort, or that you have. If we are still in control of ourselves we'll do it. I wonder if those two cigarettes will be mouldy or pickled with brine by that time?" "Kippered or mouldy or pickled, I will smoke one of them on the day you return," said he. "And I the other. But I hope it won't be mouldy. Or I shall be sick," said I. "Likely. Lord, what a pleasant thing it is to sit on a rock all wet in the blaze of the sun! I wonder if it's all too pleasant--whether Nemesis has her wooden eye on me? Oh, Mother Nemesis, beautiful, kind Lady Nemesis, remove your wooden eye from me! Your wooden eye offends me; pluck it out and cast it from thee! I don't do much harm; I sit in the sea and eat my food, and have a tremendous quantity of great ideas, none of which ever come to anything." "You might be called lazy, you know," said I. "Lady Nemesis would explain that to you before she beat you." "I might be called whatever you choose to call me," said he, "but it need not be applicable. I'm not lazy; my brain is an exceedingly busy one, though it doesn't devote itself to the orthodox pursuits of losing money in the city and labelling yourself a financier, or playing bridge in a country town and labelling yourself a soldier, or writing a lot of weary stories and calling yourself an author." "I never did," said I hastily. "Well, you permit other people to do so, if you will put on the cap like that. Don't rag, or I shall push you into the sea. I was saying that I was not lazy, because I think. Most people imagine that energy must be spent in action, and they will tell you quite erroneously (as you did just now) that if you don't sit in an office, or something of that kind, or do something, that you are indolent. The reason is that most people can't think, and so when they cease from acting they are unemployed. But people who can think are never so busy as when they cease from action. Most people are beavers; they build a dam, in which they shut up their souls. And they call it civilization. The world as pictured by such Progressionists will be an awful place. There will be wonderful drainage, and milk for children, and capsuled food, and inoculation against all diseases, and plenty of peace and comfort for everybody, and a chromolithograph of Mr. H. G. Wells on every wall. Then the millennium will come, the great vegetable millennium, in which the whole human race will stretch from world's end to world's end like rows of cabbages, each in his own place in straight lines, and all seated on the ground, as the hymn says. Why, the whole glory of the human race is that we're not content, not happy, missing something always, yearning for something that eludes us and glorifies our search...." He paused a moment, and drew the thermometer out of the water. "It's an affair of conscience," he said; "I do what my conscience tells me is of most importance." I felt rather sore at the fact that this afternoon I had to start on my northern career across Europe in a dusty train, with the knowledge that Francis would be here, still cool and clean, in the sea, while the smuts poured in on to the baked red velvet of my carriage, and that here he would remain, while I, dutiful and busy, saw the sooty skies of the town on the Thames, which seemed a most deplorable place of residence. Some of this soreness oozed into my words. "Your conscience is very kind to you," I said. "It tells you that it is of the highest importance that you should live in this adorable island and spend your day exactly as you choose." "But if it said I should go back to England, and sweep a crossing in--what's the name of that foul street with a paddock on one side of it?--Oh, yes, Piccadilly--sweep a crossing in Piccadilly, I should certainly go!" said he. Unfortunately for purposes of argument, I knew that this was true. "I know you would," I said, "but on the day of departure you must excuse my being jealous of such a well-ordered conscience. Oh, Francis, how bleak the white cliffs of our beloved England will look! Sometimes I really wish Heaven hadn't commanded, and that Britain had remained at the bottom of the azure main instead of arising from out of it. How I shall hate the solemn, self-sufficient faces of the English. English faces always look as if they knew they were right, and they generally are, which makes it worse. A quantity of them together are so dreadful, large and stupid and proper and rich and pompous, like rows of well-cooked hams. Italian faces are far nicer; they're a bed of pansies, all enjoying the sun and nodding to each other. I don't want to go to England! Oh, not to be in England now that July's here! I wish you would come, too. Take a holiday from being good, and doing what your conscience tells you, and spending your days exactly as you like. Come and eat beef and beer, and feel the jolly north-east wind and the rain and the mud and the fogs, and all those wonderful influences that make us English what we are!" Francis laughed. "It all sounds very tempting, very tempting indeed," he said. "But I shall resist. The fact is I believe I've ceased to be English. It's very shocking, for I suppose a lack of patriotism is one of the most serious lacks you can have. But I've got it. Even your sketch of England doesn't arouse any thrill in me. Imagine if war was possible between England and Italy. Where would my sympathies really be? I know quite well, but I shan't tell you." The daily tourist steamer, the same that in a few hours' time would take me away, came churning round the point, going to the Marina, where it would lie at anchor till four o'clock. It was obviously crammed with passengers--Germans, probably, for the most part, and the strains of the "Watch by the Rhine" played by the ship's band (cornet, violin and bombardon) came fatly across the water to us. Francis got up. "Sorry, but it's time to swim back and dress," he said. "There's the steamer." "There's the cart for Tyburn," said I mournfully. So we put the tin box with the thermometer and the two cigarettes to be smoked on the rock one day in the middle of September, back in its curtained cave, and swam to land, lingering and lying on the sea and loath to go. Then we dressed and walked through the dappled shade of the olive trees on the cobbled paths between the vineyards to where on the dusty road our carriage waited for us, and so up to the Villa. I had but little to do in the way of packing, for with this house permanently ours and the certainty (in spite of qualms) of coming back in a couple of months' time, I was making deposit of clothes here, and a few hours later I stood on the deck of the crowded steamer and saw the pier, with Francis standing white and tall on the end of it, diminish and diminish. The width of water between me and the enchanted island increased, and the foam of our wash grew longer, like a white riband endlessly laid out on a table of sapphire blue. All round me were crowds of German tourists, gutturally exclaiming on the beauty of the island and the excellence of the beer. And soon the haze of hot summer weather began to weave its veil between us and Alatri: it grew dim and unsubstantial; the solidity of its capes and cliffs melted and lost its clarity of outline till it lay dream-like and vague, a harp-shaped shell of grey floating on the horizon to the west. Already, before we got to Naples, it seemed years ago that I sat on its beaches and swam in its seas with a friend called Francis. AUGUST, 1914 Out of the serene stillness, and with the swiftness of the hurricane, the storm came up. It was in June that there appeared the little cloud, no bigger than a man's hand, when the heir to the Austrian throne was murdered at Serajevo. There it hung on the horizon, and none heeded, though in the womb of it lurked the seed of the most terrific tempest of blood and fire that the world has ever known. Suddenly in the last week of July that seed fructified, shooting out monstrous tendrils to East and West. A Note was sent from Vienna to Servia making demands, and insisting on terms that no State could possibly entertain, if it was henceforth to consider itself a free country. Servia appealed to Russia for protection, and Russia remonstrated with those who had framed or (more accurately) those who had sent that Note. The remonstrance fell on ears that had determined not to hear, and the throttling pressure of the inflexible hands was not abated. London and Paris appealed for a conference, for arbitration that might find a peaceful solution, for already all Europe saw that here was a firebrand that might set the world aflame. And then we began to see who it was that had caused it to be lit and flung, and who it was that stood over it now, forbidding any to quench it. Out of the gathering darkness there arose, like some overtopping genius, the figure of Germany, with face inexorable and flint-like, ready at last for _Der Tag,_ for the dawning of which during the last forty years she had been making ready, with patient, unremitting toil, and hell in her heart. She was clad in the shining armour well known in the flamboyant utterances of her megalomaniac Nero, and her hand grasped the sword that she had already half-drawn from its scabbard. She but waited, as a watcher through the night waits for the morn that is imminent, for the event that her schemes had already made inevitable, and on the first sign of the mobilization of the Russian armies, demanded that that mobilization should cease. Long years she had waited, weaving her dream of world-wide conquest; now she was ready, and her edict went forth for the dawning of The Day, and, like Satan creating the world afresh, she thundered out: "Let there be night." Then she shut down her visor and unsheathed her sword. She had chosen her moment well, and, ready for the hazard that should make her mistress of the world, or cause her to cease from among the nations, she paid no heed to Russia's invitation to a friendly conference. She wished to confer with none, and she would be friendly with none whom she had not first battered into submission, and ground into serfdom with her iron heel. On both her frontiers she was prepared; on the East her mobilization would be complete long before the Russian troops could be brought up, and gathering certain of her legions on that front, she pulled France into the conflict. For on the Western front she was ready, too; on the word she could discharge her troops in one bull-like rush through Belgium, and, holding the shattered and dispersed armies of France in check, turn to Russia again. Given that she had but those two foes to deal with, it seemed to her that in a few weeks she must be mistress of Europe, and prepared at high noon of _Der Tag_ to attack the only country that really stood between her and world-wide dominion. She was not seeking a quarrel with England just yet, and she had strong hopes that, distracted by the imminence of civil war in Ireland, we should be unable to come to the help of our Allies until our Allies were past all help. Here she was staking on an uncertainty, for though she had copious information from her army of spies, who in embassy and consulate and city office had eaten the bread of England, and grasped every day the hands of English citizens, it could not be regarded as an absolute certainty that England would stand aside. But she had strong reasons to hope that she would. It was on the first day of this month that Germany shut her visor down and declared war on Russia. Automatically, this would spread the flame of war over France, and next day it was known that Germany had asked leave to march her armies through Belgium, making it quite clear that whatever answer was given her, she would not hesitate to do it. Belgium refused permission, and appealed to England. On Monday, August 3rd, Germany was at war with France, and began to move her armies up to and across the Belgian frontier, violating the territory she had sworn to respect, and strewing the fragments of her torn-up honour behind her. Necessity, she averred, knew no law, and since it was vital for the success of her dream of world-conquest that her battalions should pass through Belgium, every other consideration ceased to exist for her. National honour, the claim, the certificate of a country's right to be reckoned among the civilizing powers of the world, must be sacrificed. She burned in the flame of the war she had kindled the patent of her rights to rank among civilized states. It was exactly this, which meant nothing to her, that meant everything to us, and it upset the calculation on which Germany had based her action, namely, that England was too much distracted by internal conflict to interfere. There was a large party, represented in the Government, which held that the quarrel of Germany with France and Russia was none of our business, and that we were within our rights to stand aside. All that Monday the country waited to know what the decision of the Cabinet and of the House would be. The suspense of those hours can never be pictured. It belongs to the nightmare side of life, where the very essence of the threatening horror lies in the fact that it is indefinite. But this I know, that to thousands of others, even as to myself, England, from being a vague idea in the background which we took for granted and did not trouble about, leaped into being as a mother, or a beloved personage, of whose flesh and bone we were, out of whose womb we had sprung. All my life, I am willing to confess I had not given her a thought, I had not even consciously conceived of her as a reality; she had been to me but like the heroine of some unreal sentimental tale, a thing to blush at if she was publicly spoken of. But on those days she, who had hitherto meant nothing to me, sprang to life, deep-bosomed, with patient hands and tender eyes, in which was no shadow of reproach for all those years of careless contempt. And by the curious irony of things, on the day that she was revealed to me, she stood in a place, from which, if she chose, she could withdraw herself into isolation, and from which, if she chose, she could step forth to meet the deadliest peril that had ever assailed her. But even in the moment of the first knowledge and love of her that had ever entered my soul, I prayed in a silent agony of anxiety that she should leave her sheltered isle for the unimaginable danger of the tempest that raged beyond the sea that was hers. For, indeed, if she did not, she was but a phantom of the pit; no mother of mine, but some unspeakable puppet, a thing to be hidden away in her shame and nakedness. It was known that night that England would not tolerate the violation of Belgian soil, and had sent an ultimatum to Germany which would expire in twenty-four hours. And from the whole country there went up one intense sigh of relief that we were resolved to embark on what must be the most prodigious war that the world had ever seen. "Give War in our time, O Lord!" was the prayer of all who most truly knew that the only peace possible to us was a peace which would stamp the name of England with indelible infamy. And God heard their prayer, and on Wednesday we woke to a world where all was changed. The light-hearted, luxurious, unreflective days were gone, never probably in our time to return. Already the tempest of fire and blood was loosened in Europe; a line was drawn across the lives of everyone, and for the future there were but two periods in one's consciousness, the time before the war, and war-time. It was during this week that I had a long letter from Francis written before the English ultimatum was known, but delayed in posts that were already scrutinized and censored. Though I had no friend in the world so intimate as he, his letter revealed him now as a person strangely remote, speaking an unintelligible language. So little a while ago I had spoken the same tongue as he; now all he said seemed to be gibberish, though his sentiments were just such as I might have expressed myself, if, since then, Saturday, Sunday, Monday and Tuesday had not been among the days of my life. "Things look black," he said, "and the papers, for once reflecting the mind of the people, are asking what Italy will do, if Germany and Austria go to war with France and Russia. I believe (and, remember, I speak entirely from the Italian point of view, for verily I have long ceased to be English) that it is frankly impossible that we should range ourselves side by side with Austria, our hereditary foe. It seems one of the things that can't happen; no ministry could remain in office that proposed that. And yet we are the ally of Austria and Germany, unless it is true, as the _Corriere_ tells us, that the terms of our alliance only bind us to them in the event of aggression on the part of two nations of the Triple Entente. Be that as it may, I don't believe we can come in with Austria. "I am extremely glad of it, for I am one of those queer creatures who do not believe that a quarrel between two countries can be justly settled by making a quantity of harmless young men on both sides shoot each other. I don't see that such a method of settling a dispute proves anything beyond showing which side has the better rifles, and has been better trained, unless you deliberately adopt the rule of life that 'Might is Right.' If you do let us be consistent, and I will waylay Caterina as she goes home with the money Seraphina has given her for the washing, rob, and, if necessary, murder her. If she proves to be stronger than me, she will scratch my face and bring her money safely home. And her father will try to shoot me next day, and I will try to shoot him. That's the logical outcome of Might is Right. "I am glad, too, of this, that I myself am a denationalized individual, and if I have a motherland at all, it is this beloved stepmother-land, who for so long has treated me as one of her children. Damnable as I think war is, I think I could fight for her, if anyone slapped her beautiful face. And yet how could I fight against the country to whom we owe not only so much of the art and science, but of Thought itself? Germany taught mankind how to think. "Let me know how things go in England. It looks as if you could keep out of this hurly-burly. So if Italy does too, I hope to see you here again in September. Seraphina suggests that Italy should make pretence of being friends with the '_bestia fedente,_' by which she means the Austrians, and that when they are fighting the Russians, she should run swiftly from them and seize the Trentino again. There seems much good sense in this, for 'the Trentino is ours, and it is right and proper to take what belongs to us.' "England must be peculiarly beastly with all these disturbances going on. Why don't you pack up your tooth-brush and your comb and come back again at once? The _Palazzo a mare_ is better than Piccadilly, and the purple figs are ripe, and the cones are dropping from the stone-pine, and never were there such fat kernels for Seraphina to fry in oil. Perhaps if you come back the _strega_ would continue walking; she seems to have had no exercise since you were here. Your room is empty, and the door makes sorrowful faces at me as I go along the passage. It frowns at me, and says it isn't I it wants. And I share the silent verdict of your door. "I don't see what quarrel England can have with Germany, and it is unthinkable that Italy should go in with the Central Powers against the Triple Entente. Besides, how is England to fight Germany? It is the elephant and the whale. England hasn't got an army, has it? I can't remember anything connected with soldiers in England, except some sort of barracks with a small temple or chapel in front of it somewhere in St. James's Park. And I suppose the German fleet is only a sort of herring-boat compared to a liner, if it comes to ships. So really I don't see how the two countries could fight each other even if they wanted to. "Even if you don't come now, you'll be certain to be back in September, won't you? Otherwise I shall think that there is some validity in presentiments, for you went away with a notion that it was not only for a month or two that you went. Better put an end to vain superstition by coming back before. "Ever yours, "Francis." "P.S.--Send a wire if you are coming. They say the posts are disorganized. "Donna Margherita has had words with Miss Machonochie's cook. I'm sure I don't want any harm to come to Miss Machonochie or her household, but I think there must already be a leak in her cistern. That would be a good day's work for Donna Margherita, wouldn't it? Otherwise, when we all have plenty of water, why should Miss M. alone be wanting it?" Reading this, I felt for a moment here and there that the events of this last week must have been a dream, so vividly did the island and the island life etch themselves on a page. For a half second I could smell the frying of the pine-kernels, could hear Pasqualino's quick step across the passage, as he entered from his Brangäene duty on the balcony to tell us that Miss Machonochie's foot was coming firmly up the steps. But the next moment the huge background of war was set up again, and all these things were strangely remote and dim. They had happened, perhaps, at least I seemed to remember them, but they no longer had any touch of reality about them, were of the quality of dreams.... The same unreality possessed Francis's suave surmises about the improbability of England's going to war with Germany, for the only thing that was actual was that she had done so. And not less unreal was the fact of Francis himself living the life that he and I also had lived before this cataclysm came. All that belonged to some prehistoric period which ceased something less than a week ago. Less than a week ago, too, I had been baptized and become a member of England, and already, so swiftly does the soul no less than the body adjust itself to changed conditions, the sense of having ever been otherwise, had vanished as completely as the aching of a tooth after the offender has been dealt with, and you can no longer imagine the pain it gave you. But the letter was a difficult one to answer; I could not convey to him what had happened to me, any more than in this letter he could, except for a transient second, convey to me a realization of what had not happened to him. I began a dozen times: "I have just been to Trafalgar Square, and cannot picture to you the thrill that 'Rule, Britannia'"----Clearly that would not do. I tried again with a jest to hide the seriousness of it: "What do they know of England who only Italy know?" I tried yet again: "Since seeing you something has happened that makes----" And at that moment the cry of a newsvendor in the street made me rush out for the sixth time that afternoon to see what the latest information was. Liège still held out, it seemed, though it was rumoured that certain of its forts had fallen. But still the most gallant of the little States held up the Titanic invasion that was pouring down upon it, maintaining in the face of terrific pressure its protest and its resistance to the onrush of that infamous sea, in the depths of which German honour already lay drowned. How could any man fail to know what the sense of the native land, of patriotism meant, when he saw what a supreme meaning it actually did have? It is the fashion of cynics to say that mankind will suffer and deny themselves for the sake of some definite concrete thing, like money or a jewel or a picture, but never for an idea. Here was an instance that blew such cynicism to atoms. Already the soil of Belgium, its cities and its plains were lost, and its people knew it But they fought, beaten and indomitable, just because it was an idea that inspired them--namely, the freedom of those who were already conquered (for none could doubt the outcome), the independence of the country which must soon for certain lay beneath the heel of Prussian murderers, who slew their children and violated their women, and could no more touch the spirit of the people than they could quench the light of the moon. Normally, perhaps, we more often feel the pull and the press of material things; but when there is heard in a man's soul the still small voice, which is greater than fire or earthquake, his true being wakes, and at the spiritual call, whether of religion or love or patriotism, he answers to an idea that far transcends all the beckonings of material sense. It is then that those we thought smug and comfort-smothered, bound in the bonds of peaceful prosperity, break from their earth-bound fetters and their sleep at the voice of the God which is immanent in them. There is no material profit to gain, but all to lose, and eagerly, like ballast that keeps them down, they cast everything else overboard, and sweep soaring into the untarnishable sunlight of their real being. For it is not only the stocks and stones of his native land that a man loves, any more than it is just the eyebrows and the throat of his mistress that he worships. He loves them because they are symbols and expression of her who inhabits them. They are the bodily tokens of the beloved spirit that dwells there. Under that inspiration the dumb lips prophecy, as the coal from the altar is laid on them, and their land becomes a temple filled, even in the darkness of their affliction, with the glory of the Lord. The terror by night and the arrow that flieth by day have no power to daunt them, for high above earthly things is set their house of defence. There rose then from this quiet little land, sure and untroubled as the rising of the moon, a race of heroes. From further east, across the Rhine, there was another rising, the monstrous birth of a presence and a portent undreamed of. It towered into the sky, and soon at its breath the forts of Liège and of Namur crumbled and fell, and it passed on phallic and murderous over the corpses of slain children and violated mothers. Those who thought they knew Germany could not at first believe that this was the spirit and these the infamies of the land they loved. She who had stood for so much to them, she the mother of music, the cradle of sciences, the lover of all that was lovely, was changed as by the waving of a magician's rod into a monster of hell, oozing with the slime of the nethermost pit. Many could not credit the tales that flooded the press, and put them down to mere sensational news-mongering. But they were true, though they were not the whole truth; the half of it had not been told us. The race of musicians, scientists, artists, of chivalrous knights, still took as their motto: "The women and children first." But they played upon the words, and smiled to each other at the pun. Pleading the necessity that knows no law, they had torn up their treaty, avowing that it was but a scrap of paper, and dishonouring for ever the value of their word, now, like some maniac, they mutilated the law they had murdered. It may be that Germany was but the first victim of Prussian militarism, and Belgium the second; but Germany had sold its soul, and it kept its bargain with the power that had bought it. While still Francis's letter remained unanswered on my desk, I received another from him, written several days later, which had made a quicker transit. "This is all damnable," he said. "Of course we had to come in when Belgium was invaded. I skulked all day in the house while it was yet uncertain, for I simply dared not show an English face in the streets for shame. Thank God that's all right. I never thought I could have cared so much. They sang 'Rule, Britannia,' in the Piazza to-day, wonderfully vague and sketchy. You know what my singing is, but I tell you I joined. It was a strange thing to hear that tune in a country which was supposed to be allied with the nation on whom England has declared war, but there it was. They say that Italy has declared neutrality. You'll know by the time you get this whether that is so. By the way, if it is true that we are sending an Expeditionary Force to France, just send me a wire, will you? The papers are full of news one day which is contradicted the next, and one doesn't know what to believe about England's attitude and doings. "There's no news on this dead-alive island. I feel frightfully cut off, and it's odd to feel cut off in the place where you've lived for so long. I began an article on the early French mystics last week, but I can't get on with it. Mind you send me a telegram. "Francis." I sent the telegram saying that an Expeditionary Force to help the French to hold their frontier had already landed in France, and more men were being sent. Next morning I received a brief telegram in answer: "Am starting for England to-day." Liège fell, Namur fell, and like a torrent that has gathered strength and volume from being momentarily damned up, the stream of the invaders roared through France, and on her as well as on England descended the perils of their darkest and most hazardous hour. Sheer weight of metal drove the line of the Allies back and back, wavering and dinted but never broken. In England, but for the hysterical screams of a few journalists who spoke of the "scattered units" of a routed army making their way back singly or in small companies, the temper of the nation remained steadfast and unshaken, and in France, though daily the thunder of the invaders boomed ever nearer to Paris, nothing had power to shake the inflexible will of our ally. It mattered not that the seat of the Government must be transferred to Bordeaux, and thither they went; but the heart of France beat on without a tremor, waiting for the day which none doubted would come, when they turned and faced the advancing tide, breasted it, and set up the breakwater that stretched from the North Sea to the borders of Switzerland. Right across France was it established, through ruined homesteads and devastated valleys, and against it in vain did the steel billows beat. Here I have a little anticipated events, for it was in the days while still the Germans swept unchecked across north-eastern France that Francis arrived, after a devious and difficult journey, that brought him on shipboard at Havre. He had no psychological account to give of the change that had occurred between his first letter and his telegram; he had simply been unable to do anything else than come. "I know you like analysis," he said, "but really there is no analysis to give you. I was, so I found myself, suddenly sick with anxiety that England should come into the war (I think I wrote you that), and when your telegram came, saying we were sending a force abroad, I merely had to come home and see if there was anything for me to do. One has got to do something, you know, got to do something! Fancy my having been English all these years, and it's only coming out now, like getting measles when you're grown up." There was no need then to explain, and Francis, in his philosophical manner, tried to define what it was that had so moved him, and found, as so often happens when we attempt to fit words to a force that is completely unmaterial, that he could at first only mention a quantity of things that it was not. It was not that he felt the smallest affection for London, or Lincoln, or Leeds; he did not like Piccadilly any more than he had done before, or the mud, or the veiled atmosphere. Nor did he regard any of the inhabitants of our island with a greater warmth than previously. Besides myself, he had after his long absence abroad no one whom he could call a friend, and of the rest, the porter who had carried his luggage to the train at Southampton had not thanked him for a reasonable tip; the guard had been uncivil; the motor driver who brought him to my house was merely a fool. Indeed, whatever component part of the entity that made up England he considered, he found he disliked it, and yet the thought of all those disagreeable things as a whole had been enough to make him leave the siren isle, and come post-haste across the continent to get to that surly northern town, in which he had not set foot for a dozen years. And, being here, he did not regret, as an impulsive and ill-considered step, his exile from Alatri. There was no fault to be found with that; it had been as imperative as the physical needs of thirst and hunger. He got up, gesticulating, in Italian fashion. "Where does it come from?" he said. "What is it that called me? Is it something from without? Is it a mixture, a chemical soul-mixture of the grumpy porter and the grey sea, and this dismal, half-lit afternoon that is considered a lovely day in London? Or is it from within, some instinct bred from fifty generations of English blood, that just sat quiet in me and only waited till it was wanted? I hate doing things without knowing the reason why I do them. I always said 'Why?' when I was a child, and I only don't say 'Why?' now, because if I want to know something, I sit and think about it instead of asking other people. But all the way here I've been considering it, and I can't see why I had to come back. I don't think it's only something internal. There's a magnet outside that suddenly turned its poles to us, and instantly we jumped to it like iron filings and stuck there. There's no shirking it. There I was in Italy, saying to myself that I wasn't an iron filing, and should stop exactly where I was. But the magnet didn't care. It just turned towards me, and I jumped. It will keep me attached, I suppose, as long as there's any use for me." He was feeling his way gropingly but unerringly down into himself, and I listened as this, the simplest of men, but that deft surgeon of minds, cut and dissected down into his own. "The magnet, the magnet!" he said. "I think that the magnet is something that lies behind mere patriotism. Patriotism perhaps is the steel of which it is made; it is the material through which the force is sent, the channel of its outpouring, but ... but it isn't only to put myself at the disposal of England in my infinitesimal manner that I have come back. England is the steel of the magnet--yes, just that; but England isn't the force that magnetizes it." He dropped down on the hearth-rug, and lay there with the back of his hands over his eyes, as he so often lay on the beach at the _Palazzo a mare._ "I haven't wasted all those years at Alatri," he said, "when I was gardening and mooning about and looking at the sea. I have come to realize what I remember saying to you once, when I picked up a bit of green stone on the beach, that it was you or me and God. To do that I had got to get out of myself.... We collect a hard shell round ourselves like mussels or oysters, and we speak of it as 'ours.' It's just that which we are bound to get rid of, if we are to see things in any way truly. We talk of 'having' things; that's the illusion we suffer from. We can't enter into our real kingdom till we quite get rid of the sense that anything is ours, thus abdicating from the kingdom we falsely believed to be our own. That's the glorious and perfect paradox of mysticism. We have everything the moment we get rid of ourselves, and the sense that we have anything. You can express it in a hundred ways: the lover expresses it when he says: 'Oh, my beloved, I am you!' Christ expresses it when He says: 'What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?' As long as you cling to anything, you can't get at your soul, in which is God. "Patriotism, standing by the honour of your country when your country is staking itself on a principle, seems to me a materialization of this force, the steel through which it can act. Well, when you believe in a principle, as I do, you've got to live up to your belief in it, and suffer any amount of personal inconvenience. You mustn't heed that, or else you are not getting outside yourself. So if England wants a limb or an eye, or anything else, why, it's hers, not mine." He was silent a moment. "And perhaps there's another thing, another drama, another war going on," he said. "Do you remember some fable in Plato, where Socrates says that all that happens here upon earth is but a reflection, an adumbration of the Real? Is it possible, do you think, that in the sphere of the eternal some great conflict is waging, and Michael and his angels are fighting against the dragon? Plato is so often right, you know. He says that is why beauty affects the soul, because the soul is reminded of the true beauty, which it saw once, and will see again. Why else should we love beauty, you know?" He got up with a laugh. "But it's puzzling work is talking, as Mr. Tulliver said. However, there's my guess at the answer of the riddle, as to why I came home. And it really is such a relief to me to find that I didn't cling to what I had. I was always afraid that I might, when it came to the point. But it wasn't the slightest effort to give it up, all that secure quiet life; the effort would have been not to give it up. I don't in the least want to be shot, or taken prisoner, or brutally maimed, but if any of those things are going to happen to me, I shan't quarrel with them." "And when the war is over?" I asked. "Why, naturally, I shall go back to Alatri by the earliest possible train and continue thinking. That's what I'm alive for, except when it's necessary to act my creed, instead of spelling out more of it. I say, may we have dinner before long? This beastly bracing English air makes me very hungry." Francis refused all thought of getting a commission, since it seemed to him that this was not doing the thing properly, and enlisted next day as a private. For myself, since circumstances over which I had no control prevented my doing anything of the sort, I found work connected with the war which to some extent was a palliative of the sense of uselessness. It was quite dull, very regular, and entailed writing an immense quantity of letters. * * * * * And at this point I propose to pass over a whole year in which the grim relentless business went on. Like wrestlers, the opposing armies on the Western Front were locked in a deadly grip, each unable to advance, each refusing to give ground. On the east Russia advanced and was swept back again; in the Balkans, owing to our inept diplomacy Turkey and Bulgaria joined the enemy. During the spring Italy abandoned her neutrality and joined the Allies. Expeditions were sent out to Mesopotamia and the Dardanelles. For a year the war flamed, and the smoke of its burning overshadowed the earth. SEPTEMBER, 1915 I do not suppose that there is any literal truth in that remarkable piece of natural history which tells us that eels get used to being skinned. It may have been invented by those who like eating that execrable worm, or, more probably, it is a proverbial simile which is meant to convey a most unquestionable truth, namely, that however unpleasant a thing may be, in time we get adjusted to it. It would be an ill thing for the human race if they did not, and argues no callousness on their part. It is simply one of Nature's arrangements, an example of the recuperative power which enables us to throw off colds, and mends the skin when we have cut ourselves shaving. If every wound, physical and moral alike, remained raw, the race could not continue, but would speedily expire from loss of blood and gangrene. And if in process of time we did not rally from staggering blows, we should all of us, at an early age lie prone on our backs, squealing, till death mercifully put an end to our troubles. But all our lives we are receiving wounds and blows, and we recuperate. Only once during this mortal existence do we fail to recover, more or less, from things that at first seemed intolerable, and then we die. This invariable rule applies to the position in which we find ourselves after thirteen months of war. Most of us have suffered intimate losses; there is scarcely a man or woman in England whom death has not robbed of some friend or relation. But we are not as a nation bewildered and all abroad, as we were thirteen months ago. We do not wake every morning with the sense that after the oblivion of the night we are roused to a nightmare existence. We have somehow adjusted ourselves to what is happening, and this adjustment argues no callousness or insensibility; it is just the result of the natural process by virtue of which we are enabled to continue living. Also, the need that Francis felt when he said, "One must do something," has come to the aid of those who in general, before the days of the war, never did anything particular beyond amusing themselves. This really implied that other people had got to amuse them by giving them dinner-parties and concerts and what not, and since these had no time to attend to them now, a remarkably large percentage of the drones, finding that nobody was providing for them, set to work for once in their lives, and slaved away at funds or hospitals or soup-kitchens, and found that to do something for other people was not half so tedious as they had supposed before they gave it a trial. This was a very salutary piece of natural adjustment, and they all felt much the better for it. A certain number of confirmed drones I suppose there will always be, but certainly London has become a much more industrious hive than it ever used to be. Another process has contributed to the recuperative process, for the details of life have been much simplified. When your income is ruthlessly cut down, as has happened to most of us, it is clear that something must be done. The first thing we all did, naturally, was to raise a wild chorus of asserting that we were ruined. But when these minor strains did not seem to mend matters much, most people, under the recuperative force, began to consider and make catalogues of all the things which they could quite well do without. It is astonishing how voluminous these catalogues were. Those who had footmen who went to the war, like proper young men, suddenly found out that there were such things as parlour-maids. Those who rolled about in motor-cars discovered that there were taxicabs, and it was even hinted in more advanced circles that 'buses plied upon the London streets and tubes underneath them. There was some vague element of sport about it: it was something new to lie in ambush at a street corner and pounce on No. 19 that went up Sloane Street and along Shaftesbury Avenue, or get hopelessly befogged in the stupefying rabbit warrens that are excavated below Piccadilly Circus. In spite, then, of the huge tragedies, the cruel bereavements, the distress among those whose economies were in no way a game, but a grinding necessity, we have adjusted ourselves, and are alive to the amazing fact that the day of little things, the small ordinary caresses and pleasures of life, is not over. For a while it was utterly darkened, the sun stood in full-orbed eclipse, but now (not callously) we can take pleasure in our little amusements and _festas_ and fusses, though, owing to more useful occupations, we have not so much time for them. To compare a small affair with these great ones, I remember how a few years ago I suddenly had to face a serious operation. The moment at which I was told this was one of black horror. There the doctor sat opposite me, looking prosperous and comfortable, and said: "You must make up your mind to it; have it done at once." Being a profound physical coward, the thing seemed quite unfaceable, an impossibility. But before an hour was up, the adjustment had come, and once more the savour of the world stole back. The sun that day was just as warm as it had ever been, food was good, the faces of friends were dear, and the night before it was to take place I slept well, and when finally I was told it was time to go along the passage to where the operation was to be done, I remember turning down the page of the book I was reading and wondering less what was going to happen to me than to the characters of the novel. Nothing, in fact, is unfaceable when you have to face it; nothing entirely robs the eye and the ear of its little accustomed pleasures. But what is much more important than the fact that the little things of life have put forth their buds again is that as a nation our eyes, half closed in dreamy contentment, have been opened to the day of great things. The outbreak of war in August last year was an earthquake inconceivable and overwhelming; but it has become one of the things that is, an austere majestic fact. Among its débris and scarred surfaces, not only has the mantle of growth with which Nature always clothes her upheavals begun to spring up, but the smoke of its ruin, like the cloud of ash over Vesuvius, has soared into high places, and its deepest shadows are lit with splendours that irradiate and transfigure them. It is not of terror alone that tragedy is compounded; there is pity in it as well, the pity that enlightens and purges, the unsealing of the human heart. God knows what still lies in the womb of the future, but already there has come to us a certain steadfastness that lay dormant, waiting for the trumpet to awaken it. We are, it is to be hoped, a little simpler, a little more serious, a little busier over doing obvious duties, a little less set on amusements and extravagancies. And I do not think we are the worse for that. The faith in which we entered the war, that ours was a righteous quarrel, has proved itself unshakeable; the need to stand firm has knitted the nation together. Of our necessities, our failures, our endeavours and our rewards in these great matters, it is not possible to speak, for they are among the sacred things that dwell in silence. But there are, you may say, certain condiments in life which can be spoken of. First and foremost among them is a sense of humour, which has been extremely useful. Without losing sight of the main issue, or wanting to forget the tragic gravity of it all, it would be ridiculous to behave like pessimists and pacifists, and with distorted faces of gloom and pain, to shudder at the notion of finding anything to smile at. Even while we are aghast at the profanity with which the German Emperor regards himself as a Moses of the New Dispensation, and steps down from the thunderclouds of Sinai with the tables that have been personally entrusted to him, on the strength of which he orders his submarines to torpedo peaceful merchant vessels, we cannot (or should not) help smiling at this Imperial buffoon. Or why waste a shudder on his idiot son, when a smile would not be wasted, since it would do us good? Surely there are bright spots in the blackness. Or again, though hate is a most hellish emotion, and it is, of course, dreadful to think of one white nation being taught to hate another, yet when people compose a hymn of hate for the English, words and music, and have it printed and sold at a loss all over the German Empire in order to root more firmly yet the invincible resolve of the Teuton to strafe England, is it reasonable not to feel cheered up by the ludicrousness of these proceedings? Certainly it is a pity to hate anybody; but, given that, may we not treasure tenderly this crowning instance of the thoroughness of the frightful German race? I am glad they did that; it does me good. When I think of that, my food, as Walt Whitman says, nourishes me more. I like to think of Prince Oscar sending a telegram to his father, saying that he has had the overpowering happiness to be wounded for the sake of the Fatherland. I am glad his father sent for a Press agent and had those precious words published in every paper in the Fatherland, and I trust that Prince Oscar, since he likes being wounded so much, will get well quickly and go back and be wounded again. I am pleased that when Russia was sending hundreds of thousands of troops through England to join the Western battle-line, the fact was put beyond a doubt by somebody's gamekeeper seeing bearded men getting out of a train at Swindon on a hot day and stamping the snow from their boots, which proved they had come from Archangel.... It all helps. Queen Elizabeth was a wise woman when she said that we have need of mirth in England. God knows we have. I have been a year in London, hardly stirring from it by reason of things to do; but a fortnight ago I escaped into Norfolk for a breathing-space of air and sea. It was a good sea, in the manner of northern seas, and though it was impossible not to contrast it with the hot beach and lucid waters of the _Palazzo a mare,_ I would not have exchanged it for that delectable spot. High, sheer sand-cliffs lined the coast, and on their edges were dug trenches with parapets of sandbags, while here and there, where the cliffs were broken away, there were lines of barbed wire entanglements. These, I must hope, were only, so to speak, practice efforts, for I found it saved time, when going down to bathe early, to step through these, with an eye to pyjama legs, rather than walk an extra hundred yards to a gap in those coast defences. But it all gave one a sense that this was England, alert and at war, and the sea itself aided the realization. For there every day would pass cruisers or torpedo-boats, no longer in peaceful manoeuvres, but engaged, swift and watchful, on their real business. Sometimes one would be running parallel with the coast, and then turn and roar seawards, till only a track of smoke on the horizon marked its passage. But that was the real thing; the armour of England was buckled on; it was no longer just being polished and made ready. The whole coast was patrolled, and all was part of one organized plan of defence, and when the moment came, of offence; somewhere out there the Grand Fleet waited, as it had waited more than a year; these ships that passed and went seaward again were the sentries that walked round the forts of the ocean. A week on the coast was followed by a few days at a country house inland before I returned to London, and once again the realization of war had a vivid moment. The house where I was staying was surrounded by pheasant covers that came close up to the garden, where one night after dinner I was straying with a friend. It was warm and still; the odour of the night-blooming stocks hung on the air; the sky was windless and slightly overclouded, so that the stars burned as if through frosted glass, and we were in the dark of the moon. Then suddenly from the sleeping woods arose an inexplicable clamour of pheasant's cries; the place was more resonant with them than at the hour when they retired to roost. Every moment fresh crowings were added to the tumult. I have never heard so strange an alarum. It did not die down again, but went on and on. Then presently through it, faintly at first, but with growing distinctness, came a birring rhythmical beat, heavy and sonorous. It came beyond doubt from the air, not from the land, and was far more solid, more heavy in tone, than any aeroplanes I had ever heard. Then my friend pointed. "Look!" he said. There, a little to the east, a black shape, long and cylindrical, sped across the greyness of the shrouded sky, moving very rapidly westward. Soon it was over our heads; before long it had passed into indistinctness again. But long after its beat had become inaudible to our ears, the screams of the pheasants continued, as they yelled at the murderer on the way to the scene of his crime. For half an hour after that some stir of uneasiness went on in the woods; the furred and feathered creatures were aware, by some sixth sense, that there was danger in the air. Then muffled and distant came the noise of explosions and the uneasiness of the woodland grew to panic again, with rustlings in the brushwood of hares seeking cover, and the cries of birds seeking each other, and asking what was this terror by night. Presently afterwards the beat of the propellers was again audible to human ears, and the Zeppelin passed over us once more, flying invisible at a great height, going eastwards again. It was moving much faster now, for its deadly work was over, and, flushed with its triumph, it was bearing home the news of its glorious exploit. Those intrepid crusaders, Lohengrins of the air, had taken their toll of smashed cottages, slain children and murdered mothers, and the anointed of the Lord next morning, hearing of their great valour above a small Norfolk hamlet, would congratulate them on their glorious exploit and decorate them with iron crosses to mark his shameful approval of their deed. * * * * * London at night has become a dim Joseph's coat of many colours. The authorities are experimenting in broken rainbows for the sake of our safety from above, and for our vastly increased peril on the ground. Instead of the great white flame of electric lights, and the hot orange of the gas, we have a hundred hues of veiled colour. What exactly all the decrees are which produce these rainbows, I do not know; but the effect, particularly on a wet night when the colours are reflected on wet wood pavements and asphalte, is perfectly charming, and we hope that, in compensation for the multiplied dangers of the streets, we shall be immune from the flames and fumes of incendiary and asphyxiating shells. The prudent householder--I am afraid I am not one--has had a good deal of pleasant occupation in fitting up his cellar as a place to flee unto when we are threatened with Zeppelins, and one night, shortly after my return, I had the pleasure of inspecting one of these. It lay deep in the bowels of the earth, and if the absence of air would not asphyxiate you, I am sure its refugees need fear no other cause of suffocation. There were several deck-chairs, and at a slightly withdrawn distance a serviceable wooden form on which the servants would sit, while the bombardment was going on, in a respectful row. There was a spirit-lamp on which to make tea, a tin of highly nutritious biscuits, and a variety of books to read by the light of electric torches. Upstairs the same thoroughness prevailed. Nightly, on retiring to bed, the lady of the house had on a table close at hand a bag containing the most valuable of her jewellery, and a becoming dressing-gown much padded. Her husband's Zeppelin suit, the sort of suit you might expect to find in opulent Esquimaux houses, lay on another chair, and outside in the hall was a large washing basin filled with some kind of soda-solution, and on the rim of it, hung like glasses on the top of a punch-bowl, were arranged half a dozen amazing masks, goggle-eyed and cotton-wooled, which, on the first sign of an asphyxiating bomb, would be dipped in the solution of soda and tied over the face. To provide against incendiary bombs there was a pail of sand and a pail of water at every corner, while below the cellar beckoned a welcome in case of explosions. Given a moment for preparation, this house was a fortress against which Zeppelins might furiously rage together without hurting anybody. Whether they sought to suffocate or to burn, or to blow to atoms, this thoughtful householder was prepared for any of their nasty tricks. All this was perfectly entrancing to my flippant mind, and after dinner, when the servants had washed up, we had, at my particular request, a rehearsal of the Zeppelin game to see how it all worked. The servants and my host and hostess retired to their respective bedrooms, and we put out all the lights. As guest, I had no duty assigned to me, I was just going to be a passenger in the Ark of safety, so I remained in the hall. When I judged I had given them enough time to lie fairly down on their beds, I sounded the gong with great vigour, which denoted that a Zeppelin had begun dropping bombs in the neighbourhood. Then the house responded splendidly: in an incredibly short space of time my hostess came out of her room, with the bag containing the regalia in her hand, and her beautiful padded dressing-gown on; my host came from his with the Esquimaux suit over his dress-clothes--looking precisely like Tweedledum arrayed for battle--and the servants, with shrill giggles, waited near the basin of soda-solution. Then we all put on masks (there was one to spare, which was given me), and, omitting the ceremony of dipping them in the soda, my host caught up the basin, and we all trooped downstairs into the cellar. The servants plumped themselves down on the bench, we sat in the deck-chairs, and there we all were. The time from the sounding of the gong to the moment when the cellar door was banged, and we were safe from explosives and asphyxiating bombs, was just three minutes and five seconds. The only thing unprovided for was the event of the Zeppelin dropping incendiary bombs after we had all gone into the Ark, for in that case the house would be burned above us, and we should be slowly roasted. But that cruel contingency we settled to disregard. It would be the kind of bad luck against which it is hopeless to take precautions. So then, as it was a hot evening, my host took off his Zeppelin suit again, and after testing the nutritive biscuits, which were quite delicious, we went upstairs again with shouts of laughter. No doubt their provision had a solid base of reason, for it certainly would be very annoying to be asphyxiated in your room, when such simple arrangements as these would have resulted in your having a cup of tea in the comfortable cellar instead; but there was this added bonus of sport about it all. It was the greatest fun. This house where I had been dining was in the neighbourhood of Bedford Square, and I left about half-past ten, with the intention of walking as far as Charing Cross, and there embarking on the underground. I had hardly gone a hundred yards from the house, when on to the quiet night there came a report so appalling that it seemed like some catastrophic noise heard in a dream. It was quite close to me, somewhere on the left, and I ran as hard as I could round the corner of a block of houses to be able to look eastwards, for there was no doubt in my mind that a Zeppelin, nearly overhead, had dropped a bomb. Before I got to the corner there was another report as loud as the first, and, looking up, I saw that the searchlights, like pencils of light, were madly scribbling about over the sky. Suddenly one caught the Zeppelin, then another, and next moment it was in the meeting focus of half a dozen of them, hanging high above my head, serene and gilded with the rays of light, a fairy creation of the air. Then began the sound of guns, one shell exploded in front of it, another far below it. Disregarding all the regulations for their protection, people ran out of their houses, and, like me, stood gaping up at it, for the excitement of it was irresistible. I noticed that one man near me put up the collar of his coat whenever there was a loud explosion, just as if a slight shower was falling, and then quite gravely and seriously put it down again. Others stepped into porches, or flattened themselves against the walls, but none did as they were told by the police regulations. A special constable was there too, who should have herded us all into cover; instead, he stared with the rest, and put the lighted end of his cigarette into his mouth. For, indeed, this was not a thing you could see every day, a Zeppelin hanging above you, and the shells from guns in London exploding round it. It fired the imagination; here was the Real Thing, which we had been reading about for a year and never seen. The air had been invaded by the enemy, and guns in the heart of the securest city in the world were belching shells at it. Then came the end of this amazing sight: a shell burst close to that serene swimmer, and it stuck its nose in the air, and ascending with extraordinary speed, like a bubble going upwards through water, got out of the focus of searchlights and disappeared. By this time the eastern horizon was glowing with a light that grew steadily more vivid. The airship had dropped incendiary bombs in the City, and fire-engines were racing along Oxford Street, with gleam of helmets, clanging of bells and hoarse shouts from the firemen. But there was no getting near the seat of the fire, for a cordon of police had closed all streets near it, and I walked homewards along the Embankment, with eyes fixed on the sky, and cannoning into other passengers, because I did not look where I was going, as you may see ladies doing when they gaze in a hypnotized manner into hat-shops, as they walk along the street. Apart from the actual thrill of the adventure, there was a most interesting psychological point, which I considered as I went homewards. There were we, the crowd in the street, just average folk, just average cowards in the face of danger, and not one, as far as I could see, gave a single thought to the risk of dropped bombs or falling pieces of shrapnel. We might any or all of us be wiped out next moment, but we didn't care, not in the least because we were brave, but because the interest of what was happening utterly extinguished any other feeling. Probably the majority of the crowd had passed gloomy and uncomfortable moments imagining that very situation, namely, of having a murderous Zeppelin just above them; but when once the murderous Zeppelin was there, they all forgot it was murderous, and were merely interested in the real live Zeppelin. Just in the same way, in minute matters, we all find that ringing the dentist's bell is about the worst part of the tiresome business. The sequel as concerns the house in which I had dined so few hours before delighted me when I was told it next day. I suppose the realistic character of our rehearsal preyed on the servants' minds, for they groped their way downstairs to the cellar in the dark, and none thought to turn on the electric light. My hostess picked up her jewel-case and groped her way after them, forgetting about the soda-solution and the masks, and my host threw open the window and gazed ecstatically at the Zeppelin till it vanished. Then he turned on the lights and fetched his household back from the cellar, since the raid was over.... It is but another instance of how, when faced with a situation, we diverge from the lines of conduct we have so carefully laid down for ourselves. I once knew a family that practised fire-drill very industriously in case that one day there might be an outbreak in the house. There were patent extinguishers to put it out with, and ropes to let yourself out of window all over the place, and everyone knew exactly what he was to do. Then the opportunity so long expected came, and a serious outbreak occurred. On which the owner forgot everything that he had learned himself and taught everybody else, and after throwing a quantity of his valuable Oriental china on to the stone terrace, he performed prodigies of single-handed valour in saving a very old piano which nobody wanted at all.... (I think this pathetic story contradicts my theory about the calmness of the crowd on the Zeppelin night, but who wants to be consistent?) * * * * * I had arrived this September at a break in the lease of my house, and six months before (see page two of the lease in question) I had given notice to the owner in writing that I should evacuate. Consequently for the last few months I had been an assiduous frequenter of house-agents' offices, and the God of addition sums alone knows how many houses I had seen over from garret to basement. The extraordinary thing about all these was that they were all exceptional bargains, such as the agent had never before known, and that in almost every case another gentleman was in negotiation for them. In spite of that, however, if I chose at once and firmly to offer the price asked, there was a strong probability of my securing one of these marvellous bargains, and thwarting the ambitions of the other gentleman. This opportunity to thwart the other gentleman was certainly an appeal to the more villainous side of human nature, and often, if a house seemed to me the sort of habitation I was on the look-out for, the thought of the other gentleman getting it was an incentive to take it myself. But never before did I realize how hopelessly traditional is that section of the human race which designs our houses for us. The type, in the modest species of abode I was looking for, never varied. There was a narrow passage inside the front door, with a dining-room and a back room opening out of it, and a staircase up to the first floor, where lay two sitting-rooms, invariably knocked into one. There was a bath on a half-landing, there were front bedrooms and back bedrooms higher up, all exactly alike, and for a long time I looked in vain for any house that was not precisely like any other house. In fact, this became a _sine qua non_ with me, and ceasing to care whether I thwarted the other gentleman or not, I think if I had found a house where the bath-room was in the basement, or there was no staircase, so that you had to go upstairs in a basket with a rope, I should have taken it. I almost despaired of finding what I wanted, and thought of revoking, if possible, my notice of quitting, for in my present house there is something which is not quite like other houses, for some inspired tenant threw down the wall between the dining-room and the entrance passage, making a sort of hall of it, in the middle of which I dine. That there are inconveniences attaching to it I don't deny, for the guest sitting nearest the front door occasionally jumps out of his skin when the postman thunders with the evening post close by his ear; but the house isn't quite like other houses of its type, which is precisely the reason why ten years ago I took it. With a pocket full of "orders to view," and plenty of shillings for the patient caretakers who mournfully conducted me over their charge, I used on most days to set out on these explorations after lunch, returning discouraged at tea-time. I could not see myself in any of the houses I saw, or imagine going to sleep in any of those front bedrooms, or spending the evening in the back-room behind the dining-room, or in the two sitting-rooms knocked into one. But then, though it lingered long, came the Mecca of my quest. Even at the front door I had some premonition of success, for the knocker was not like other knockers, and when the door opened, I saw, with a beating heart, that the staircase was not like other staircases. Some four feet from the ground it turned at right angles towards where the dreadful little back room should be. It couldn't go into the door of the little back room, or if it did, it would be very odd. You would have to pass through the dining-room in order to get to the bottom of the staircase.... Then advancing I saw: the staircase turned into a little hall (originally, no doubt, the dreadful little back room). Beyond lay a broad passage, and the dining-room was built out at the end. Through the open door of it I saw the windows looking out, not on to a street at all, but on to full-foliaged trees that grew in a disused graveyard. Between it and the house ran a way for foot-passengers only. Something in my brain exulted, crying out "This is it!" and simultaneously I felt a soft stroking on my shin. Looking down I saw a grave black cat rubbing against me. Was there ever such an omen? I had already settled in my mind that this must be the house intended for me (it was), and here was the bringer of good luck congratulating me on my discovery. I made the usual grand tour, but in how different a mood, and as I mounted my spirits rose ever higher. In front was a square (so-called though it was an oblong) closed at the top end where my house was situated, so that no traffic came through it, and at the back was this big graveyard, with its church, and the dome of the Brompton Oratory (concealment is useless) rising over its shoulder like the Salute at Venice. Literally not a house was in sight; there was but the faintest sound of traffic from the Brompton Road; I might have been a country parson in his vicarage. I went straight to the house-agent's, made an offer, and didn't care one atom whether I thwarted anybody or not. Naturally I hoped I did, but it made no difference. A little genteel chaffering ensued, for I felt so certain that I was going to live in that house, that I felt I was running no risks, and in a week it was mine, with possession at this quarter-day of September. Then having got my desire, I began to feel regretful about the house I was leaving. I had spent ten jolly years in it, and now for the first time I became aware how I had taken root there, how our tendrils, those of the house and of me, had got intertwined. The roots consisted of all kinds of memories, some sad, some pleasant, some ludicrous, but all dear. I was digging myself up like a plant, and these fibres had to be disentangled, for I could not bear to break them. For though memories are immaterial things, they knit themselves into rooms or gardens, the scenes where they were laid, and those scenes become part of them and they of those scenes. Just as a house where some deed of horror has been done retains for sensitives some impression of it, and we say the house is haunted, so even for those who are not sensitives in this psychical sense the rooms they have lived in, where there has been the talk and laughter of those they have loved, and maybe lost, have got knit into them, and must be treated tenderly if parting comes. And I imagined, when I came home after definitely settling to leave this month, that the house knew about it, and looked at me with silent reproach. For we had suited each other very well, we had been very friendly and happy together, and now I was deserting the home in the making of which we had both been ingredients, and the spirit of the house I was betraying was full of mute appeal. It did not want to be left alone, or, still worse, to be mated with people who did not suit it. But what could I do? I was going away; there was no doubt about that, and I could hardly give it a present of fresh paint or paper some of its rooms to please it. That would have been ridiculous. But I would leave it all the bulbs I had planted year by year in the garden. There would be a great show of them next spring.... Poor dear little old house! I had got possession of my new house "as from" (this is legal phraseology, and means "on") the first of September, when the front door-key was given me; and thus I had four weeks for decoration, and took a header into the delightful sea of paints and papers and distempers. The most altruistic of friends, whom I will call Kino (which has something to do with his name but not much), vowed himself to me for the whole of that month, to give advice in the matter of colours, and not to mind if I rejected it, to come backwards and forwards for ever and ever from one house to the other, with a pencil, a memorandum-book and a yard measure incessantly in his pocket. For when you go into a new house you have to measure all that you possess to see if it fits. It never does, but you can't help believing it is going to. You have to measure curtains and curtain rods to see where they will go (the idea of leaving a lovely brass curtain rod behind was an idea before which my happiness shrivelled like a parched scroll); you have to measure brass stair-rods and count them; you have to measure blinds, and carpets and rugs and grand pianos and beds and tables and cupboards. Then with the dimensions written down in Kino's memorandum-book, we hurried across to the new house, and measured the heights of rooms by tying the tape on to the end of a walking-stick, and the spaces between the eyelets on stairs which in favourable circumstances retain the carpet rods in place, the widths of recesses, comparing them with the measurements of the articles we hoped to establish there. Also with sinkings of the heart I surreptitiously took the size of an awkward angle of the staircase (up which my grand piano must pass), and came to the conclusion that it wouldn't. I said nothing about it to Kino, because it is no use to anticipate trouble. But later in the day, when we were back in Oakley Street again, I came unexpectedly into the drawing-room and caught _him_ measuring the piano. Of course I pretended not to see. The previous tenant of the new house had taken away most of the fixtures, but was willing to leave certain degraded blinds, which on my side I did not want. On the other hand, I had not long ago got a quantity of new blinds for my old house, which I should have liked to use if possible, and the question of blinds became a nightmare. I had before now deplored the awful uniformity of architects in matters of building; now I raged over their amazing irregularities with regard to windows. In an insane anxiety for originality, they seemed to make every window of a different size; my drawing-room blinds were three inches too narrow for my new drawing-room, and two inches too broad for the front bedroom. Then Kino would have a marvellous inspiration, and, running downstairs, discovered that the hall window was of precisely the same width as the drawing-room windows in the old house, so that a home was found for one of the blinds. So he measured all the other windows in the new house, to find a home for the other drawing-room blind. Then we lost the measurements of the windows in my old bedroom, and I went back to Oakley Street, to measure these again and telephone the dimensions to him. On going to the telephone "the intermittent buzzing sound" awaited me, and after agitating discussions between me and the exchange, I found that Kino was simultaneously ringing me up to say he had found the list in question, and by a wonderful stroke of good luck my bedroom blinds fitted the back bedroom on the second floor. There was only one window there, so we had left over (at present) one drawing-room blind and one bedroom blind.... That night I dreamed that Kino was dead, and that I, as undertaker, was trying to fit a bedroom blind on to him as a shroud; but his feet, shod in Wellington boots, protruded, and I cut a piece off the dining-room blind to cover them up. But through all these disturbances the work of painting and distempering went swiftly on, and the house began to gleam with the colours I loved. For a mottled wall-paper in the hall and passage which resembled brawn that had seen its best days, there shone a blue in which there met the dark velvet of the starry sky and the flare of the Italian noon. Black woodwork with panels of white framed the window, and of black and white was the staircase; a yellow ceiling made sunshine in the dining-room. The drawing-room was fawn-grey, and on the black floor would gleam the sober sunsets of Bokhara; even blinds that would not fit and brass curtain-rods that there was no use for had, so to speak, a silver lining. Marvellous to relate, there seemed every prospect of the work being finished by the twenty-ninth of the month, and with an optimism pathetically misplaced, I supposed that it was the simplest thing in the world to put the furniture of a small house into a larger one. I knew exactly where everything was to go; what could be simpler than with a smiling face to indicate to the workmen the position of each article as it emerged from the van? It is true that the thought of the grand piano still occasionally croaked raven-like in my mind, but I pretended, like Romeo, that it was only the nightingale. I suppose everybody, however lightly enchained to possessions, has some few objects of art (or otherwise) to which he is profoundly attached. In my case there were certain wreaths and festoons of gilded wood-carving by Kent, and before the actual move took place, Kino and I had a halcyon day in fixing these up to the walls of the blue hall, where they would be safe from the danger of having wardrobes and other trifles dumped down on them. So on a certain Sunday we set off from Oakley Street in a taxicab piled high with these treasures and with hammer and nails, and with a bottle of wine, sandwiches of toast and chicken, apples and two kitchen chairs. Disembarking with care, we ate the first meal in the house, and did not neglect a most important ceremony, that of making friends with the Penates, or gods of the home, who, like my _strega_ in Alatri and the fairies of _Midsummer Night's Dream,_ police the passages when all are asleep and drive far from the house all doubtful presences. There on the earth we made burnt offering of the crumbs of chicken sandwiches and apple-rind, building an oven of the paper in which our lunch was wrapped, and at the end pouring on the ashes a libation from the bottle of wine. All was right that day; the nails went smoothly home into the walls, we did not hammer our fingers, and the gold wreaths arranged themselves as by magic. The great manoeuvre began next day, when at an early hour the vans arrived to begin taking my furniture. That day they moved dispensable things, leaving the apparatus of bedrooms, which was to be transferred on the morrow, at the close of which I was to sleep in the new house. Dining-room furniture went on the first day, and when I came back that evening to sleep in the old house for the last time, I found it dishevelled and mournful. Canvas-packing strewed the floor, pictures were gone, and on the walls where they had hung were squares and oblongs of unfaded paper. The beauty and the amenity of the house were departed; I felt as if I had been stripping the robes off it, and its spirit shivering and in rags went silently with me as I visited the denuded rooms, with eyes of silent reproach. I was taking away from it all that it had reckoned as its own; to-morrow I, too, should desert it, and it would stand lonely and companionless. Never in those ten years had it been so pleasant to live with as in that last week; it was as if it were putting forth shy advances, making itself so kind and agreeable, in order to detain the tenants with whom it had passed such happy years. One by one I turned out the lights, and its spirit followed me up to my bedroom. But to-night it would not come in, and when I entered the sense of home was gone from my room. * * * * * All next day the chaos in the new house grew more and more abysmal as the vans were unloaded. The plan of putting everything instantly and firmly into its place failed to come off; for how could you put anything firmly or otherwise into the dining-room when for two hours the refrigerator blocked access to it? Meantime books were stacked on the floor, layers of pictures leaned against the walls; the hall got packed with tables and piles of curtains, and finally, about five of the afternoon, arrived the grand piano. The foreman gave but one glance at the staircase, and declared that it was quite impossible for it to go up, and pending some fresh plan for its ascension, it must needs stop in the hall too, where it stood on its side like the coffin of some enormous skate. By making yourself tall and thin you could just get by it. Trouble increased; soon after nightfall a policeman rang at the door to tell me I had an unshaded light in a front room. So I had, and, abjectly apologizing, I explained the circumstance and quenched the light. Hardly had he gone, when another came and said I had a very bright light in a back room. That seemed to be true also, and since there were neither blinds nor curtains in that room, where I was trying to produce some semblance of order, my labours there must be abandoned. But the more we tidied, the more we attempted to put pieces of furniture into their places, the worse grew the confusion, and the more the floors got carpeted with china and pictures and books. It was as when you eat an artichoke, and, behold, the more you eat, the higher on your plate rises the débris. About midnight Kino went home; the servants had gone to bed, and I was alone in this nightmare of unutterable confusion. Till one I toiled on, wondering why I had ever left the old house, where the spirit of home was now left lonely. No spirit of home had arrived here yet, and I did not wonder. But just before I went to bed I visited the kitchen to see how they had been getting on downstairs, and for a moment hope gleamed on the horizon. For sitting in the middle of the best dinner-service, which was on the floor, was Cyrus, my blue Persian cat, purring loudly. His topaz eye gleamed, and he rose up, clawing at the hay as I entered. He liked the new house; he thought it would suit him, and came upstairs with me, arching his back and rubbing himself against the corners. OCTOBER, 1915 For two days the grand piano remained on its side at the bottom of the stairs, while furniture choked and eddied round it, as when a drain is stopped up and the water cannot flow away. It really seemed that it would stop there for ever, and that the only chance of playing it again involved being strapped into a chair, and laid sideways on the floor. Eventually the foreman of the removal company kindly promised to come back next morning, take out the drawing-room window, and sling the creature in. This would require a regiment of men, and the sort of tackle with which thirteen-inch guns are lifted into a ship. He hoped (he could go no further than that) that the stone window ledge would stand the strain; I hoped so too. My wits, I suppose, were sharpened by this hideous prospect, and I telephoned to the firm who had made the piano to send down three men and see if they concurred in the impossibility of getting the piano upstairs except _via_ the doubtful window-ledge. In half an hour they had taken it up the staircase without touching the banisters or scratching the wall. Magically, as by the waving of a wand, the constipation on the ground-floor was relieved; it was as if the Fairy Prince (in guise of three sainted piano-movers) had restored life to the house. The tables and chairs danced into their places; bookshelves became peopled with volumes; the china clattered nimbly into cupboards, and carpets unrolled themselves on the stairs. There was dawn on the wreck, and Kino and I set to work on the great scheme of black and white floor decoration which was destined to embellish in a manner unique and surprising the whole of the ground-floor. Linoleum was the material of it, an apotheosis of linoleum. Round the walls of the passages, the hall, the front room, were to run borders of black and white, with panels in recesses, enclosing a chess-board of black and white squares. Roll after roll of linoleum arrived, and with gravers we cut them up, and tacked down the borders and the panels and the chess-board with that admirable and headless species of nail known as "little brads." The work was not noiseless like the building of the Temple of Solomon, but when it was done, my visitors were indeed Queens of Sheba, for no more spirit was left in them when on their blinded eyes there dawned the glories of the floors that were regular and clean as marble pavements, and kind to the tread. No professional hand was permitted to assist in these orgies of decoration; two inspired amateurs did it all, and one of them did about twenty times as much as the other. (The reader may form his own conclusion as to whether modesty or the low motive of seeking credit where the credit belongs to another prompts my reticence on this point.) Then there were wonderful things to be done with paint (and I really did a good deal of that); ugly tiles were made beautiful with shining black, that most decorative of all hues when properly used, and in one room the splendour given to a door and a chimneypiece put Pompeii in its proper place for ever. And all the time, as we worked, and put something of human personality into the house, the spirit of home was peeping in at windows shyly, tentatively, or hiding behind curtains, or going softly about the pleasant passages, till at last one evening, as we finished some arrangement of books in the front-room, I was conscious that it had come to stay. It did not any longer shrink from observation or withdraw itself when it thought I got a glimpse of it. It stood boldly out, smiling and well pleased, and next day, when I woke for a moment in the hour before dawn, with sparrow-twitters in the trees outside, it was in my room, and I turned over contentedly and went to sleep again. Was it that the disconsolate ghost in Oakley Street had come here, transferring itself from the empty shell? Had it followed, like a deserted cat, the familiar furniture, and the familiar denizens? Or had a new spirit of home been born? Certainly the conviction that the house had found itself, that it had settled down to an incarnate plane again was no drowsy fantasy of the night; for in the morning, when I went downstairs, the whole aspect of things had changed. I knew I was _chez moi,_ instead of just carrying on existence in some borrowed lodging. That morning an enormous letter, chiefly phonetic, arrived from Seraphina. It was difficult to read, because when Seraphina wished to erase a word, she had evidently smudged her finger over the wet ink, and written something on top of it. At first I felt as bewildered as King Belshazzar, when on the wall there grew the inconjecturable doom; but since I had no Daniel in fee, I managed, by dint of trying again and again, to make out the most of her message. She relapsed sometimes into the dialect of Alatri, but chiefly she stuck to the good old plan, recommended by Mr. Roosevelt, of putting down the letters like which the word, when spoken, would sound. But by dint of saying it aloud, I caught the gist of it all. No word had come from Alatri since Francis's return, and even as I read the glamour of that remote existence grew round me. She had written before, she said, both to Signorino Francesco and to me, but she supposed that the letters had gone wrong, for they said the Government soaked off the stamps from the envelopes and sold them again. But that was all right; they wanted every penny they could get to spend against the devil-Austrians. _Dio!_ What tremendous battles! How the gallant Italian boys were sweeping them out of the Trentino! And Goriza had fallen twenty times already. Surely it must have fallen by now. And there was the straight road to Trieste.... The flame of war had set Alatri alight; there was scarce a man of military age left on the island, except the soldiers who from time to time were quartered there. The price of provisions was hideous, but thrifty folk had planted vegetables in their gardens, and if God said that only the rich might have meat, why, the poor would get on very well without. She herself had planted nutritious beans in the broad flower-bed, as soon as the flowers were over, as she had said in her previous letter (not received), and already she had made good soup from them, since Signorino Francesco had told her to use garden produce for herself. But Signora Machonochie had come to borrow some beans, and, as the beans belonged to the Signori, Seraphina wished for permission to give her them, since they would otherwise be dried, and make good soup again when the Signori returned. For herself--_scusi_--she thought the Signora Machonochie was a good soul (though greedy), for she was always making mittens for the troops on the snow of the frontier against the winter-time, and went about the roads perpetually knitting, so that one day she, not looking where she was going, charged into Ludovico's manure cart, and was much soiled. So, if it was our wish that she should have some beans, she should have them, but there would be fewer bottles in the store-room. Then Seraphina became more of a friend, less of a careful housekeeper. She continued: "The house expects your excellencies' dear presence whenever you can return. All the rooms are like Sunday brooches: there is no speck of dust. Pasqualino has been gone this long time, for as soon as we went to war with the stinking beasts, up he goes to the military office, and swears on the Holy Book that he is just turned nineteen, and has come to report himself to the authorities. Of course, they looked him out in their register, and he was but eighteen, but he confessed his perjury when it was no longer any use to deny it, and they were not displeased with him, nor did he go to prison, as happened to Luigi. But they wanted young fellows for the Red Cross who look after the wounded, and, after many prayers, Pasqualino was permitted, in spite of his perjury, to go and serve. Gold buttons, no less, on his jacket; so smart he looked; and there was Caterina smiling and crying all in one, and she gulped and kissed him, and kissed him again and gulped, and for all the world she was as proud of him as the priest on Sunday morning, and would not have had him stay. She came up here to help in the house, and it is all for love of Pasqualino, for once I offered her some _soldi_ for the help she had given me in dusting, and she just smacked my hand, and the _soldi_ fell out, and we kissed each other, for then I understood; and she asked to go to Pasqualino's room and sat on the bed, and looked at his washstand, and stroked the coat he had left behind. Oh, I understand young hearts, Signor, for all that I am old, and I left her alone there, and presently she came down again and told me her trouble. It was the night before he went, and your excellency must not think hardly of him or her. _Scusi,_ if I give advice, but they were young, and did not think, for you do not think when you are young, and they are beautiful, both of them, and when they are beautiful, who can wonder? She knows he will marry her, and, indeed, Alatri knows it too, and thus the _bambino_ will not be blackened. Pasqualino is a good boy, and in spite of it, she wanted him to go for the sake of the wounded, thinking nothing of herself and the little one within her. Alatri will be blind to the _bambino,_ and wait for him to make it all right. "Eh, what a pen I have, for it runs on like a tap! All this last month I have been writing a little every day, and now it is nearly finished. But still I think the Signor would like to hear of Teresa of the Cake-shop. There was never such a wonder; it was like a miracle. Suddenly she would have no more of the cake-shop, but must needs go to Naples, and learn to be a nurse, and look after the wounded, as Pasqualino had done. Never, as the Signor knows, had she gone down to the Marina since fifteen years ago (or is it sixteen?), when she went to meet her _promesso,_ Vincenzo Rhombo, who had come back from Buenos Ayres, and even as he landed on the Marina, was stricken in her very arms with the cholera and died that day. Never since then had Teresa gone to the Marina, whatever was the _festa_ or the fireworks; but now nothing would serve her but that she must go to help in the war. She had money, for the cake-shop had done well all these years, and she must needs go and spend her money in learning nursing in Naples. All of a sudden it was so with her, and one day a month ago she asked me to come down with her to see her forth. And when we came to the Marina, Signor, she shut her eyes, for she could not bear to see it, and asked me to lead her along the quay to where the boats took off the passengers by the steamer. All along the quay I led her, she with eyes closed; but when we came to the steps, where Vincenzo had landed and fell into her arms a stricken man, then at last she opened her eyes, or the tears opened them, and she fell on her knees and kissed the place where Vincenzo had been joined to her. She kissed it, and she kissed it, and then suddenly her tears dried, and she stepped into the boat and waved her hand to her friends and said: 'Vincenzo wishes it; Vincenzo wishes it.' Oh, a brave woman! she had not baked her heart in the cake-shop. "My humble duty to you, excellency, Seraphina has no more to say, but that often the step goes up and down in the studio. I think, as Donna Margherita said, that someone guards the house. It is as a sentry, who makes the house secure. But it will be a good day when I hear there the steps of the Signorino and of you. All humble compliments and the good wishes of a friend who is Seraphina. "_Scusi!_ Shall I sow the flower seeds in the garden that were saved from last year? If the Signori will not be here in the spring, what need to sow them, for they will keep, will they not? But if there is a chance of your coming, the garden must needs be gay with a welcome." Right in the middle of the black cloud of war there came a rift, as I read Seraphina's budget of news. Some breeze parted the folds of it, and I saw a peep of blue sky and bluer sea, and the stone-pine and the terraced gardens, with the morning-glory rioting on the wall. But how incredibly remote it seemed, as if it belonged to some previous cycle of existence; as if the closed doors of eternity that swing shut when we are born had opened again, and I looked on some previous incarnation. I thought I remembered (before the war came) experiences like those which Seraphina's letter suggested, but they seemed like the affairs of childhood, when imagination is so mixed up with reality that we scarcely know whether there are robbers in the shrubbery or not. We pretend that there are, and even while we pretend dusk falls and the shrubbery has to be passed, and we are not certain whether there are not robbers there, after all. It was so with the recollection of the things of which Seraphina spoke (and even they were mixed up with war). I felt I might have dreamed them, or have invented them for myself, or have experienced them in some pre-natal existence. Just that one glimpse I had of them, and no more; then the rift in the clouds closed up again, and blacker than ever before, except perhaps during the days of the Retreat from Mons, grew the gigantic bastion of storm through which we had to pass.... Even so once, thunderclouds collected before me when I was on the top of an Alpine peak, gathering and growing thicker with extraordinary swiftness. A rent came in them for a moment, and through it we could see the pastures and villages ten thousand feet below. Then it closed up, and we had to pass through the clouds out of which already the lightning was leaping before we could arrive on the safe familiar earth again. I could scarcely realize, then, what life was like before the war, and now, looking forward, it seemed impossible to imagine that there could be any end to the murderous business. This month a wave of pessimism swept over London; even those who had been most optimistic were submerged in it; and all that was possible was to go on, the more occupied the better, and, anyhow, not to talk about it. A dozen times had our hopes flared high; a dozen times they had been extinguished. Only a few months ago we had seen the advance of the Russian armies through Galicia, and had told each other that the relentless steam-roller had begun its irresistible progress across the Central Empires, leaving them flattened out and ground to powder in its wake. But now, instead of their being flattened out in its wake, it appeared that they had only been concentrated and piled high in front of it, for now the billow of the enemies' armies, poised and menacing, had broken and swept the steam-roller far back on the beach, where now it remained stuck in the shingle with quenched furnaces and a heavy list. Przemysl had been retaken; the newly-christened Lvoff had become Lemberg again; Warsaw had fallen; Ivangorod had fallen; Grodno and Vilna had fallen. For the time, it is true, that great billow had spent itself, but none knew yet what damage and dislocation had been wrought on the steam-roller. Russia's friends assured us that the invincible resolve of her people had suffered no damage, and expressed their unshaken belief in the triumphant march of her destiny. But even the most eloquent preachers of confidence found it difficult to explain precisely on what their confidence was based. That was not all, nor nearly all. In the Balkans Bulgaria had joined the enemy; the fat white fox Ferdinand had kissed his hand to his august brothers in Vienna and Berlin, and soon, when Servia had been crushed, they would meet, and in each other's presence confirm the salutation, and be-Kaiser and be-Czar each other. From one side the Austro-German advance had begun, from the other the Bulgarian, and it was certain that in a few weeks we should see Servia extinguished--exterminated even as Belgium had been. It was useless to imagine that all the despairing gallantry of that mountain people could stand against the double invasion, or to speak of the resistance in the impregnable mountain passes, which would take months to overcome. Such talk was optimism gone mad, even as in the Retreat from Mons certain incredible tacticians in the Press assured us that this was all part of a strategic move, whereby the German lines of communication would be lengthened. Certainly their lines of communication were being lengthened, for they were pressing the Allies, who were totally unable to stand against that first rush, across half France. So now only insane interpreters could give encouraging comments on the news from Servia. Servia, who had been but a king's pawn to open the savage game that was being played over the length and breadth of Europe, was taken and swept off the board; in a few weeks at the most we should see the power of Germany extending unbroken from Antwerp on the West to Constantinople on the East. Allied to Bulgaria and Turkey, with Servia crushed, the way to the East, should she choose to go Eastwards, lay open and undefended in front of her. It seemed more than possible, too, that Greece, who had invited the troops of the Allies to Salonika, would join the triumphant advance of the Central Empires. Our diplomacy, as if it had been some card game played by children, had been plucked from our hands and scattered over the nursery table; every chance that had been ours had been thrown on to the rubbish heap, and Germany, going to the rubbish heap, had picked up our lost opportunities and shown us how to use them. It was impossible (it would also have been silly) to be optimistic over these blunders; the Balkan business was going as badly as it possibly could. There was worse yet. Before the end of the month no one, unless, like the ostrich, he buried his eyes in the sand and considered that because he saw nothing there was nothing to see, had any real hope of a successful issue to the Dardanelles expedition, and it was with an aching sense of regret that one recalled the brave days when the _Queen Elizabeth_ went thundering into the Straits, and we were told that but a mile or two divided us from victory. But what miles! They seemed quite sufficient, to divide us, even as when on board ship you are told that only a plank lies between yourself and a watery grave, the plank will do very well indeed to keep off the watery grave. That mile or two had the same stubborn quality; months of valiant endeavour, endless sacrifice, and sickening mistakes had not brought us any nearer our goal. It was useless to blink these obvious facts, and I found one morning that it would be wiser to sit down and just stare them in the face, get used to them, as far as might be, rather than shuffle them out of sight, or pretend to see silver linings to clouds which, in spite of the proverb, had not got any. There was a pit of clouds. Somehow that must be explored. It was no use to pretend to put a lid on it, and say there was no such pit. I had to go down into it. I descended then into this "black tremendous sea of cloud." It was not the invariable daily tale of ill-success in the war that caused it to form in my brain, though I suppose it was that which consolidated it. It came like an obsession. I had gone to bed one night with hope of good news next day; I had taken pleasure in my jolly new house! I had dined with friends and I slept well. But when I woke the Thing was there. There was no bad news in the paper that morning, but in the papers and in my bed, and about my path, and in my breakfast, there was a blackening poison that spread and sprouted like some infernal mushroom of plague. I found that I did not care for anything any more; there was the root of this obsession. I thought of the friends I should presently meet when I went out to my work, and the thought of them roused no feeling of any kind. There was a letter from Francis, saying that in a week's time he would have three days' leave, and proposed that he should spend them with me. There was a letter from Kino, saying that he had found the book which I so much wanted, and would bring it round after breakfast, and should we go out, as we had vaguely planned, that afternoon to Kew, and get the country whiff from the flaming autumn? Certainly if he liked, thought I, for it does not matter. I did not want to go, nor did I want not to go; it was all one, for over all and in all was the blackness of the pit of clouds. We went accordingly, and to me his face and his presence were no more than the face and the presence of any stranger in the street. He had lost his meaning, he was nonsense; it might have been some gesticulating machine that walked by me. We looked at the flaring towers of golden and russet leaf, and I saw them as you see something through the wrong end of a telescope. I saw them through glass, through a diving bell. The sun was warm, the sky was flecked with the loveliest mackerel scales of cloud; I was with a friend stepping along mossy paths below the beech-trees, and within me was a centre-point of consciousness that only wailed and cried out at the horror of existence. The glory of the autumn day was as magnificent as ever; the smell of the earth and the tea-like odour of dry leaves had in itself all the sting and thrill that belonged to it, and by my side was the friend with whom the laying of linoleum had been so wonderful a delight, because we laid it together, and I was cut off from it all. Everything was no more than dried flowers, sapless, brittle and colourless. Those days were no more than hours of existence, to which somehow my flesh clung, though the fact of existence was just that which was so tragic and so irremediable. By occupying myself, by doing anything definite that required attention, even if it was only acknowledging the receipt of subscriptions, or of writing begging letters on behalf of the fund for which I worked, I could cling to the sheer cliff and still keep below me that sea of cloud. But the moment that the automatism only of life was wanted, the sea rose and engulfed me again. When I walked along a street, when I sat down to eat, when, tired with conscious effort of the mind, I relaxed attention, it drowned me. The effort to keep my head above it was infinitely fatiguing, and when at nights, having been unable to find something more to do, however trivial, or when, unable to hold the dam-gate any longer, I went up to bed, the nightmare of existence yelled out and smothered me. Huge and encompassing, it surged about a pinprick of consciousness which was myself; black wrinkled clouds brooded from zenith to horizon, and I knew that beyond the horizon, and to innumerable horizons beyond that, there reached that interminable blackness _in saecula saeculorum._ Or, again, as in some feverish dream, behold, it was I, who just before had been a pinprick in everlasting time and space, who now swelled up to infinite dimensions, and was surrounded for ever and ever by gross and infinitesimal nothingness. At one moment I was nothing set in the middle of cosmic darkness; at the next I was cosmic darkness itself, set in a microscopic loneliness, an alpha and omega of the everlasting midnight. No footstep fell there, no face looked out from it, neither of God nor of devil, nor of human kind. I was alone, as I had always been alone; here was the truth of it, for it was but a fancy figment that there was a scheme, a connection, a knitting of the members of the world to each other, and of them to God. I had made that up myself; it was but one of the foolish stories that I had often busied myself with. But I knew better now; I was alone, and all was said. Now there are many who have been through much darker and deeper waters than these, without approaching real melancholia. To the best of my belief I did no more than paddle at the edge of them. Certainly they seemed to close over me, except for that one fact that even where they were deepest, any manual or mental act that required definite thought was sufficient for the moment to give me a breath of air. All pleasure, and, so it seemed to me, all love had become obscured, but there was still some sense of decency left that prevented me from lying down on the floor, and saying in the Italian phrase, "_Non po' combattere._" There was a double consciousness still. I said to myself, "I give up!" but I didn't act as if I gave up, nor did I tell another human soul that in myself I had done so. I confessed to depression, but didn't talk about it. I wrote a perfectly normal and cordial letter to Francis, saying how welcome he would be, though I felt that there was no such person. Still, I wrote to him, and did not seriously expect that my note would be returned through the dead-letter office. And this is precisely the reason why I have written these last pages; it is to assure all those who know, from inside, what such void and darkness means, that the one anchor is employment, and the absolute necessity is behaving in a normal manner. It does not seem worth while; it seems, too, all but impossible, but it is not quite impossible, and there is nothing which is so much worth while. Until you actually go over the edge, stick to the edge. Do not look down into the abyss, keep your eyes on such ground as there is, and find something there: a tuft of grass, a fallen feather, the root of a wild plant--and look at it. If you are so fortunate as to discover a little bare root there, something easily helped, cover it up with a handful of kindly soil. (You will not slip while you are doing this.) If a feather, be sure that some bird has flown over, and dropped it from a sunlit wing; if a tuft of grass, think of the seed from which it came. Besides, if God wills that you go down into Hell, He is there also.... Hold on, just hold on. Sometimes you will look back on the edge to which you clung, and will wonder what ailed you. It was so with me. I merely held on till life, with its joys and its ties, began to steal back into me, even as into a dark room the light begins to filter at dawn. At no one second can you say that it is lighter than it was the second before, but if you take a series of seconds, you can see that light is in the ascendant. A certain Friday, for instance, had been quite intolerable, but, just as you look out of the window, and say "It is lighter," I found on Saturday that, though nothing in the least cheerful had happened in the interval, I didn't so earnestly object to existence, while a couple of days later I could look back on Friday and wonder what it had all been about. What it had been about I do not know now: some minute cell, I suppose, had worked imperfectly, and lo! "the scheme of things entire" not only seemed, but, I was convinced, was all wrong. Subjective though the disturbance was, it could project itself and poison the world. Two things certainly I learned from it, namely, that manual or mental employment, hateful though it is to the afflicted, is less afflicting than idleness; the second, that the more you keep your depression to yourself the better. I wish that the infernal pessimists whose presence blackens London would learn this. These ravens with their lugubrious faces and their croaking accents, hop obscenely about from house to house, with a wallet full of stories which always begin, "They say that--" and there follows a tissue of mournful prognostications. They project their subjective disturbance, and their tale beginning "They say that--" or "I am told that--" generally means that Mr. A. and Mr. B., having nothing to do, and nothing to think about, have sat by the fire and ignorantly wondered what is going to happen. Having fixed on the worst thing, whatever it is, that their bilious imagination can suggest, they go out to lunch, and in accents of woe proceed to relate that "They say that--" and state all the dismal forebodings which their solitary meditations have hatched. In fact, the chief reason for which I wish that I was a Member of Parliament is that I could then bring in a Bill (or attempt to do so) for the Suppression of Pessimists. I would also gladly vote for a Bill that provided for the Suppression of Extreme Optimists on the same grounds, namely, that to be told that the Kaiser has cancer, and that the burgesses of Berlin are already starving, leads to a reaction such as the pessimists produce by direct means. To be told that the Russians are incapable of further resistance on the authority of "They say that--" depresses everybody at once; and to be told that there isn't a potato to be had in all Germany for love or money (particularly money) gives rise to an alcoholic cheerfulness which dies out and leaves you with a headache of deferred hopes. These grinning optimists were particularly hard to bear when the terrible Retreat from Mons was going on, for they screamed with delight at the notion that we were lengthening out the German lines of communication, which subsequently would be cut, as by a pair of nail-scissors lightly wielded, and the flower of the German army neatly plucked like a defenceless wayside blossom. The same smiling idiots were to the fore again during the great Russian retreat, and told us to wait, finger on lip, with rapturous eyes, till the Germans had reached the central steppes of Russia, when they would all swiftly expire of frosts, Cossacks and inanition. But, after all, these rose-coloured folk do very little harm; they make us go about our work with a heady sense of exhilaration, which, though it soon passes off, is by no means unpleasant. At the worst extreme optimists are only fools on the right side, whereas pessimists are bores and beasts on the wrong one. Pessimists have had a high old time all this month. They do not exactly rejoice when things go ill for us, but misfortune has a certain sour satisfaction for them, because it fulfils what they thought (and said) in September. Thus now they nod and sigh, and proceed to tell us what they augur for November. If only they would keep their misery to themselves, nobody would care how miserable they are; but the gratuitous diffusion of it is what should be made illegal. For the microbe of pessimism is the most infectious of bacteria; it spreads in such a manner that all decent-minded folk, when they have fallen victims to it, ought surely (on the analogy of what they would do if it was influenza) to shut themselves up and refuse to see anybody. But because the disease is one of the mind, it appears that it is quite proper for the sufferer to go and sneeze in other people's faces. There ought to be a board of moral health, which by its regulations would make it criminal to spread mental disorders, such as pessimism. I had so severe an attack of it myself, when the clouds encompassed me, that I have a certain right to propose legislation on the subject. Those afflicted by the painful disease which, like typhoid, is only conveyed through the mouth, in terms of articulate speech, should be fined some moderate sum for any speech that was likely to propagate pessimism. If the disease is acute, and the sufferer feels himself in serious danger of bursting unless he talks, he would of course be at liberty to shut himself up in any convenient room out of earshot, and talk till he felt better. Only it should be on his responsibility that his conversation should not be overheard by anybody, and, in suspension of the common law of England, a wife should be competent to witness against her husband. It is not because the ravens are such liars that I complain, for lying is the sort of thing that may happen to anybody, but it is the depressing nature of their lies. The famous national outburst of lying that took place over the supposed passage of hundreds of thousands of Russians through England on their way to the battle-fields of France and Flanders was harmless, inspiriting lying. So, too, the splendid mendacity that seized so many of our citizens on the occasion of the second Zeppelin raid. That ubiquitous airship I verily believe was seen hovering over every dwelling-house in London; it hovered in Kensington, in Belgravia, in Mayfair, in Hampstead, in Chelsea, and the best of it was that it never came near these districts at all. In fact, it became a mere commonplace that it hovered over your house, and a more soaring breed of liars arose. One asserted that on looking up he had seen their horrid German faces leaning over the side of the car; another, that the cigar-shaped shadow of it passed over his blind. Of course, it passed over Brompton Square, on which the Zeppelinians were preparing to drop bombs, thinking that the dome of the Oratory was the dome of St. Paul's, and that they had thus a good chance of destroying the Bank of England. But in the stillness of the night, amid the soft murmurs of the anti-aircraft guns, a guttural voice from above was heard to say, "Nein: das ist nicht St Paul's," and the engine of destruction passed on, leaving us unharmed. Was not that a fortunate thing? Of course, by the time the Zeppelins began to visit us, we had all had a good deal of practice in lying, which accounted for the gorgeous oriental colouring of such amazing imaginings. But the pioneers of this great revival of the cult of Ananias, were undoubtedly that multitude whom none can number, who were ready to produce (or manufacture) any amount of evidence to prove that soon after the outbreak of the war battalions of Russian troops in special trains, with blinds drawn down, were dashing through the country. It is a thousand pities that some serious and industrious historian was not commissioned by his Government to collect the evidence and issue it in tabulated form, for it would have proved an invaluable contribution to psychology. There was never any first-hand evidence on the subject (for the simple reason that the subject had no real existence), but the mass of secondhand evidences went far to prove the non-existent. From Aberdeen to Southampton there was scarcely a station at which a porter had not seen these army corps and told somebody's gardener. The accounts tallied remarkably, the trains invariably had their blinds drawn down, and occasionally bearded soldiers peered out of the windows. There was a camp of them on Salisbury Plain, and hundreds of Englishmen who knew no language but their own, distinctly heard them talking Russian to each other. Sometimes stations (as at Reading) had platforms boarded up to exclude the public, and the public from neighbouring eminences saw the bearded soldiers drinking quantities of tea out of samovars. This was fine imaginative stuff, for the samovar, of course, is an urn, and nobody but a Russian, surely, would drink tea out of an urn. There was collateral evidence, too: one day the _Celtic_ was mined somewhere in the North Sea; she had on board tons of ammunition and big guns, and for a while the hosts of Russia did not appear in the fighting line, because they had remained on Salisbury Plain till fresh supplies of ammunition came. Bolder spirits essayed higher flights: At Swindon Station, so the porter told the gardener, they had been seen walking about the platform stamping the snow off their boots, which proved they had come from far North, where the snow is of so perdurable a quality that it travels like blocks of ice from Norwegian lakes without apparently melting even in the middle of a hot September. Or again, in the neighbourhood of Hatfield the usual gardener had heard that a _képi_ had been picked up on the road, and what do you think was the name of the maker printed inside it? Why, the leading military outfitter of Nijni-Novgorod! There was glory for you, as Humpty-Dumpty said. The gardener fortunately knew who the leading military outfitter of Nijni-Novgorod was, while regarded as a proof what more could anybody want? How could a Russian _képi_ have been dropped on the North Road unless at least a hundred thousand Russians had been going in special trains through England? I suppose you would not want them _all_ to throw their _képis_ away. There were hundreds of such stories, none first hand, but overwhelming in matter of cumulative secondhand evidence, all springing from nowhere but the unassisted brain of ordinary Englishmen. The wish was father to the thought; in the great peril that still menaced the French and English battle-line, we all wanted hundreds of thousands of Russians, and so we said that they were passing through. Some cowardly rationalist, I believe, has explained the whole matter by saying that some firm telegraphed that a hundred thousand Russians (whereby he meant Russian eggs) were arriving. I scorn the truckling materialism of this. The Russian stories were invented, bit by bit, even as coral grows, by innumerable and busy liars, spurred on by the desire that their fabrications might be true. Bitter animosities sprang up between those who did and those who did not believe the Russian Saga. Single old ladies, to whom the idea that Russia was pouring in to help us was very comforting, altered their wills and cut off faithless nephews, and the most stubborn Thomases amongst us were forced to confess that there seemed to be a good deal to say for it, while the fact that the War Office strenuously denied the whole thing was easily accounted for. Of course the War Office denied it, for it didn't want the Germans to know. It would be a fine surprise for the Germans on the West Front to find themselves one morning facing serried rows of Russians.... They would be utterly bewildered, for they had been under the impression that Russia was far away East, on the other side of the Fatherland; but here were the Russian armies! They would think their compasses had gone mad; they would have been quite giddy with surprise, and have got that lost feeling which does so much to undermine the morale of troops. Oh, a great stroke! But all these Russian and Zeppelin Saga were good heady, encouraging lies, tonic instead of lowering, like the dejected inventions of prostrate pessimists. I do not defend, on principle, the habit of making up stories and saying that a porter at Reading told your gardener; but, given that you are going to do that sort of thing, I do maintain that you are bound to invent such stories as will encourage and not depress your credulous friends. You have no right to attempt to rob them of their most precious possession in times like these, namely, the power of steadfast resistance of the spirit to trouble and anxiety, by inventing further causes of depression. The law forbids you to take away a man's forks and spoons; it ought also to forbid the dissemination of such false news as will deprive him of his appetite for his mutton chop. Indeed, I fancy that by the law of England as laid down in the statute-book it is treasonable in times of national crisis to discourage the subjects of the King, and I wonder whether it would not be possible, as there has been so little grouse-shooting this year, to have a grouser-shoot instead. A quantity of old birds want clearing off. Guns might be placed, let us say, in butts erected along the south side of Piccadilly, and the grousers would be driven from the moors of Mayfair by a line of beaters starting from Oxford Street. The game would break cover, so I suppose, from Dover Street, Berkeley Street, Half Moon Street, and so on, and to prevent their escaping into Regent Street on the one side and Park Lane on the other, stops would be placed at the entrance of streets debouching here in the shape of huge posters announcing victories by land and sea for the Allied forces. These the grousers would naturally be unable to pass, and thus they would be driven out into Piccadilly and shot. This would take the morning, and after a good lunch at the Ritz Hotel the shooters would proceed to the covers of Kensington. Other days would, of course, be arranged.... But all this month the devastating tide swept on through Serbia. Occasionally there were checks, as, for a moment, it dashed against some little reef before submerging it; but soon wave succeeding wave overleaped such barriers, and now Serbia lies under the waters of the inundation. And in these shortening days of autumn the sky grows red in the East with the dawning of new fires of battle, and to the watchers there it goes down red in the West, where from Switzerland to the sea, behind the trenches, the graveyards stretch themselves out over the unsown fields of France. NOVEMBER, 1916 Francis arrived on the last day of October, with a week's leave before his regiment embarked for the Dardanelles. For a few hours he was a mere mass of physical needs; until these were satisfied he announced himself as incapable of thinking or speaking of anything but the carnalities. "Tea at once," he said. "No, I think I won't have tea with you; I want tea sent up to the bath-room. That packet? It's a jar of bath salts--verbena--all of which I am going to use. I saw it in a shop window, and quite suddenly I knew I wanted it. Nothing else seemed to matter. I want a dressing-gown, too. Will you lend me one? And slippers. For a few hours I propose to wallow in a sensual sty. I've planned it all, and for the last week I have thought of nothing else." He sketched the sty. There was to be tea in the bath-room and a muffin for tea. This he would eat as he lay in a hot bath full of verbena salts. He would then put on his dressing-gown and lie in bed for half an hour, reading a shilling shocker and smoking cigarettes. (End of Part I.) Still in his dressing-gown he would come downstairs, and smoke more cigarettes before my fire, till it was time to have a cocktail. We would dine at home (he left the question of dinner to me, provided only that there should be a pineapple), after which we should go to the movies. We were then to drive rapidly home in a taxi, and, over sandwiches and whisky and soda, he felt that he would return to a normal level again. But the idea of being completely comfortable and clean and gorged and amused for a few hours had taken such hold of him, that he could not "reach his mind" until the howling beast of his body had been satisfied. That, at least, was the plan. Accordingly, proclamation having come from upstairs that all was ready, Francis departed to his sty, and I, as commanded, waited till such time as he should reappear in my dressing-gown and slippers. But long before his programme (Part I.) could have been carried out he re-entered. "It didn't seem worth while to get into bed," he said, "so I left that out. I loved the bath-salts, and the tea was excellent. But how soon anything that can be satisfied is satisfied. It's only----" He leaned forward and poked the fire, stretching his legs out towards the blaze. "I've travelled a long way since we met," he said, "and the further one goes the simpler the way becomes. The mystics are perfectly right. You can only get what you want, what your soul wants, by chucking away all that you have. The only way to find yourself is to lose yourself. I've been losing myself all these months, and I began to recover little bits of me that I didn't want over the muffin and the verbena. I was afraid I should find more if I tucked up in bed. That's why I didn't. I used to want such lots of things; now there is growing a pile of things I don't want." I put the cigarette-box near him. "There are the smokes," I said, "and let me know when you want a cocktail. We'll have dinner when you like. Now I have heard nothing from you for the last three months; let's have a budget." "Right. Well, the material side of the affair is soon done with. I'm Quartermaster-Sergeant, with stripes and a crown on my arm, as you have noticed, and I live immersed in accounts and stores and supplies. I have to see that the men have enough and are comfortable, and I have to be as economical as I can. That's my life, and it's being my salvation." He lay back in his chair, the picture of complete indolence, with eyes half closed. But I knew that to be a sign of intense internal activity. Most people, I am aware, when they are aflame with some mental or spiritual topic, walk up and down with bright eyes and gesticulating hands. But it is Francis's great conjuring trick to disconnect his physical self, so to speak, and let it lie indolent; his theory is that thus your vitality is concentrated on thought. There seems something to be said for it, when once you have learned how to do it. "Of course, in order to get anywhere," he said, "you must go through contemplative periods and stages, and towards the end of the journey, I fancy that you enter into an existence where only that is possible. But before that comes, you have to know the sacredness of common things. It's like this. The first stage is to know that the only thing worth our consideration is the reality that lies behind common things: it is then that you think them worthless and disregard them. But further on you find out that they aren't common, because the reality behind permeates them, and makes them sacred. Later, if you ever get there, you find, I believe, that in your union with the reality behind, they cease to exist again for you. But, good heavens, what miles apart, are the first and third stages! And the danger of the first stage is that, if you are not careful, you imagine it to be the same as the third. "I was in danger of getting like that, living in perfect comfort and peace on that adorable island. Do you know how a jelly looks the day after a dinner-party, how it is fatigued, and lies down and gets shapeless and soft? I might have stayed in that stage, if the war hadn't summoned me. I did not consciously want material things: I was not greedy or lustful, and I had a perfectly conscious knowledge that God existed in everything. But I didn't reverence things for that reason, nor did I mix myself up in them. I held aloof, and was content to think. Then came the war, and now for nearly fifteen months I have been learning to get close to common things, to see, as I said, that the sacredness of their origin pervades them. It doesn't lie in them, tucked away in some secret drawer, which you have to open by touching a spring. The spring you have to touch is in yourself, you have to open your own perception of what is always before your eyes. It doesn't require any wit or poetic sense to perceive it: it is there, a plain simple phenomenon. But in it is the answer to the whole cosmic conundrum, for there lies the Love that 'moves the sun and the other stars!' Theoretically I knew that, but not practically. "Now, after a good deal of what you might call spade-work, I'm beginning to feel that, first-hand. For months I hated the drill, and the sordidness (so I said) and the life in which you are so seldom alone. I hated the rough clothes, and the heavy boots and the food. But I never hated the other fellows: I've always liked people. Then when I got on I hated the accounts I had to do, and the supplies I had to weigh, but in one thing I never faltered, and that was in the desire to get at what lay behind it all. There was something more in it than the fact that the work had to be done because England was at war with Germany, and because I wanted to help. That was sufficient to bring me out of Alatri, and it would have been sufficient to carry me along, even if there had been nothing else behind it. But always I had the knowledge of there being something else behind. And clearly the life I was leading gave me admirable conditions for finding that out. Everything was very simple: I had no independence; I had to do what I was told. You may bet that obedience is the key to freedom. "There were days of storm and days of peace, of course. There were darknesses in which one was tempted to say that there wasn't anything to be perceived. Some persistent devil inside me kept suggesting that an account-book was just an account-book, and a rifle nothing more than a rifle. But I still clung to that which had grown, in all those years at Alatri, to be a matter of knowledge. I knew there was something behind, and I knew what it was, though the mists obscured it, just as when the sea-fog comes down in the winter over the island, and you cannot see the mainland for days together. But you don't seriously question whether the mainland is there because you don't see it. A child might: if you told a child that the mainland had been taken away, he would probably accept what you said.... There were days when I doubted everything, not only the reality at the back of it all, but even the immediate cause for my work, namely, that the regiment was part of the army that was fighting the Germans, and that so it was my job to help. "And then, one day when I was least expecting it or consciously thinking of it, the knowledge came with that sense of realization that makes all the difference between theoretical and practical knowledge. I was among the stores, rather busy, and suddenly the tins of petroleum shone with God. Just that." He turned his handsome, merry face to me: there was no solemnity in it, it was as if he had told me some cheerful piece of ordinary news. "Now will you understand me when I say that that moment was in no sense overwhelming, nor did it interfere in the slightest degree with either the common work of the day, drill and accounts and what not, or with the common diversions of the day? It did not even give them a new meaning, for I had known for years that the meaning was there; only, it had not been to me a matter of practical knowledge. It was like--well, you know how slow I am at learning anything on the piano, but with sufficient industry I can get a thing by heart at last. It was like that: it was like the first occasion on which one plays it by heart. It did not yet, nor does it now get between me and all the things that fill the day. It is not a veil drawn between me and them, so that drudgery and little menial offices are no longer worth while: it is just the opposite: it is as if a veil were drawn away, and I can see them and handle them more clearly and efficiently, and enjoy them infinitely more. This warm fire feels more delightfully comfortable than ever a fire did. I take more pleasure in seeing you sitting there near me than ever before. There was never such a good muffin as the one you sent up to the bath-room. That's only natural, if you come to think of it. It would be a very odd sort of illumination, if it served only to make what we have got to do obscure or tiresome or trivial. Instead, it redeems the common things from triviality. It takes weariness out of the world." "You said the petroleum-tins shone with God," I said. "Can you tell me about that? Was it a visible light?" "I wondered if you would ask that," he said, "and I wish I could explain it better. There was no visible light, nothing like physical illumination round them. But my eyes told that faculty within me which truly perceives, that they shone. What does St. Paul call it? 'The light invisible,' isn't it? That is exactly descriptive. 'The light invisible, the uncreated light.' I can't tell you more than that, and I expect that it is only to be understood by those who have seen it. I am quite conscious that my description of it must mean nothing. I have long known it was there, and so have you, but till I perceived it I had no idea what it was like." "There's another thing," said I, "you are going out next week to the Dardanelles. What does the business of killing look like in the light of the light invisible?" He laughed again. "It hasn't turned me into a conscientious objector, if you mean that," he said. "I hate the notion of shooting jolly funny rabbits, or merry partridges, though I'm quite inconsistent enough to eat them when they are shot--at least, not rabbits: I would as soon eat rats. But I shall do my best to kill as many Turks as I possibly can. I _know_ it's right that we should win this war. I was never more certain about anything. The Prussian standpoint is the devil's standpoint, and since it's our business to fight the devil, we've got to fight the Prussians and all who are allied with them. It seems a miserable way of fighting the devil, to go potting Turks. If I could only get to know the fellows I hope I am going to kill, I would bet that I should find them awfully decent chaps. I shouldn't be surprised if they would shine, too, like the petroleum-tins. But there's no other alternative. No doubt if our diplomatists hadn't been such apes, we should be friends with the Turks, instead of being their enemies, but, as it is, there's no help for it. I've no patience with pacificists; we've got to fight, unless we choose to renounce God. As for the man who has a conscientious objection to killing anybody, I think you will find very often that he has a conscientious objection to being killed. I haven't any conscientious objection to either. I shall be delighted to kill Turks, and I'm sure I don't grudge them the pleasure of killing me." "But you think they're fighting on the devil's side," I objected. "You don't want to be downed by the devil?" "Oh, they don't down me by shooting me," he said. "Also, they don't think they are in league with the devil; at least, we must give them the credit of not thinking so, and they've got every bit as good a right to their view as I have. Lord! I am glad, if I may say it without profanity, that I'm not God. Fancy having millions and millions of prayers, good sincere honest prayers, addressed to you every day from opposite sides, entreating you to grant supplications for victory! Awfully puzzling, for Him! You'd know what excellent fellows a lot of our enemies are." The clock on the mantelpiece chimed at this moment, and Francis jumped up with a squeal. "Eight o'clock already!" he said. "What an idiot you are for letting me jaw along like this! I'm not dressed yet, nor are you." "You may dine in a dressing-gown if you like," I said. "Thanks, but I don't want to in the least. I want to put on the fine new dress-clothes which I left here a year ago. Do dress too; let's put on white ties and white waistcoats, and be smart, and pompous. I love the feeling of being dressed up. Perhaps we won't go to the movies afterwards; what do you think? We can't enjoy ourselves more than sitting in this jolly room and talking. At least, I can't; I don't know about you. Oh, and another thing. You have a day off to-morrow, haven't you, it being Saturday? Let's go and stay in the country till Monday. I've been in a town for so many months. Let's go to an inn somewhere where there are downs and trees, and nobody to bother. If we stayed with people, we should have to be polite and punctual. I don't want to be either. I don't want to hold forth about being a Tommy, except to you. Most people think there's something heroic and marvellous about it, and they make me feel self-conscious. It's no more heroic than eating when you're hungry. You want to: you've got to: your inside cries out for food, it scolds you till you give it some." * * * * * We put Francis's plan into execution next morning, and at an early hour left town for a certain inn, of which I had pleasant memories, on the shore of the great open sea of Ashdown Forest, to spend three days there, for I got rid of my work on Monday. St. Martin came with us and gave us warm windless days of sun, and nights with a scrap of frost tingling from the stars, so that in the morning the white rime turned the blades of grass into spears of jewellery, and the adorable sharp scent of autumn mornings pricked the nostrils. The great joyful forest was ablaze with the red-gold livery of beech trees, and the pale gold of birches, and holly trees wore clusters of scarlet berries among their stiff varnished foliage. Elsewhere battalions of pines with tawny stems defied the spirit of the falling leaf, and clad the hill-sides with tufts of green serge, in which there sounded the murmur of distant seas. Here the foot slid over floors of fallen needles, and in the vaulted darkness, where scarce a ray of sun filtered down, there seemed to beat the very heart of the forest, and we went softly, not knowing but that presently some sharp-eared faun might peep round a tree-trunk, or a flying drapery betray a dryad of the woods. Deeper and deeper we went into the primeval aisles, among the Druid trees that stood, finger on lip, for perhaps even Pan himself had lately passed that way, and they, initiate, had looked on the incarnate spirit of Nature. Then, distantly, the gleam of sunshine between the trunks would show the gates of this temple of forest, and we passed out again into broad open spaces, covered with the russet of bracken, and stiff with ling, on which the spikes of minute blossom were still pink. Here we tramped till the frosted dews had melted and dried, and sat in mossy hollows, where gorse was still a-flower, and smelled of cocoa-nut biscuits. Across the weald the long line of South Downs, made millions of years ago by uncounted myriads of live things, was thrust up like some heaving shoulder of a marine monster above the waves. It seemed necessary to walk along that heavenly ridge, and next day, we drove to Lewes, and with pockets bulging with lunch, climbed on to that fair and empty place. There, with all Sussex lying below us, and the sea stretched like a brass wire along the edge of the land to the south, we made a _cache,_ containing the record of the expedition, and buried it in a tin-box below a certain gnarled stump that stood on the edge of the steep descent on to the plain. Francis insisted also on leaving our empty wine bottle there, with a wisp of paper inside it, on which he wrote: "We are now utterly without food, and have already eaten the third mate. Tough, but otherwise excellent. Latitude unknown: longitude unknown: God help us!" And he signed it with the names of Queen Adelaide and Marcus Aurelius. Neither he nor I could think of anything sillier than this, and since, when you are being silly, you have to get sillier and sillier, or else you are involved in anticlimaxes, he rolled over on to his face and became serious again. "Lord, Lord, how I love life!" he said, "in whatever form it manifests itself. I love these great open and empty places, and the smile of the indolent earth. Great kind Mother, she is getting sleepy, and will soon withdraw all her thoughts back into herself and doze and dream till spring awakens her again. She will make no more birds and beasts and flowers yet awhile, for those are the thoughts she puts out, but collect herself into herself, hibernating in the infinite cave of the heavens. All the spring and the summer she has been so busy, thinking, thinking, and putting forth her thoughts. In the autumn she lies down and just looks at what she has made, and in the winter she sleeps. I love that life of the earth, which is so curiously independent of ours, pagan in its essence, you would think, and taking very little heed of the children of men and the sons of God. How odd she must think our businesses and ambitions, she who only makes, and feeds. What a spendthrift, too, how lavish of life, how indifferent to pain, and death, and all the ills that her nurselings make for themselves. She doesn't care, bless you." "You called her kind just now," I remarked. "Yes, she is kind to joy, because joy is productive. She loves health and vitality and love, but she has no use for anything else. It is only one aspect of her, however, the pagan side, which sets Pan a-fluting in the thickets. But what she makes is always greater than she who made it. She gives us and maintains for us till death our physical nature, and yet the moment she has given it us, even before perhaps, it has passed out of her hands, being transfused with God. Then, when she has done with us, she lets death overtake us, and has no more use for us, except in so far that our bodies can enrich her soil. She does not know, the pagan earth, that death is only an incident in our lives. The death of our body, as St. Francis says, is only our sister, for whom we should praise God just as much as for our life, or the sun and moon. Really, I don't know what I should do, how I should behave, if I thought it ever so faintly possible that death was the end of us. Should I take immense care of myself, so as to put off that end as long as possible, and in the interval grab at every pleasure and delight I could find? I don't think so. If I thought that death was the end, I think I should kill myself instantly, out of sheer boredom. All the bubble would have gone out of the champagne. I love all the pleasures and interests of life just because they are part of an infinitely bigger affair. If there wasn't that within them, I don't think I should care about them." "But if they are only part of the bigger thing," said I, "why don't we kill ourselves at once, in order to get to the bigger thing?" "Surely for a very good reason, namely, that whatever life lies beyond, it cannot be this life again. And this life is such awful fun: I want lots of it. But it doesn't rank in the same class with the other. I mean that no sensible fellow will want to prolong this at the expense of what comes after. Much as we like it, we are perfectly willing to throw it away if we are shown a sufficiently good cause to throw it away for. It's like a tooth: have it out if it aches. And life would ache abominably if we clung to it unworthily." Suddenly I felt horribly depressed. "Oh, Francis, don't die at the Dardanelles," I said. "I haven't the slightest intention of doing so. I sincerely hope I shall do nothing of the sort. But if I do, mind you remember that I know it is only an incident in life. As we sit here, secure in the sun and the safety, it is easy enough to realize that. But it is harder to realize it when it happens to someone you like, and people are apt to talk rot about the cruel cutting-short of a bright young life. My bright middle-aged life mustn't rouse these silly reflections, please, if it's cut off. They are unreal: there is a touch of cant about them. So promise!" "If you'll promise not to die, I'll promise not to be vexed at your death. Besides, you aren't middle-aged; you're about fourteen." "Oh, I hope I'm younger now at thirty-five than I was when I was fourteen. I used to be terribly serious at fourteen, and think about my soul in a way that was positively sickening. I wonder my bright young life wasn't cut short by a spasm of self-edification. I was a prig, and prigs are the oldest people in the world. They are older than the rocks they sit among, as Mr. Pater said, and have been dead many times. You didn't know me then, thank God." "Were you very beastly?" "Yes, quite horrible, and so old. Easily old enough to be my own father now, if that's what Wordsworth means when he says the child is father to the man. I thought a lot about my soul, and took great care of it, and wrapped it up. In fact, I set about everything entirely the wrong way. What does Thomas à Kempis say, do you remember? That a man must forsake himself, and go wholly from himself, and retain nothing out of self-love. He must give up his soul too, for it is only by giving it up that he avoids losing it...." He turned over again on his face, sniffing a sprig of thyme that still lingered into November. "And yet, oh, how I love all the jolly things in the world!" he said; "but I don't want them to be mine, and I don't think that I am entangled in them. Surely it is right to love them if you don't cling to them. I love the smile of the earth when she wakes in spring, and puts forth her thoughts again. When she thinks about hawthorn, she thinks in little squibs of green leaf, when she thinks about birds she thinks in terms of nightingale-song, or when she thinks about crocuses she sees her thoughts expressed in yellow chalices, with pollen-coated tongues. She thinks she has had enough of the grey winter-withered grass, and, lo, the phalanxes of minute green spears charge and rout it. She thinks in the scent of wall-flowers, and the swift running of lizards on the stone-walls, and pinks of peach-blossom, and foam of orchid-flower. My goodness, what a poet she is!" "And you aren't attached to all that?" I asked. "Of course I like it tremendously, but it doesn't entangle me any more. But I took years to disentangle myself, all those years when you thought I was being so lazy and ineffective in Alatri. Ineffective I was, no one ever made less of a splash than I have done; but lazy I wasn't. I thought, and I thought, and unconsciously to myself, while I was sunk, as I imagined, in a stupor of purring content with the world, this war woke me up, and, as you know, I found I wasn't entangled. But I have learned such a lot this year. I always liked people: I liked their funny ridiculous ways, their queernesses and their attractions. But I never got into them before. People are like oranges: the rind smells delicious, you like them first for the rind. Then just inside the rind you find that fluffy white stuff, but inside of all is the substance of them, in which lies their unity with God. There is this, too: when you get down to the fruit, you find that it has the same savour as the rind. I take it that the attraction of people, the thing you love them for, is the first thing you perceive about them, the aromatic rind. It's a hint of what is within, if you get through their fluffy part. You find first of all the emanation of their real selves, next their funny odd ways, and finally themselves. Deep in the heart of everyone you find what seemed at first their most superficial qualities. That's an excursus by the way; think it out for yourself." The sun was already wheeling westwards, and presently after, as we had half a dozen miles of this high down-land to traverse, we got up and went on our way. Here and there a copse of flaming beech climbed like stealthy fire up from the weald on to this roof of South England, on the ridge of which we walked; but the prevalent wind from the sea had so continuously blown their branches in one direction that now they grew there, brushed back in permanence, as Francis suggested, like the hair of a Knut. Northwards and far below the weald stretched into misty distances, laid out like a map, with here and there a pond, here a group of clustered houses, while a moving plume of steam marked the passage of a train. Mile after mile of springy turf we traversed, empty and yellowing and uniform, save where a patch of brambles lay dark, like the shadow from a cloud. Once or twice we passed a dew-pond dug in the chalk, but otherwise in all those miles we found no sign up here on the heights of the fretful ways and works of man. All was untouched and antique: a thousand years had wrought no more change here than on the liquid plain of the sea. A steady westerly breeze met us all the way, warmed with the leagues of autumn sunshine through which it had travelled all day, and it streamed past us like some quiet flowing river out of the eternal reservoir of the sky. And never, even in children, round whom there still trail the clouds of glory, have I seen such ecstatic and natural enjoyment as was Francis's. Around them, perhaps, linger the lights that play outside the prison-house, but to him, it seemed that into the prison-house itself there streamed in such a jubilation of sunshine that every vestige of shade was banished. Like the petroleum-tins, when first illumination had come to him, the whole world shone with God, and that in no vague and mystical manner, but with a defined and comprehended brightness. Here was no dream-like mysticism, no indifferent contemplation like that of the Quietists, but an active and ecstatic enjoyment, eager and alert, and altogether human. He moved in a fairyland, the magic of which was not imaginary and fabulous; the spell lay in the very fact that it was real. He was convinced by the conviction that comes from personal experience: the glory that enveloped the world was as certain as the streaming wind and the pervasion of the autumn sun. It was no haphazard intoxication of animal spirits that possessed him, no wild primal delight in health and physical vigour, it was a joy that had had its birth in thought and contemplation, and had passed through dark places and deserts. But, even as the sunlight of ages past sleeps in seams of coal, ready to burst into blaze, so through darknesses and doubts had passed the potential sunlight of his soul, black, you would say, and dormant, but alive and pregnant with flame, when the finger of God touched it into illumination. For him no longer in gloomy recesses sat Pan, the incarnate aspect of the cruelty and the lust of Nature, the sight of whom meant death to the seer, but over all the world shone the face of Christ, Who, by the one oblation of Himself, had transfused His divine nature into all that lived and moved. This was no fact just accepted, and taken for granted: it was the light from which sprang all his joy of life, the one central and experienced truth which made all common things sacred, and opened for him, as for all mystics who have attained the first illumination, the gates of pearl within which shines the Heavenly Kingdom. This was no visionary place: it stood solid about him, an Earthly Paradise no less than a heavenly, and men and women were its citizens, the hills and valleys, the birds and beasts of this actual world were of it, the blaze of the westering sun lit it, and this wind from the West streamed over it. And yet it was the actual kingdom of heaven. Francis told me that day how he had attained to where he stood. It was by no vague inactive passivity, but by stern and unremitting training of the mind and spirit. He had learned by hard work, first of all, to concentrate his mind on some given concrete object, to the exclusion of all other objects, forcing himself, as he put it, "to flow into this one thing." By slow degrees he had so cultivated this power that he was able at last to be conscious of nothing else than that on which he fixed his attention, making all his faculties of perception concentrate upon it. One of the objects of his meditation had often been the stone-pine in our garden at Alatri, and "opening himself to it," as he said, he saw it not only as it was in shape and form, but into his mind were conveyed its whole nature and formation; not by imagining them, so it seemed to him, for himself, but by receiving suggestions from outside. He felt it growing from the pine-seed of a cone that had dropped there; he felt it as a sapling, and knew how its roots were groping their ways underground, one to the north, another to the south, to anchor it from the stress of winds. He felt the word go forth among the spiders and creeping things that here was a new city a-building for their habitations. Out of the sapling stage it passed into mature life, and stripped itself of its lower branches, concentrating its energy on its crown of foliage. The soft sappy bark hardened itself to resist the rains, the roots spread further and further, and burrowed more deeply: the murmur of sea began to nest in its branches, and its shadow spread like a pool around it. It grew fruitful with cones that opened themselves so that its seed might ripen; it became a town of fertility. All this came, not student-wise, but from eager meditation, a vision evoked not from within, but seen through the open windows of his mind. A new mode of sight dawned on him. From meditation on concrete and visible things he passed to meditation on abstract qualities, which clothed themselves in images. He saw Mercy, a woman with hands of compassion, touching and remitting the debts of the crowd that brought the penalties they had incurred: he saw Truth, nude and splendid, standing on the beach, fresh from the sea, with a smile for those who ignorantly feared him, and anger blazing from his eyes for those who tried to hide from him, and hands of love for those who came to him. But such visions never came to the scope of his physical sight, only by interior vision did he see Mercy bending to him, and Truth holding out a strong and tender hand. Their presences lived with him, and the gradual realization of them caused a shining company to stand round him. * * * * * But they were not what he sought: he sought that which lay behind them, that of which, for all their splendour, they were but the pale symbols and imperfect expressions. They were the heralds of the King, who attended in his presence-chamber, and came forth into the world radiant with his tokens. There were strange presences among them: there came Sorrow with bowed head, and Pain with pierced hands, and that darkness of the soul which still refuses to disbelieve in light. Often he turned his face from these storm-vexed visitants, crying out that they were but phantoms of the pit, and yet not quite endorsing his rejection of them, for their wounded hands shone, and there lurked a secret behind the tragedy of their faces.... We had come to the end of the ridge, and must descend into the plain below us. The sun had just set, and the wind that still blew steadily from the West held its breath for a moment. "They took their places there," said Francis, "until they became friendly and glorious, and I did not fear them any longer. I knew what they represented, of what they were the symbols. Just as I had contemplated the stone-pine till I saw what was the nature from which it sprang, so I contemplated Sorrow and Doubt, till I saw that they had come from the Garden of Gethsemane. They are as holy as Mercy or Truth, and their touch sanctifies all the pain and sorrow that you and I and the whole world can ever feel. I dwelt within them. I learned to love them. I learned also to do the daily tasks that were mine, no longer with any sense of the triviality of them or with the notion that I might have been better employed on larger things. But for a long time, employed on this common round, nothing more happened: I just went on doing them, believing that they were part of a great whole, but not, I may say, energetically conscious of it. Then one day, as I told you, I saw God shining from the petroleum-tins and the shelves of the store." * * * * * There are certain moments in one's life that are imperishably photographed on the mind, and will live there unblurred and unfaded till the end. I think the reason for this (when so much that seemed important at the time, constantly fades from one's memory) is that in some way, great or small, they mark the advent of a new perception, and this sense of enlightenment gives them their everlasting quality. They are thus more commonly associated with childish days, when discoveries are of more frequent occurrence than is the case in later years. Certainly now the smell of lilac is hugely significant to me because of that one moment when, at the exploring age of five, I was first consciously aware of it. It was time to go to bed, though the sunlight still lay level across the garden where we children played, and the nurse who had come to fetch us in, relented, and gave us five minutes' grace, the granting of which at that moment seemed to endow one with all that was really desirable in life. Simultaneously the evening breeze disentangled the web of fragrance from the lilac bush near which I stood, and cast it over me, so that, imperishable to this day, the scent of it is mixed up in my mind with a mood of ecstatic happiness. What went before that, what had been the history of the afternoon, or what was the history of the days that followed, has quite gone, but vignetted for ever for me is the smell of the lilac bush and the rapture of five minutes more play. The first conscious sight of the sea, lying grey and quiet beneath a low sky, is another such picture, and another such, I am sure, will be the sight of Francis's face as he stood there facing westwards, with the glow of molten clouds on it, and with the wind just stirring his hair, as he stood bare-headed, and spoke those last words. The memory of our walk that day may grow dim, much may get blurred and indistinct in my mind, but his face then, alight with joy, not solemn joy at all, but sheer human happiness, will live to me in the manner of the lilac-scent, and the first sight of the sea. It was new; never before had I seen so complete an exuberance, so unshadowed a bliss. We returned to town next morning. Two days later he rejoined his regiment. DECEMBER, 1915 Duty under a somewhat threadbare disguise of pleasure has the upper hand just now, in this energetic city, and we spend a large number of our afternoons each week seated in half-guinea and guinea stalls, and watch delightful entertainments at theatres or listen to concerts at private houses, got up for the benefit of some most deserving charity, and for the really opulent there are seats at three or five guineas. These entertainments are as delightful as they are long, and we have an opportunity two or three times a week of seeing the greater part of our prominent actors and actresses, and hearing the most accomplished singers and players on all or more than all of the musical instruments known to Nebuchadnezzar pour forth a practically endless stream of melody. Certainly it is a great pleasure to hear these delightful things, but, as I have said, it is really duty that prompts us to live for pleasure, for the pleasure, by incessant wear, is getting a little thin. We should not dream of spending so much on seats in theatres if we were not contributing to a cause. Often tea of the most elaborate and substantial style is thrown in, and thus our bodies as well as our minds are sumptuously catered for. Soon, I suppose, when we have once freed our minds from the nightmare of Zeppelins, we shall have these entertainments in the evening with dinner thrown in. The only little drawback connected with them is concerned with the matter of tickets. Naturally you do not want to go alone, and in consequence, when you are asked to take tickets you take two guinea ones if you are rich, and if not two half-guinea ones. There is no question of refusing. You have got to. But it is not so easy as you would imagine to get somebody to go with you to these perpetual feasts of histrionic and vocal talent, for everyone else has already taken two tickets, and is eagerly hunting for a companion at these entertainments on behalf of funds for Serbians, Russians, French, Italians, Red Cross, eggs for hospitals, smokes for sailors, soup kitchens, disabled horses, bandages, kit-bags, mine-sweepers, cough lozenges, for aeroplanists, woollen mufflers, and all the multifarious needs of those who are or have been taking a hand in the fight. Indeed, sometimes I think those entertainments are a little overdone, for a responsible admiral told me the other day that if any more woollen mufflers were sent to the fleet it would assuredly sink, which would be a very disastrous consequence of too ardent a spirit of charity. But till the fleet sinks under the woollies that are poured into it, and the kitchens are so flooded with soup as to be untenable, I suppose we shall continue to take two stalls and wildly hunt about for someone to occupy the second, between the hours of two and seven-thirty. But whether there is a theatrical entertainment or not on any particular day, it is sure to be a flag day. You need not buy two flags, though you have been obliged to take two stalls--until you have lost the first one. But it is as essential as breathing to buy one flag, if you propose to go out of doors at all, and on the whole it is wiser to buy your decoration from the first seller that you see. It is your ransom; the payment of this amiable blackmail ensures your unmolested passage through the streets. True, for a time, you can play a very pretty game which consists in crossing the street when you see a flag-seller imminent, and proceeding along the opposite pavement. Soon another flag-seller will be imminent there also, upon the approach of whom you cross back again to your original pavement. But sooner or later you are bound to be caught: a van or an omnibus obstructs the clear view of the other side of the street, and after being heavily splashed with mud from the roadway, you regain the pavement only to find there is another flag-seller who has been in ambush behind the 'bus that has splashed you. If you are urgently in need of exercise you can step back again before encountering the privateer, but you know that sooner or later you will have to buy a flag, and on the whole it is wiser to buy it at once, and take your exercise with an untroubled mind, and a small garish decoration in your buttonhole. The flag-sellers for the most part, are elegant young females, who appear to enjoy this unbridled licence to their pillaging propensities, and as long as they enjoy it, I suppose flag-days will go on. But it would be simpler and fairer to add a penny to the income-tax, and divide it in just proportions between these harpy charities. Or, if that is too involuntary a method of providing funds for admirable objects, I should suggest that every seller of flags, should, in return for the privilege of helping in such good causes, start her own collection-box with the donation of one sovereign from herself. Then the beleaguered foot-passenger would feel that he was giving to one who had the cause for which she worked really at heart. * * * * * Just as patriotism has become a feature in the streets, so the same motif has made its appearance in the realms of art, and at these entertainments of which I have spoken, there has sprung up a new form of dramatic and topical representation. Sometimes it takes the form of a skit, and the light side of committees is humorously put before us, but more often the author, with a deadlier and more serious aim, shows us in symbolical form the Sublimity of Patriotism. Somehow these elevating dramas make me blush. I am not ashamed of being patriotic, but I cannot bear to see patriotism set to slow music in front of the footlights, and in the presence of those blue-coated men with crutches or arms in slings. The general audience feel it too, and as the curtain goes up for the patriotic sketch, an uncomfortable fidgety silence invariably settles down on the house. The manner of the drama is usually somewhat in the following style: Britannia, in scarlet with a gold crown, is seated in the centre of the stage, and on each side of her is a row of typical female figures, whom she addresses collectively as "Sisters" or "Children." In a few rhyming lines she gives vent to some noble sentiments about the war, and calls on each in turn to express her opinion. As these assembled females represent Faith, Hope, Belgium, Mother, Wife, Sweetheart, Serbia, Child, Justice, Mercy, Russia, Victory and Peace, a very pleasant variety of sentiments is expressed. Faith brandishes a sword with an ingenious arrangement by which electric lights spring out along the blade, and expresses complete confidence in the righteousness of the cause for which she unsheathed it. Hope looks forward to a bright dawn, and fixes her eyes dreamily on the Royal Box. Belgium, giving way to very proper emotion when she mentions Namur (rhyming to "poor"), sinks back on her chair, and Britannia, dismounting from her throne, lays a hand on her shoulder and kisses her hair. She then gives Belgium into the care of Faith, and dashing away a tear, resumes her throne, and asks Mother what she has to say. Mother and Wife then stand hand in hand and assure Britannia that they have sent their son and husband to the war because it was their duty to send him and his to go. Mother knows the righteousness of the cause. Faith crosses, presses the electric light, and with illuminated sword in hand, kisses Mother. Mother kisses Faith. Wife knows it too, and looks forward to the bright dawn of which Hope has spoken (Hope crosses and embraces Wife: momentary Tableau, accompanied on the orchestra by "Land of Hope and Glory." Britannia rises and bows to the audience). When the applause has subsided, they resume, and Britannia calls on Sweetheart. Sweetheart trips out into the front of the stage, and goes through a little pantomime alone, but it is at once apparent that in her imagination there is a male figure there. There are little embracings: she promises the unseen figure not to cry any more, but to write to him (B.E.F.) every day. Britannia calls her, "Brave girl." Britannia (pointing to Child, with a voice already beginning to break with emotion): "And you, my little one?" Long pause. Child (in a high treble): "Oh, Mrs. Britannia, do let Daddy come home soon!" (Pause.) "Won't he come home soon, Mrs. Britannia?" Britannia (choking): "My little one!" (Sobs.) "My little one!" (Faith, Hope, Mother, etc., all turn aside and hide their faces, with convulsive movements of their shoulders. Eventually Hope looks firmly up at the Royal Box, and a loud click is heard as Faith tries to light the electric sword. As it is out of order, she merely holds it up. This is the cue for the play to proceed.) Justice is rather fierce, and as she speaks about an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, Britannia rises and with a majestic look sets her teeth and flashes her eyes. Mercy intervenes, telling Justice that they are sisters, Justice acknowledges the soft impeachment, and hides her head on Mercy's shoulder, who reminds her that the quality of Mercy is twice blest, which is very pleasant for her as she _is_ Mercy. Rolls of drum in the orchestra punctuate what Victory has to say, which is just as easily described as imagined, but is scarcely worth description. Then a soft smile irradiates Britannia's face, and she says: "And now that Victory's won I call The fairest sister of you all." On which Peace advances and crowns Britannia with a green wreath, and a small stuffed pigeon descends from above Britannia's head and hovers. The curtain descends slowly to long soft chords on the orchestra. The applause of relief sounds faintly from various quarters of the house. The curtain instantly ascends again and shows the same picture. It goes up and down five or six times. Then it parts, and Britannia comes out and bows to the house. She smiles at someone behind the curtain, and extends her hand. A small man in a frock coat and an expression of abject misery comes out and clutches it. The audience come to the conclusion that he must be the author, and with the amiable idea of putting him out of his misery applaud again. On which Britannia advances a little to the left and again beckons behind the curtain. On which Child runs out, and (as previously instructed) after an alarmed survey of the house, hides its little face in the ample folds of Britannia's gown. Murmurs of sympathy. Britannia (who has a way with her) encourages the infant (who has done this fifty times before, and is really as brazen as brass) and points to the Royal Box. Child drops curtsy, amid more applause. Faith, Hope, Mother, Wife, History, Geography, Belgium, Peace, Mathematics, Victory, Suicide, Phlebotomy, Green Grocery and any other symbolical figures that there may be, join the group one by one. They all bow, the audience continues applauding: Faith (having mastered the unruly mechanism) lights up her sword. Peace holds aloft the Dove. Belgium's hair falls down.... The lights go up in the theatre, and guinea stall turns to guinea stall with a sigh. "Oh, George Robey next," she says. "I hope he'll play golf." * * * * * Now I want to make my position clear. I think it wonderfully kind of all these eminent ladies to spend all this time and trouble in giving us this patriotic sketch. I think it wonderfully clever of the gentleman who wrote it to have made it all up, and thought of all those rhymes. I think every single sentiment expressed in his drama to be absolutely unexceptionable, and, as we hear from the pulpit, "True in the best sense of the word," without even inquiring what that cryptic utterance means. But there seems to me to be two weighty objections to the whole affair: it is all utterly devoid of the sense of humour and of the sense of decency. You may say that when treating of such deeply-felt matters as Faith and Victory and Mother and Child, a sense of humour would be out of place. I do not agree: it is the absence of the sense of humour that causes it to be so ridiculous. As for the propriety of presenting such things on the stage, I can only say that the Lord Chamberlain ought never to have allowed this and fifty other such pieces to appear, on grounds of indecent exposure. To present under such ruthless imagery the secret and holiest feelings of the heart is much worse than allowing people to appear with no clothes on. It is all true, too: there is its crowning horror. It is just because it is so sacredly true that it is totally unfit for public production. There are things you can't even talk about ... and they are just these things that the author of this abomination has put into the mouths of these eminent actresses. And the bowings and the scrapings, and the return of the actors, all smiles to their friends in the audience.... Oh, swiftly come, George Robey, and let us forget about it! * * * * * In this blear-eyed December, which, with its stuffy dark days and absence of sunshine, seems like some drowsy dormouse faintly conscious of being awake, and desiring only to be allowed to go to sleep again, there is an immense amount of activity going on. As in those ample entertainments for the sake of something, there is exhibited on the part of actors, authors and audience an intense desire to be doing something, so in the general life of the country there is a sense of being busy, being strenuous, doing work of some sort in order to experience the narcotic influence of occupation. The country is unhappy, and since England is a very practical country, it is stifling its spiritual unhappiness by being busy. It does things to prevent its thinking about things, and though it does very foolish things, it shows its common-sense in doing something rather than encourage its unhappiness by brooding over it. Herein, it shows its inherent vitality: were it less vital it would abandon itself to gloomy reflection. But it does not: it is tremendously busy, and so with set purpose deprives itself of the tendency to think. That is not very difficult, for, as a nation, we cannot be considered good at thinking. Now considering that all action of whatever kind is the direct result of thought, it would seem at first sight, when we observe the amazing activities of most people, that these same people must think a great deal. But as a matter of fact, most people, so far from thinking a great deal, hardly think at all, and the greater part of their consistent activity is the result of mere habit. The baby, for instance, who is learning to walk, or the girl who is learning to knit, think immensely and absorbedly about these locomotive and involved accomplishments, just because they have not yet formed the habit of them. But a few years later, the baby who has become a man will give no thought at all to the act of walking and, indeed, to walk (the feat which once so engaged his mind), now sets his mind free to think, and he finds that problems which require to be thought out are assisted to their solution by the act that once required so much attention: similarly the grown-up woman often really talks and attends better to other things when she is engaged in knitting. The accomplishment has soaked in through the conscious to the sub-conscious self, and demands no direction from the practical mind. It is on the lines of this analogy that we must explain the fact that many very active people are almost incapable of sustained or coherent thought. Many of their activities are matters of habit; they order dinner or look at a picture exhibition or argue about the war with no more thought than the man who walks or the woman who knits. They can be voluble about post-impressionism because at one time they acquired the habit of talking about it, and to do so now requires no more exercise of the reflective or critical qualities than does the ordering of a beef-steak pudding. Oh, if they argue about the war, most people have no original ideas of any kind on the subject: they mix round, as in an omelette, certain facts they have seen in the official telegrams, with certain reflections they have read in the leaders of their papers, and serve up, hot or cold, as their fancy dictates. But they do not think about it. Thought, in fact, not merely abstract thought, but a far less difficult variety, namely, definite coherent thought about concrete things, is an extremely rare accomplishment among grown up people. We are often told that it is infinitely harder to learn anything when we are of mature age than when we are young, and this is quite true, the reason for it being that we now find it more difficult to think since we have so long relied on muddling along under the direction of habit. And even the people who think they think are not in most cases the real owners of their thoughts. They borrow their thoughts, as from a circulating library, and instead of owning them, return them slightly damaged at the end of a week or two, and borrow some more. They do not think for themselves: they stir about the stale thoughts of others and offer their insipid porridge as a home-industry. This secondhand method of thinking is strangely characteristic of our race, in contradistinction to French and German methods of thought, and is admirably illustrated by the anecdote concerning the camel. An Englishman, a Frenchman and a German were bidden to write an essay on that melancholy beast, deriving their authorities from where they chose. The Englishman studied books of natural history at the British Museum, and when he had written an essay founded on them, went and shot a camel. The Frenchman took his hat and stick and went to the _Jardin des Plantes,_ where he looked at a real camel, and subsequently had a ride or two on its back. But the German did none of these things: he consulted no authority, he looked at no camel, but shutting himself up in his study, he constructed one from his inner consciousness. * * * * * Now whether this offspring of mentality was like a real camel or not, history does not tell us. Probably it was not, any more than the new map of Europe planned by Prussian militarism will prove like the map of Europe as it will appear in the atlases published, let us say, in 1918. But even if the German camel was totally unrecognizable as such, its constructor had shown himself capable of entering on a higher plane of thought than is intelligible to the ordinary Englishman. The German, in fact, as we are beginning to learn, is able to sit down and think, and out of pure thought to build up an image. The English are excellent learners, quick to assimilate and apply what others have thought out, the French are vivid and keen observers, but neither have the power of sustained internal thought which characterizes the Teuton, who incidentally is quite the equal of the Englishman at learning and of the Frenchman at observation. The German, for instance, thought out the doctrine of submarine warfare, and to our grievous cost applied it to our shipping. Similarly they thought out the doctrine of trench warfare, supplemented by gas, then the French, with their marvellously quick powers of observation, saw and comprehended and applied. In fact, the two great German inventions conceived by them, and originally used by them, have been adopted and brought to a higher pitch of perfection by their adversaries. But if only any of our allied nations could pick up from them the power of concentrated and imaginative thought, for the root of the matter is imagination! We proverbially muddle through, and when occasion arises, by dint of a certain stubbornness and admirable stolidity, though pommelled and buffeted, eventually learn by experience a successful mode of resistance. But constitutionally, we appear incapable of initiating ideas. We cannot imagine an occasion, but can only meet the occasion when somebody else imagines it. Of all the disappointments of this year this is the root. We cannot invent: we can only counter. We have not the power of constructive imagination, which is the mother and father of original actions. But when our adversaries indulge in original actions, we can (on occasion) think out an answer to them which is perfectly effective. We can resist and we can hit back when we are hit, but at present we have not shown that we are capable of imagining and dealing the first blow. Perhaps this may come, for it goes without saying that we were notoriously unready at the beginning of the war, and had our hands full and overfull with countering the blows that were rained on us. We were on the defensive and could barely maintain the defence, and could not possibly have collected that coiled force which is necessary for any offensive movement. But if after sixteen months of war we do not begin to show signs of it, it is reasonable to wonder whether the cause of this is not so much that we lack the battering power, but that our statesmen and our generals lack the imagination out of which original plans are made. True, there have been two original schemes, namely, that of forcing the Dardanelles and capturing Bagdad, and if these show the quality of our originality, perhaps we are better without it ... It is natural that the stress of war should have brought out the deep-rooted, inherent qualities of the nations engaged, and those qualities are just those that strike you first in a man of whatever nationality. When you know him a little better, you think you detect all sorts of other qualities, but when you come really to know him--singly or collectively--he is usually just such as you first thought him to be. Indeed, it is as Francis said about the orange: the rind has the savour of the fruit within, between the two there is a layer of soft, pulpy stuff. But when you get through that, the man, the essential person is like the taste of the rind. This has been immensely true with regard to the war. On the surface the French strike anyone who comes in contact with them as full of admirable fervour: there is the strong, sharp odour about them, there is a savour that penetrates. Then you get to know them just a little better, and you find a woolly and casual touch about them, which you, in your ignorance born out of a little knowledge, take to be the real spirit of the French. But when intimate acquaintance, or the stripping of the surface takes place, how you must alter your estimate again, going back to your first impression. You meet the fervour, the strong sharp odour again, and it goes into the heart of the nation. The Frenchman is apt on first acquaintance to seem too genuine, too patriotically French to be real. But when you get within, when the stress of war has revealed the nation and shown the strong beating of its heart, how the fervour and the intensity of savour persist! What you thought was superficial you find to be the quality that dwells in the innermost. He will easily talk about _La France_ and _La gloire_ when you first get acquainted with him, but when he stands revealed you find that he talks about it easily because it is the spring and source of his being. The same holds with the German. When first you get speaking-acquaintance with a German, you consider him brutal and beery and coarse and loud-tongued. You penetrate a little further, and find him watching by the Rhine and musical and philosophical, a peaceful, aloof dreamer. Such, at any rate, was the experience of Lord Haldane. But when the pulpy, stringy layer is stripped off, when the stress of war makes penetration into his real self, you find him again to be as you first thought him, coarse and brutal and clamant, the most overweening individual in all creation. Both with the French and the German you revised your first impressions when you thought you began to know him, only to find when the real man is revealed that he is as you first thought him. And though it is the hardest thing in the world for anyone to form even an approximately true estimate of the race to which he belongs, I think that the same holds of the English. They are at heart very much what they appear to be on the surface, blundering but tenacious, slow to move, but difficult when once on the move to stop. But really, when I try to think what the English are like, I find I can form no conclusion about them, simply because I am of them. * * * * * I have just had a long letter from Francis, a letter radiant with internal happiness. The exterior facts of life cannot much contribute to that, for the place where he now is consists, so he tells me, entirely of bare hill-side, lined with shallow trenches, bullets and swarms of drowsy flies. He hints in a cryptic manner his belief that he will not remain there very long, leaving me to make any conjecture I please. But in the lines and between them I read, as I said, a radiance of happiness. He knows, with a strength that throttles all qualms of the flesh, that does not, indeed, allow them to exist at all, the bright shining of the light invisible, that diffused illumination in which no shadow can be cast. And as in that walk we had on the downs, the knowledge fills him not only with inward bliss, but with intense physical enjoyment, so that he can be humorous over the horrors of existence on that damned promontory. He is genuinely amused: for nobody was ever such a poor hand at dissimulation as Francis. He finds things to enjoy in that hell; more than that, he finds that hell enjoyable: his letter breathed that serenity of well-being which is the least imitable thing in the world. Meantime, he wants the news of everyday happenings, "without any serious reflections, or the internal stomach-ache of pessimists." These rather pointed remarks refer, I am afraid, to my last letter to him, to which he does not otherwise allude. He quotes Mr. Longfellow's best-known poem (I am afraid also) in the spirit of mockery, and says: "'Life is real, life is earnest,' and if you doubt it, come out to Suvla Bay and see. We are damned earnest out here, and I haven't seen anybody who doubts that Life is extremely real: so are the flies. What I want to know is the little rotten jokes and nonsense, the things you talk about when you don't think what you are talking about. Here's one: the other day I was opening a tin of potted meat, and a bit of shrapnel came and took the tin clean out of my hand. It didn't touch me; it simply whisked it neatly away. Another inch and my hand would have gone with it. But I hope you don't think I gave thanks for the lucky escape I had had. Not a bit: I was merely furious at losing the potted meat. It lay outside the trench (a trench out here is a tea-spoonful of earth and pebbles which you pile up in front of you, and then hide yourself behind it), and I spent the whole of the afternoon in casting for it, with a hook on a piece of string. I was much more interested in that than in the military operations. I wanted my potted meat, which I think you sent me. Well, what I should like you to write to me about, is the things that the part of me which wanted the potted meat would like to hear about. Patriotism and principles be blowed, bless them! That's all taken for granted--'granted, I'm sure,' as the kitchen-maid said. "Francis. "P.S.--You alluded to a grey parrot, in one letter. For God's sake, tell me about the grey parrot. You just mentioned a grey parrot, and then no more. Grey parrot is what I want, and your cat, and all the little, rotten things that are so tremendously important. Write me a grey parrot letter." Well, the grey parrot is rather interesting ... and her name is Matilda, and if you want to know why she is Matilda, you have only got to look at her. If words have any suggestiveness to your mind, if there is to you any magic about them, or if they, unbidden, conjure up images, I should not be surprised if the word "Matilda" connoted to you a grey parrot. It would be more surprising if, when you become acquainted with my grey parrot, you did not become aware that she _was_ Matilda. I don't see how you can get away from the fact that she must, in the essentials of her nature, be Matilda. Presently you will see what Matilda-ism is: when it is stated, you will know that you knew it all along, but didn't know you knew it. The same sort of thing happened to somebody, when he became aware that all his life he had been writing prose. And very good prose it was.... Here, then, begins the introduction to Matilda-ism, in general terms to be applied later. MATILDA-ISM We all of us know (even the most consistent of us) those baffling instincts which lead us to act in manners incompatible with each other, simultaneously. That is not so puzzling as it sounds (nor sounds quite as ungrammatical as it is), and an instance will clarify the principle. For who does not understand and in measure sympathize with the careful housewife who embarks on a two-shilling taxicab expedition in order to purchase some small household commodity at sixpence less than she could have bought it for across the road? The motive of her expedition is economy, and therefore she lashes out into bewildering expenditure in order to achieve it. Economy, in fact, is the direct cause of her indulging in totally unnecessary expenditure. She ties herself to the stake with one hand, ready to be burned for the sake of her faith, and offers incense to the heathen gods with the other. It is this strain of self-contradictory conduct that I unhesitatingly label Matilda-ism, for, as far as I am aware, there is no other succinct term in the English language which sums up and expresses it. (Besides, it is characteristic of my grey parrot, for as you shall presently see, this is what Matilda does.) You cannot explain this incompatibility of action and principle otherwise: it is not vacillation, it is not infirmity of purpose, for the economical housewife is one mass of purpose and her motive is as pure as Parsifal. Simply in pursuance of her economical design, she rushes into expense. Nor is it the sign of a weak intellect, for Matilda's grasp of a subject is, like Mrs. Micawber's, inferior to none, and yet Matilda is the great example of the quality which takes its name from her. She does not spare thought and industry, perhaps, if anything, she thinks too much, which may account for the inadequacy of her plumage. She has been ill, too, lately, which perhaps makes her plumage worse, for she has been suffering from some obscure affection of the brain. But since her illness her Matilda-ism has been more marked than ever, and I prefer to think that it is Thought which has accounted both for the illness and her abnormal moultings. She had that rare disease, beloved of novelists, called Brain-fever. People's hair, we are told, falls out after brain-fever, and so did Matilda's feathers. But I am sure that Matilda would sooner go naked, than cease to think. Unlike most women, Matilda does not care about her clothes, and unlike most birds, she does not scoop and preen herself after breakfast. She gives one shake, and then settles down to her studies, which consist in observing, with a scornful wonder, all that goes on round her. When first she came here, she was in no hurry to draw conclusions, or commit herself hastily to irrevocable words, for she sat and waited without speech for some six weeks, until I thought she was either dumb or had nothing to say. Then, unlike Mr. Asquith, she ceased to wait and see, and began calling the kitchen-maid (Mabel) in a voice so like the cook's, that that deluded young lady came running from the scullery into the kitchen, to find no cook there at all, at all, but only a grey parrot, that sat with stony, half-closed eyes on her perch. Then, as she went out again, believing that some discarnate intelligence had spoken to her, Matilda laughed at her in a rude, hoarse voice that was precisely like the milkman's, mewed like the cat, and said "Cuckoo" a number of times. (This she had learned last spring in the country, and was unaware that there were no cuckoos in London ever, or even in the country in November.) Matilda, in fact, with her powerful intellect and her awful memory, had been taking stock of everybody, and not telling anybody about it. Now that it was well within her power to deal with every situation that could possibly arise in a mocking manner, she decided to begin talking and taking an active part, that of the critic, in life. Simultaneously, she began to reveal what Matilda-ism was. At this period, since she was too accomplished to be limited to the kitchen, I took her upstairs. I thought she would meet more people there, and enlarge, if possible, a mind that was already vast. Her first definite elucidation of Matilda-ism was to make love in the most abandoned manner to the green parrot. She wooed him in the style that the Bishop of L-nd-n so rightly deprecates, with loud Cockney whistles and love-lorn eyes. Of course Joey seemed to like that, and their cages were moved close together, in the hope that eventually they would make a match of it, and that most remarkable babies would chip the shells of their eggs. Matilda continued to encourage him, and one day, when their cages were now quite close to each other, the green gentleman, trembling with excitement, put out a horned claw, and introduced it into Matilda's cage. On which Matilda screamed at the top of her voice and bit it viciously. I thought at the time that this was only an exhibition of the eternal feminine, which encourages a man, and then is offended and indignant when he makes the natural response to her invitations, but in the light of subsequent events, I believe it to have been Matilda-ism. She was not being a flirt, simply, while she adored, she hated also. It was Matilda, you see: all the time it was Matilda waiting to be classified. Matilda knew perfectly well what a cat says: she knew, too, that a cat is called "Puss," and, putting two and two together, she always said "Meaow" when you went to her cage and said "Puss." This is synthetic reasoning, like that of the best philosophers, and, all the world over, is taken as a mark of the highest intelligence. Similarly, she knew that my dog is called Taffy, and (by a converse process inaccessible to any but the finest minds) if you went to her cage and said "Bow-ow-ow," she responded with the neatness of a versicle, "Taffy, Taffy, Taffy." But--and this is Matilda-ism--when Taffy came near her cage she invariably mewed to him, and when a cat came near her cage, she barked. She did not confuse them; Matilda's brain shines illustriously above the clouds of muddle. She preferred to abandon synthetic reasoning, and create Matilda-ism. I must insist on this, for all the evidence goes to confirm it. For instance, if you pull a handkerchief from your pocket, she makes rude noises which cannot fail to remind you of the blowing of a nose oppressed by catarrh. Also, when Mabel left, she learned the name of the new kitchen-maid at once, and never made mistakes about it. But as she increased in years and wisdom, her ineradicable leanings towards Matilda-ism increased also. Then came the crisis in her life, the brain-fever to which I have alluded. She had a fit, and for five or six days was seriously ill in the spare-room, set high above the noises of the street, where no exciting sounds could reach her. But she recovered, and her recovery was held to be complete when from the spare-room where she had undergone her rest-cure, a stream of polyglot noises one morning issued forth. I took her back into my sitting-room again, and reminded her of the European War by saying, "Gott strafe the Kaiser." I thought this would bring her into touch with the world of to-day again, but for a long time she remained perfectly silent. But when I had said, "Gott strafe the Kaiser" two or three hundred times, she burst into speech with a loud preliminary scream. "Gott strafe Polly's head," she cried. "Gott save the King! Gott save the Kaiser! Gott scratch Polly's head. Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord! Cuckoo! Cuckoo. Puss, Puss, Puss! Bow-ow-ow!..." And the poor demented bird laughed in hoarse ecstasy, at having got in touch with synthetic reasoning again! Matilda-ism took control of all her thoughts. If a tea-cup was presented to her notice, she blew her nose loudly, though I cannot believe that she had ever seen a tea-cup used as a handkerchief. When Joey was put near her cage again she called him Taffy. She barked at the kitchen-maid, and mewed at the cook, and called the cat Mabel. All her correlations had gone wrong in that attack of brain-fever, and though she had shown signs of Matilda-ism before, I never thought it would come to this. She was a voluble mass of contradictory and irreconcilable propositions. All this I wrote to Francis, since he desired domestic and ridiculous information, but when the letter was sealed and dispatched, I could not help thinking that Matilda, real as she is, is chiefly a parable. It is impossible, in fact, not to recollect that King Constantine of Greece was very ill last spring (like Matilda), and subsequently (i) invited the Allies to land at Salonica, and (ii) turned M. Venizelos out of office. It all looks traitorous, but perhaps it is mere Matilda-ism. But I am not sure that it would not be better for him to have some more brain-fever, and have done with it. * * * * * A postscript must be added. I took Matilda into the country, when I went there for a few days last week. One morning she saw a ferret being taken out of a bag, and instantly sang, "Pop goes the Weasel." I think that shows a turn for the better, some slight power of sane synthesis lurks in the melody, for a ferret is a sort of weasel. I am naturally optimistic, and cannot help wondering whether a change of air might not produce a similar amelioration in the case of King Constantine. Russia, for instance.... I had intended to keep these annals of Matilda detached from the war, but it has wound its way in again, as King Charles's head invaded the chronicles of Mr. Dick. There is no getting away from it: if you light a cigarette, you think of Turkey and the expedition to the Dardanelles; if you drink a glass of wine, you think of the trenches dug through the vineyards of France. And yet, how little, actually, has the war entered into the vital parts of the mass of English people. To large numbers, reckoned by thousands, it has made unhealable wounds, but into larger numbers, reckoned by millions, no prick of the sword has really penetrated. I wonder when some kind of awakening will come, when to the endless dormitories of drowsy sleepers, some smell of the burning, some sound of the flaming beams above their heads and below them will pierce their dreams. I pray God that on that day there will be no terrified plucking from sleep into realities vastly more portentous than any nightmare, but an awakening from sloth into an ordered energy. But up till now, a profound slumber, or at the most a slumber with coloured dreams, has possessed the spirit of the nation. Occasionally some sleeper, roused by the glare that burns sombrely on the placid night of normal human existence, has awoke and has screamed out words of Pythian warning. But his troubled awakening has but annoyed the myriads of other sleepers. One has growled out, "Oh, for God's sake, go to sleep again: there's the Navy;" another has murmured, "It's unpatriotic to be pessimistic;" a third has whispered, "God always permits us to muddle through." Sometimes the yell has startled another into futile whimperings, but then some retired Colonel, who writes for the papers, like a soft-slippered nurse, pads up to his bedside, and says, "Go to sleep again, dearie, I'm here," and the whimpering ceases, and the nurse pulls down the blind to keep the glare out of the eyes of the sleeper. Occasionally one of them makes such a to-do that an attendant hurries downstairs to fetch a member of the Government from the room where they are having such a pleasant chat over their wine, and he is given a glass of port, and asked to come downstairs in his dressing-gown and join the amusing supper-party. Sometimes he goes, sometimes he drinks his wine and prefers to go to sleep again instead. I don't know what would happen if he refused to go downstairs, and said he would go on screaming. But no one at present contemplates such an upsetting contingency. Besides, there is always the Censor, Auntie Censor, who can be stern when sternness is really wanted, and spank any obstreperous screamer with a ruthless blue pencil. * * * * * Everyone knows that particular (and disagreeable) climatic condition, when, during a frost, thaw becomes imminent. It may still be freezing, but there is something in the air which tells those who are susceptible to change just a little before change arrives that a thaw is approaching. The sensation cannot be accounted for by the thermometer, which still registers a degree or two of frost, but to those who have this weather prescience, it is quite unmistakable. Similarly in affairs not appealing to the merely physical sense, it sometimes happens that people are aware of a coming event implying change, before there is any real reason to justify their belief. This is so common a phenomenon that it has even been crystallized into an awkwardly-worded proverb which informs us that coming events cast their shadow before (meaning light), but to adopt the current phrase, there has lately been a great deal of shadow projected from the Dardanelles, and it is now a matter of general belief that that ill-planned, ill-executed expedition is about to be recalled, and that all the eager blood shed there will now prove to have been poured out over an enterprise that shall be abandoned as unrealizable. For many months now hearts have been sick with deferred hope, eyes dim with watching for the dawn that never broke, and it seems probable that "Too late" is to be scrawled in red over another abortive adventure, now to be filed away among failures under the appropriate letter D. It is idle to attempt to see any bright lining to the cloud which hangs over that accursed peninsula: all that can be hoped is that the gallant souls who still hold a corner of it, despite the misadventures, the miscalculations, the mismanagement that have for months punctuated heroism with halts and full stops written in crimson, will be bought off without the crowning record of some huge disaster. * * * * * Christmas approaches, and the furnaces of the world-war are being stoked up to burn with a more hideous intensity, while village choirs practise their hymns and anthems about peace on earth, good will towards men. Every decent Christian Englishman (_pace_ the pacifists) believes in the prime importance of killing as many Germans as possible, and yet no decent Christian Englishman will somehow fail to endorse with a genuine signature the message of the angelic host, even though his fingers itch for the evening paper, which he hopes contains some news of successful slaughter. That sounds like another instance of Matilda-ism, and mere discussion, as confined to the narrow sphere of rational argument, might easily leave the defender of such an attitude with not a leg to stand upon. But all the time (for argument at best can only prove what is not worth explaining) he will know at heart that his position has not been shaken by the apparent refutation, and he will give you his word (than which there is nothing greater and nothing less) that his contention, logically indefensible, is also unassailable. He can't explain, and it is better not to try. But he knows how it feels, which is more vital than knowing how to account for it. Logic and Euclid are not, after all, irrefutable, though they may be, by human reason, the final guides to human conduct. Everything cannot be referred to reason as to a supreme arbiter. Reason will lead you a long way across the plain, but beyond the plain there is, like a row of visionary blue mountains, a range of highland which is the abode of the riddles, the questions, the inconsistencies which are quite outside the level lands of reason. No one can tell why the Omnipotent Beneficence (some people hate to see the word God) ever allowed cancer and malarial mosquitoes and Prussian militarism to establish themselves so firmly on the earth which is the Lord's. It is impossible to explain this away, and unless you argue from the fact of their undoubted existence that there is no such thing as the Omnipotent Beneficence, and become that very silly thing called an atheist, the best thing you can do (collectively) is to look for the germs of cancer with a view to their destruction, cover with paraffin the breeding places of the mosquito, and help, if you have the good fortune still to be useful, in the extermination of Prussian militarism. All these three things are, very possibly, manifestations of the devil, and even if they are not (improbable as it sounds), they are so like manifestations of the devil, that we are justified in mistaking them for such. I am quite convinced of that, and am impervious to any argument about it. I "am in love and charity" (in my microscopic degree) "with my neighbours," but that would not prevent me killing a German with all the good will in the world, if I was put in the firing line, any more than it would prevent me squashing a malaria-carrying mosquito with my Prayer Book. And if I could sing (which I can't) I would bellow "Peace on earth, good will towards men," at the top of my voice, even while I was poising the Prayer Book or drawing a bead on the Prussians. "Inconsistent," I daresay, but why be consistent? Besides, deep down, I know it is consistent. Yet, though we all recognize the essential consistency of this apparent inconsistency, how we long, as with the yearning for morning through the dark hours of pain, for the time when such complication of instinct will have vanished. Twelve leaden months have dropped sullenly, one by one, into the well of time, salt with human tears, and those who were optimistic a year ago, believing that when Christmas next came round, Europe would have recovered from this madness of bloodshed, are less confident in their outlook for another Christmas. But few, I think, if a stroke of the pen could give back to the world that menacing tranquillity which preceded the war, would put their name to so craven a document. Now that we know what those faint and distant flashes of lightning meant in the years that saw us all sunk in the lethargy of opulent prosperity, now that we know what those veiled drowsy murmurs of thunder from Central Europe portended, we would not take in exchange for the days of direst peril, the false security that preceded them. Even as America now is drunk with dollars, so that no massacre of her citizens on the high seas will reduce her from the attitude of being too proud to fight, to the humbler office of resenting crimes that send her defenceless citizens without warning to the bottomless depths of the Atlantic, so we, with our self-sufficiency and our traditional sense of supremacy, could not be bothered to listen to the warnings of the approaching storm till with hail of fire it burst on us. Then, it is true, we ceased to dream, but ever since our kind nurses have done their best to cozen back those inert hours. "I'm sitting up, dearie," they say. "Just wait and see." * * * * * And at this point I will again pass over a year, that comprises the war events of 1916. In the spring the great German attack against Verdun opened, and for months the French stood steadfast, until that hail of hammer blows exhausted itself. Early in June was fought the naval battle of Jutland, announced by the German Press as so stupendous a victory, that for the rest of the year their fleet sheltered in Kiel, presumably because they had destroyed the British naval supremacy for ever. In August came the fall of Gorizia, and next month the entry of Rumania into the war, and a disastrous campaign followed. In Greece King Constantine continued his treacherous manoeuvres, but failed to exhaust the patience of the Allies. In December, lastly, came the bombastic announcement that the invincible and victorious Germany was willing from motives of magnanimous humanity, to grant peace to the crushed and trampled Allies, who had dared to dispute the might of her God-given destiny. A suitable reply was returned. JANUARY, 1917 It is a year since last I wrote anything in this book, and the year has passed with such speed that I can scarcely believe that the ink of December is dry. Nothing makes time slide away so fast as regular monotonous employment, and not only this year, but the year before that, and five months before that, seem pressed into a moment, dried and flattened. But all the things that happened before that, when in August, 1914, the whole of one's consciousness was changed, is incredibly remote. The war has made a cleavage across the continuity of life, and while the mind and the conscious self get to be at home in the changed existence, the line of cleavage does not become obliterated, but, on the contrary, appears steeper and more sheer-sided. The edges of the chasm have been covered over with the green growth of habit, of the adjustment that alone renders fresh conditions possible; but further and further away becomes the consciousness that there was once a time in which all Europe was not at war. In those golden years people used to discuss, just as they would discuss ghosts or the approach of a comet, the possibility of a German war, that would lead all Europe into the gate of Hell. But it was discussed theoretically as a subject of polite conversation, when topics that were really of interest, like Suffragettes or Home Rule in Ireland, ran dry. You talked about the comet, Halley's comet, that was going to destroy the world, and then you talked about a European war, that was going to destroy the world. And then you played the guessing game.... It was all one: just a matter of remote possibilities, based on an idea that you did not believe in. And then it came, not Halley's comet, or a ghost, but the third incredible happening. All that was before has receded into dim ages. You feel that "once upon a time," as in stories you tell to children, there was somebody else masquerading under your own name, and suppose that as by some conjuring trick he was mysteriously identical with you. If you were closely questioned you would allow that in 1913 you did this or that; you wanted something (and perhaps got it); you lived in a house in a certain street, and were popularly supposed to be the same person who lives in that or another house now. You would have to admit these facts, but deep down in yourself you would cling to the secret belief that it was somebody else who, under your name, did the things and lived the life that is supposed to have been yours. A label was attached to you then, which gave your name and address, and you find the same label round your neck still. For the sake of convenience you continue to answer to your name, and, in a manner of speaking, are responsible for the old lease. But all the time you feel that another person wears the label now. A different identity (that is your private opinion) inhabits your house. He wears the same (or similar) boots and shoes; he comes when he is called; he has a face that is still recognized by his friends. But though his friends recognize him, you scarcely recognize him yourself. He, who was nurtured in peace, has now but a remote memory of those tranquil years, and thinks they must surely belong to someone else. All he knows now is that since the foundation of the world he has lived in the midst of this grim struggle, which, since the foundation of the world, was as inevitable as the succession of night and day. Before the storm broke, somebody (himself probably, since everyone else says so) knew only that life was a pleasant business (or unpleasant, as the case may be), and that it would go on for a certain number of years, and that then an end would come to it. It was all very jolly, and a railway strike or the rise of the income-tax to, say, one and sixpence in the pound was the sum of the inconvenience ahead. In due time he would get pneumonia or cancer, or be run over by a motor-bus; but all those disheartening possibilities seemed quite remote. Then came the war, and it cleaved his former life from his present life as by an impassable chasm. That being so, he adjusted himself to his present life, and, if he was wise, ceased to waste time over thinking of the "jolly days" which preceded the changed conditions. And if he was wiser still, he did not throw the memory of the "jolly days" away, but put them in a box and locked it up. And if he was wisest of all, he said: "I am different, but the eternal things are not different," and went on just as usual. Indeed, why you do a thing matters far more than what you do. It is easy to conceive of a thoroughly lethargic person who, for mere want of vitality, lives a most respectable life. He has not energy enough--and thereby is less of a man--to commit the usual errors. But the question seriously arises as to whether he had not better be more of a man and commit them. I hasten over this difficult phase, and conceive of him again as more vital than ever, and abstaining from the usual crimes because he is now above them rather than below them. He looks down on them instead of gazing feebly up at them. In actual result, his conduct as regards errors is the same, but who can doubt about the respective values of the respective conducts? The two are poles apart (though in net and tangible result the extremes meet), for no one can say that the man who does not cheat at cards simply from fear of detection has the smallest spiritual affinity with the average person who plays honestly because he is honest. There is a periodical piece of business in shops and places where they sell things, called stock-taking, and, as its name implies, it consists in the owner going through the goods and seeing what he has got. It is a useful custom, not only in shops, but as applied by ordinary individuals to themselves, and the first day of a New Year is a date commonly in use as the day of internal stock-taking. Very sensible people will tell you that the division of one's life into years is a purely arbitrary arrangement, and that December 31st is not severed from January 1st by any more real division than July 3rd is severed from July 4th. But less superbly-constituted minds fall back on these arbitrary arrangements, and with the sense that they are starting again on January 1st, they often have a look round their cupboards and shelves to see what they have in hand. It is a disagreeable sort of business; you will find that your things have got very dusty and dirty, and that probably there is much that should be thrown away and but little that is worth keeping when you run over your record for the past year. But far more important than your actual conduct (as in the case of the two very different gentlemen, neither of whom cheats at cards) is the motive that inspired your conduct. If you are lucky you will perhaps find that you have done a certain number of good-natured things; you may have done some generous ones, but if you are wise, you will, before you let a faint smile of satisfaction steal over your mobile features, consider why you did them. You may have been good-natured out of kindness of heart; all congratulations if it is so; but you may find you have been good-natured out of laziness, in which case I venture to congratulate you again on having brought that fact home to yourself.... Indeed, this search for motive rather resembles what happens when you turn over a prettily marked piece of rock lying on the grass. It _may_ be all right, but sometimes you discover horrible creepy-crawlies below it, which, when disturbed, scud about in a disconcerting manner. Or again (which is more encouraging), you may come across an object--a piece of conduct, that is to say--which really makes you blush to look at it. But possibly, when you turn it over you may find that you really meant rather well, in spite of your deplorable behaviour. Hoard that encouragement, for you will want as much encouragement as you can possibly find if you intend to do your stock-taking honestly; otherwise, you will assuredly not have the spirit to go through with it. And when the stock-taking is done look at the total, which will certainly be very disappointing, without dismay, but with a sanguine hope that you will find a better show next year. Think it over well, and then dismiss the whole thing from your conscious mind. For to dwell too much on your stock-taking, or to take stock too often, produces a paralysing sort of self-consciousness. The man who sets his past failures continually before him is not likely to be much better in the future; while he who contemplates his past successes gets fat and inert with probably quite ill-founded complacency. One of the shrewdest philosophers who ever lived gives very sage advice on this point when he says: "And when he hath done all that is to be done, as far as he knoweth, let him think that he hath done nothing."... So we, who have not done one tithe of the things that we knew we ought to have done, will certainly have little excuse for thinking we have done something. * * * * * Another effect of this last year of tension, besides that of sundering our present lives and consciousness from pre-war days, is that it has made a vast quantity of people very much older. That has advantages and disadvantages, for while there are certainly many very admirable things connected with the sense of youth, there are some which are not so admirable when manifested by those of mature and middle age. It is admirable, for instance, that the middle-aged should have enough vitality to devote themselves to learning the fox-trot, or the bunny-bump, but it is less admirable that they should actually spend their vitality in doing so. The war has taken the wish to bunny-bump out of them, the desire for bunny-bumping has failed, and that has caused them to realize that they are not quite so young as they thought, or as they proposed to be for the next twenty years or so. The sense of middle-age has come upon them as suddenly as the war itself came, and many have found it extremely disconcerting. It is as if they were introduced to a perfect stranger, whom they have to take into their house and live with. They don't like the look of the stranger, nor his manners, nor his habits, and this infernal intruder does not propose, they feel, to make a short visit, but has come to stop with them permanently. He eats and walks and reads with them, and when they wake up at night they see his head on their pillow. He seems to them ungracious and angular and forbidding; they dearly long to get away from him, but that is impossible. What, then, are they to do? There is only one thing to be done, to make friends with him without loss of time, and never to regret the vanishing of the jolly days before he came. If they had been wise (hardly anybody is in this respect), they would have made friends with him long before he came as a permanent guest; they would have asked him to lunch, so to speak, on one day, and gone out a walk with him on another, and have thus got accustomed to his ways by degrees. But as they have not done that, they must resign themselves to a period of discomfort now. Probably they will find that he is much easier to get on with than they think at first. They fancy that they will never be happy again with that old bore always at their elbows, and it is quite true that they never will be happy again in the old way. They must find a new way, and the first step towards that is not to call this guest, middle-age, an old bore, but discover what he can do, and what his good points are. He really has a good many, if you take the trouble to look for them. He has not got the tearing high spirits which they are accustomed to, but he has a certain serenity which is far from disagreeable if you will be at the pains to draw it out. He is not very quick, he has but little of that quality compounded of wit and activity and nonsense which they were wont to consider the basis of all social enjoyment; but he has a certain rather kindly humour which gives a twinkle to the eye that sparkles no longer. He has boiled down his experiences, sad and joyful alike, into a sort of broth which is nutritive and palatable, though without bubble. But patience is one of its excellent ingredients, a wholesome herb, which, for all its homeliness, has a very pleasant taste. He can be a very good friend, not liable to take offence, and though his affections are not passionate, they are very sincere. But if you refuse to see his good points, and will not make friends with him (he will always allow you to do that; it is "up to you"), he will prove himself a very cantankerous old person indeed. He will give you the most annoying reminders of his presence, digging you with his skinny elbow, and making all sorts of sarcastic interruptions when you are talking. You will get to hate him more and more, for he will always be spoiling your pleasure until you are cordially inclined towards him. He will trip you up in the bunny-bump; he will give you aches and pains if you persist in behaving as if you were twenty-five still; he will make you feel very unwell if you choose to eat lobster-salad at sunrise. And you can't get rid of him; the more strenuously you deny his existence, the more indefatigably he will remind you of it. He is quite a good friend, in fact, but a perfectly pernicious enemy. But naturally you will do what you choose about him, as you have always done about everything else.... To revert to Francis (a far more exhilarating subject than New Year reflections), he was at home for a few days last week. After the Dardanelles expedition was abandoned, he went out to France (after having condescended to accept a commission), where he proceeded at once to earn the V.C. for a deed of ludicrous valour, under a storm of machine-gun bullets, and while on leave received his decoration. "Of course I like it awfully," was his comment about it; "but, as a matter of fact, I didn't deserve it, because on that particular morning I didn't happen to be frightened. I usually am frightened, and I've deserved the V.C. millions of times, but just when I got it I didn't deserve it. They ought to give the V.C. to fellows who are in the devil of a fright all the time they are doing their job. But that day I wasn't; I had had a delicious breakfast, and felt as calm as Matilda is looking. I don't believe she can speak a word by the way; you made it all up." I was very much mortified by Matilda's conduct. Ever since Francis's return she had sat in dead silence, though I had taught her to say "Hurrah for the V.C.," and she had repeated it without stopping for several hours the day before he arrived. But the moment she saw him, she looked at him with a cold grey eye and remained absolutely speechless. Of course I did not tell Francis what I had taught her to say, because she might take it into her head to begin to talk at any time, and her congratulations would not then be a surprise to him. So I held my tongue, and Matilda hers. Then a most unfortunate incident occurred, for Francis left his decoration in a taxi next day, and though we telephoned to all the taxi-ranks and police-stations in the world, we could hear nothing of it. I don't think I ever saw anyone so furious as he was. "No one will believe I got it," he shouted. "I meant to wear it day and night, so that even a burglar coming into the house should see it. But now no one will know. I can't go about chanting 'I am a V.C., but I left it in a taxi.' Who would believe such a cock-and-bull story? If you heard a fellow in the street saying 'I am a V.C.,' you wouldn't believe him. Of course there's the riband, but it was the Cross I wanted to wear day and night--nobody looks at an inch of riband. Don't laugh." Matilda suddenly cleared her throat, and blew her nose, which is often the prologue to conversation. I sincerely hoped she wouldn't say "Hurrah for the V.C." just this moment, for it really seemed possible that the enraged Francis might wring her neck if she mocked at him. I hastened to talk myself, for Matilda usually waits for silence before she scatters her pearls of wisdom. "Well, apply for another one," I said. "They'll surely give you another one. Or earn another one, but apply first." "And how many years do you think I should have to wait for it?" he asked. "How many departments do you think I should have to visit? How many papers and affidavits do you think I should have to sign? Apply for another one, indeed, as if the V.C. was only a pound of sugar!" "Only a pound of sugar!" I said. "Certainly, if it takes as long as it takes to get a pound of sugar----" Matilda gave a loud shriek. "Gott strafe the V.C.!" she screamed. "Hurrah for Germany! Gott scratch the Kaiser's head! Bow, wow, wow, wow, wow! Pussy!" Francis stopped dead and turned his head slowly round to where Matilda was screaming like a Pythian prophetess. She whistled like the milkman, she cuckooed, she called on her Maker's name, and on Taffy's; in a couple of minutes she had said everything she had ever known, and mixed the V.C. up with them all. She laughed at the V.C.; she blew her nose at him, accompanying these awful manifestations of Matilda-ism with dancing a strange Brazilian measure on her perch. Then she stopped as suddenly as if her power of speech had been blown out like a candle, and hermetically sealed her horny beak for all conversational purposes for precisely three weeks. Francis had stuffed his handkerchief into his mouth, so that his laughter should not interrupt Matilda, and got so red in the face I was afraid he was going to have a fit. But when she definitely stopped, he took the handkerchief out of his mouth, and laughed till exhaustion set in. "O Lord! I'm so glad Matilda is true!" he said. "I was half afraid you might have invented her, though I was surprised at the impeccable art of your invention." "Why surprised?" I asked coldly. "Oh, I don't know. The ordinary reason. But she's really more like the British public than King Tino. They get things more mixed up than anyone I ever came across. For instance, they think that they ought to be very grave and serious, because the war is very grave and serious. Why, there's Matilda-ism for you! The only possible way of meeting a grave situation is to meet it gaily, and they would learn that if they came out to the trenches. Unless you were flippant there you would expire with depression. They are beavers at work, I allow that, but when the day's work is over they ought to be compelled to amuse themselves." "But they don't feel inclined to," said I. "No, and I don't feel inclined to get up in the morning, but that is no justification for lying in bed. There ought to be an amusement-board, which should make raids on private houses, if they suspected that unseemly seriousness was practised there. People talk of unseemly mirth, but they don't realize that gloom, as a general rule, is much more unseemly. Besides, you don't arrive at anything like the proper output of work if it is done by depressed people. Also, the quality of it is different." "Do you mean that a shell made by cheerful munition workers has a greater explosive force than when it has been made by the melancholy?" I asked. "I daresay that is the case, and it would account for the fact that the Boches' shells haven't been nearly so devastating lately, because beyond doubt the Boches are a good deal depressed. There is a marked sluggishness stealing into their explosives. If you want to do a good day's work on Thursday, by far the best preparation you can make for it is to have a howling, jolly time on Wednesday evening. Pleasure gives you energy, and pleasure is every bit as _real_ as pain, and cheerfulness as depression. I know you will say that it is the fogs that make people depressed, but it is more likely, as someone suggested, that the depressed people make the fogs. If so, I don't wonder at the impenetrable state of affairs outside." He pointed at the window, which, as far as purposes of illumination went, was about as useful as the wall. Since dawn no light had broken through that opaque cloud of brown vapour; a moonless night was not darker than this beleaguered noonday. It had penetrated into the house and veiled the corners of the room in obscurity, and filled eyes and nose with smarting ill-smelling stuff. "Yes, decidedly it's the depressed people who make the fog," said he. "They are the same thing on two different planes, for they both refuse to admit the sunshine." "But, good heavens, aren't you ever depressed?" I asked. "Not inside. I don't count surface depression, which can be easily produced by an aching tooth, though, indeed, I haven't got much experience of that. But I am never fundamentally depressed; I never doubt that behind the clouds is the sun still shining, as that odious school-marm Longfellow tells us. Often things are immensely tiresome, but tiresome things, painful things, have no root. They don't penetrate down to the central reality. But all happiness springs from it. Even mere pleasure is as real as pain, as I said just now; but joy, happiness, is infinitely more real than either. But somehow--I don't quite understand this, though I know it's true--somehow happiness casts a shadow, like a tree growing in the sunshine. Thomas à Kempis, as usual, is quite right when he says, 'Without sorrow none liveth in love.' But that sorrow is a thing that passes; it wheels with the sun; it is not steadfast; it is not everlasting. But it's the devil to try to describe that which from its very nature is indescribable. Only there are so many excellent folk who think that the shadow is more real than the object which causes it." He came and sat on the hearth-rug, where presently he stretched himself at length. "And yet some of the best people who have ever lived," he said, "have experienced what they call the darkness of the soul. The whole of their belief in God and in love, all that has made them far the happiest creatures on the earth, suddenly leaves them. Their naked souls are left in outer darkness; they are convinced in their own minds--minds, I say--that there is nothing in the world except darkness. And their souls must remain perfectly steadfast, clinging in this freezing blindness to the conviction that it can't be so, that all their senses and their reasoning powers are wrong. Nothing can help them except their own unaided faith, from which all support seems withdrawn. Job had it pretty badly. It must be beastly, for you can't guess at the time what is the matter with you. Your mind simply tells you that it has become a reasoned and convinced atheist. It's a sort of possession; the devil, for some inscrutable reason, is allowed to enter into you, and he's an awful sort of tenant. He's so plausible too, so convincing. He gets hold of your mind and says, 'Just chuck overboard all that you once blindly believed, and now clear-sightedly know to be false. You needn't bother yourself to curse God and die, because there isn't such a thing as God. And instead of dying live and thoroughly enjoy yourself.' That sounds ridiculous to you and me, whose minds the devil doesn't entirely possess, but imagine what it would be if your mind had his spell cast on it, if all you had ever believed drifted away from you, and left you in the outer darkness. It would sound excellent advice then. Your mind would tell you that there was nothing beyond the mere material pleasures of the world. It would seem very foolish not to make the most of them, regardless of everything else, if there was nothing else." "But all atheists are not unbridled hedonists," said I. "More fools they. At least, from my point of view, the only possible bridle on one's carnal and material desires is the fact that one is not an atheist. What does the progress of mankind amount to considered by itself? A few scientific inventions, a little less small-pox. Is it for that that unnumbered generations have lived and suffered and enjoyed?" "But can't atheists believe in and work for the progress of the world?" I asked. "I know they do, but for the life of me I can't see why. I wouldn't stir a finger or make a single act of renunciation if all that inspired me was the welfare of the next generation. To me the brotherhood of man is a meaningless phrase unless it is coupled with the fatherhood of God." "But you left Alatri, you went to fight, you won the V.C. you left in a taxi for the sake of men." "No, for the sake of what they stood for," he said. "For the sake of that of which they are the manifestation." He got up and looked at his watch. "Blow it! I've got to go and see the manifestation known as the War Office," he said. "After which?" I asked. "Will you be back for lunch?" "No, I don't think so. Lord, I wish I wasn't going to the War Office, specially since you have a morning off. Why shouldn't I say that I'm tired of the war--I might telephone it--or that I have become a conscientious objector, or that I've got an indisposition?" "There's the telephone," said I. He buckled his belt. "Wonderful thing the telephone," he said. "And what if it's true that there's another telephone possible: I mean the telephone between the people whom we think of as living, and the people whom we don't really think of as dead? I'm going to lunch with an Aunt, by the way, who is steeped in spiritual things; so much so, indeed, that she forgets that the chief spiritual duties, as far as we know them for certain, are to be truthful and cheerful, and all those dull affairs which liars and pessimists say that anybody can do. Aunt Aggie doesn't do any of them; she's an awful liar and a hopeless pessimist, and her temper--well! But as I said, or didn't I say it--I'm going to lunch with her and go to a _séance_ afterwards. She's going to inquire after Uncle Willy, who was no comfort to her in this life; but perhaps he'll make up for that now. Really London is getting rather cracked, which is the most sensible thing it ever did. I think it's the cold stodgy granite of the English temperament which I dislike so. But really it's getting chipped, it's getting cracked. Aunt Aggie bows to the new moon just like a proper Italian, and wouldn't sit down thirteen to dinner however hungry she was. Oh, there are flaws in Aunt Aggie's granite, and she does have such horrible food! Good-bye." I settled down with a book, and an electric light at my elbow, and a large fire at my feet, to the entrancing occupation of not doing anything at all. The blessed sixth morning of the week had arrived, when I was not obliged to go out to a large chilly office after breakfast, and I mentally contrasted the nuisance of having to go out into a beastly morning with the bliss of not having to go out, and found the latter was far bigger with blessing than the former with beastliness. I needn't read my book. I needn't do anything that I did not want to do, but very soon the book, that I had really taken up for fear of being surprised by a servant doing nothing at all, began to engross me. It was concerned with the inexplicable telephone to which Francis had alluded, and contained an account of the communications which had been made by a young soldier killed in France with his relatives. As Francis had said, London had got cracked on the subject.... After all, what wonder? Were there the slightest chance of establishing communication between the living and the dead, what subject (even the war) would be worthier of the profoundest study and experiment? Nothing more interesting, nothing more vitally important, could engross us, for which of the affairs in this world could be so important as the establishment, scientifically and firmly, of any facts that concern the next world? For there is one experience, namely, death, that is of absolutely universal interest. Everything else, from my little finger to Shakespeare's brain, only concerns a certain number of people; whereas death concerns the remotest Patagonian. However strongly and sincerely we may happen to believe that death is not an extinguishing of the essential self, with what intense interest we must all grab at anything which can throw light on the smallest, most insignificant detail of the life that is hereafter lived? Or, if your mind is so constructed that you do not believe in the survival of personality, how infinitely more keenly you would clutch at the remotest evidence (so long as it _is_ evidence) that there is something to follow after the earth has been filled in above the body, from which, we are all agreed, _something_ has departed. Without prejudice, without bias either of child-like faith or convinced scepticism, and preserving only an open mind, willing to be convinced by reasonable phenomena, there is nothing sublunar or superlunar that so vitally concerns us. You may not care about the treatment of leprosy, presumably in the belief that you will not have leprosy; you may not care about Danish politics in the belief that you will never be M.P. (if there is such a thing) for Copenhagen. But what cannot fail to interest you is the slightest evidence of what may occur to you when you pass the inevitable gates. There are only two things that can possibly happen: the one is complete extinction (in which case I allow that the subject is closed, since if you are extinguished it is idle to inquire what occurs next, since nothing can occur); the other is the survival, in some form, of life, of yourself. This falls into three heads: (_i_) Reincarnation, as an earwig, or a Hottentot, or an emperor. (_ii_) Mere absorption into the central furnace of life. (_iii_) Survival of personality. And here the personal equation comes in. I cannot really believe I am going to be an earwig or an emperor. To my mind that sounds so unlikely that I cannot fix serious thought upon it. What shall I, this Me, do when I am an earwig or an emperor? How shall I feel? The mind slips from the thought, as you slip on ice, and falls down. Nor can I conceive being absorbed into the central furnace, because that, as far as personality goes, is identical with extinction. My soul will be burned in the source of life, just as my body may perhaps be burned in a crematorium, and I don't really care, in such a case, what will happen to either of them. But my unshakeable conviction, with regard to which I long for evidence, is that I--something that I call I--will continue a perhaps less inglorious career than it has hitherto pursued. And if you assemble together a dozen healthy folk, who have got no idea of dying at present, you will find that, rooted in the consciousness of at least eleven of them, if they will be honest about themselves, there is this same immutable conviction that They Themselves will neither have been extinguished or reincarnated or absorbed when their bodies are put away in a furnace or a churchyard. There is the illusion or conviction of a vast majority of mankind that with the withdrawal from the body of the Something which has kept it alive, that Something does not cease to have an independent and personal existence. Well, there has been lately an enormous increase in the number of those who seek evidence on this overwhelmingly interesting subject. The book which I have been reading and wondering over treats of it, and Francis has gone with his Aunt Aggie to seek it. There has been, too, it is only fair to say, an enormous increase in the exasperation of the folk who, knowing nothing whatever about the subject, and scorning to make any study of what they consider such hopeless balderdash, condemn all those who have an open mind on the question as blithering idiots, hoodwinked by the trickery of so-called mediums. Out of their own inner consciousness they know that there can be no such thing as communication between the living and the dead, and there's the end of the matter. All who think there possibly may be such communication are fools, and all who profess to be able to produce evidence for it are knaves.... They themselves, being persons of sanity and common-sense, know that it is impossible. But other shining examples of sanity and common-sense would undoubtedly have affirmed thirty years ago, with the same pontifical infallibility, that such a thing as wireless telegraphy was impossible, or a hundred years ago that it was equally ridiculous to think that a sort of big tea-kettle could draw a freight of human beings along iron rails at sixty miles an hour. But wireless telegraphy and express trains _happened,_ in spite of their sanity and common-sense, and it seems to me that if we deny the possibility of this communication between the living and the dead, we are acting in precisely the same manner as those same sensible people would have acted thirty and a hundred years ago. Another favourite assertion of the sane and sensible is that if they could get evidence themselves (though they foam with rage at the very notion of attempting to do such a thing) they would believe it. That is precisely the same thing as saying you will not believe in Australia till you have been there. For the existence of Australia depends (for those who have never seen it) on the evidence of others. The evidence for the existence of Australia is overwhelming, and therefore we are right to accept it, even though we have not seen it ourselves. Kangaroos and gold, and Australian troops and postage-stamps, and the voyages of steamers, makes its existence absolutely certain; there is no doubt whatever about it. And the evidence in favour of the possibility of communication between this world and another non-material world is now in process of accumulation. It is being studied by people who are eminent in the scientific world, and it seems that there are fragments, scraps of evidence, which must be treated with the respect of an open mind by all who have not the pleasant gift of the infallibility that springs from complete ignorance. It is no longer any use to quote from Mr. Sludge the Medium.... There are a great many gullible people in the world and a great many fraudulent ones, and when the two get together round a table in a darkened room, it is obvious that there is a premium on trickery. But because a certain medium is a knave and a vagabond, who ought to be put in prison, and others are such as should not be allowed to go out, except with their minds under care of a nurse, it does not follow that there are no such things as genuine manifestations. It would be as reasonable to say that because a child does his multiplication sum wrong, there is something unsound in the multiplication table. A fraudulent medium does not invalidate a possible genuineness in those who are not cheats; a quack or a million quacks do not cast a slur on the science of medicine. In questions of spiritualism there is no denying that the number of quacks exposed and unexposed is regrettably large, and, without doubt, all spiritualistic phenomena should be ruthlessly and pitilessly scrutinized. But when this is done, it is only a hide-bound stupidity that refuses to treat the results with respect. Other reservations must be made. All results that can conceivably be accounted for by such well-established phenomena as telepathy or thought-reading must be unhesitatingly ruled out. They are deeply interesting in themselves, they are like the traces of other metals discovered in exploring a gold-reef, but they are not the gold, and have no more to do with the thing inquirers are in quest of than have acid-drops or penny buns. Many mediums (so-called) are not mediums at all, but have that strange and marvellous gift of being able to explore the minds of others.... What is the working and mechanism of that group of phenomena, among which we may class hypnotism, thought-reading, telepathy, and so forth, we do not rightly know. But inside the conscious self of every human being there lurks the sub-conscious or subliminal self, which has something to do with all these things. Every event that happens to a man, every thought that passes through his mind, every impression that his brain receives makes a mark on it, similar, perhaps, to the minute dots on phonograph records. That phonograph record (probably) is in the keeping of the sub-conscious mind, and though the conscious mind may have forgotten the fact, and the circumstances in the making of any of these marks, the sub-conscious mind has it recorded, and, under certain conditions, can produce it again. And it is the sub-conscious mind which without doubt exercises those thought-reading and telepathic functions. In most people it lies practically inaccessible; others, numerically few, appear, in trance or even without the suspension of the conscious mind, to be able to exercise its powers, and--leaving out the mere conjuring tricks of fraudulent persons--it is they who pass for mediums. What happens? This: A bereaved mother or a bereaved wife sits with one of those mediums. The medium goes into a genuine trance, and probing the mind of the eager expectant sitter, can tell her all sorts of intimate details about the husband or son who has been killed which are already known to her. The medium can produce his name, his appearance; can recount events and happenings of his childhood; can even say things which the mother has forgotten, but which prove to be true. Is it any wonder that the sitter is immensely impressed? She is more than impressed, she is consoled and comforted when the medium proceeds to add (still not quite fraudulently) messages of love and assurance of well-being. It is not quite conscious fraud; it is perhaps a fraud of the sub-conscious mind. Now all this, these reminiscences, these encouraging messages from the other world, have to be ruled out if we want to get at the real thing. They are phenomena vastly interesting in themselves, but they are clearly accountable for by the established theory of thought-reading. They need have nothing whatever to do with communications from discarnate spirits, for they can be accounted for by a natural law already known to us. They do not help in the slightest degree to establish the new knowledge for which so many are searching.... Francis had come back from his lunch and his _séance_ with Aunt Aggie, and a considerable part of these reflections are really a _précis_ of our discussion. It had been quite a good thought-reading _séance:_ Uncle Willy, through the mouth of the medium in trance, had affirmed his dislike of parsnips and mushrooms, had mentioned his name, and nickname, Puffin, by which Aunt Aggie had known him, and had described with extraordinary precision the room where he used to sit. "I was rather impressed," said Francis. "It really was queer, for silly though Aunt Aggie is, I don't think she had previously gone to Amber--yes, the medium was Amber, just Amber--and primed her with regard to this information. Amber read it all right out of Aunt Aggie's mind. But then Uncle Willy became so extremely unlike himself that I couldn't possibly believe it was Uncle Willy; it must have been a sort of reflection of what Aunt Aggie hoped he had become. He was deeply edifying; he said he was learning to be patient; he told us that he had improved wonderfully. Poor Aunt Aggie sobbed, and I knew she loved sobbing. It made her feel good inside. All the same----" He let himself lie inertly on the sofa, in that supreme bodily laziness which, as I have said, gives his mind the greater activity. "It was all a thought-reading _séance_," he said, "quite good of its kind, but it had no more to do with the other world than Matilda.... But why shouldn't there be a way through between the material and the spiritual, just as there is a way for telegraphy, as you said, without wires? Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, no doubt, a so-called message from the other side is only a subtle intercommunication between minds on this side. It's so hard to guard against that. But it might be done. We might think of some piece of knowledge known only to a fellow who was dead." Suddenly he jumped up. "I've thought of a lovely plan," he said. "Go for a walk, if you haven't been out all day, or go and have a bath or something; and while you are gone I'll prepare a packet, and seal it up in a box. Nobody will know but me. And then when the next bit of shrapnel comes along and hits me instead of the potted-meat tin, you will pay half-a-guinea, I think it is--I know I paid for Aunt Aggie and myself--and see if a medium can tell you what is in that box. Nobody will know except me, and I shall be dead, so it really will look very much as if I had a hand in it if a medium in trance can tell you what is in it. A box can't telepathize, can it? The Roman Catholics say it's devil-work to communicate with the dead; they say all sorts of foul spirits get hold of the other end of the telephone. Isn't it lucky we aren't Roman Catholics?" "And what about the War Office?" I said, chiefly because I didn't want either to go out or have a bath. "Oh, I forgot. I'm going to be sent out to the Italian front. We've got some people there, and it seems they don't know Italian very well. I don't know what I shall be quite: I think a sort of Balaam's ass that talks, a sort of mule perhaps with a mixed Italian and English parentage. Duties? Ordering dinner, I suppose." "Lucky devil!" "I'm not sure. I think I would sooner take my chance in the trenches. But off I go day after to-morrow. Lord, if I get a week's leave now and then, shan't I fly to Alatri! Can't you come out, too, to look after your Italian property? Fancy having a week at Alatri again! There won't be bathing, of course; but how I long to hear the swish and bang of the shutters that Pasqualino has forgotten to hitch to, in the Tramontana! And the sweeping of the wind in the stone-pine! And the glow and crackle of the wood-fire on the hearth! And the draughty rooms! And the springing up of the freesias! And Seraphina, fat Seraphina, and the smell of frying! Fancy being _heedless_ again for a week! I feel sure the war has never touched the enchanted island. The world as it was! Good Lord, the world as it was!" He had sat and then lain down on the floor. "It's odd," he said, "that though I wouldn't change that which I am, and that which I know, for anything that went before, I long for a week, a day, an hour of the time when all the material jollinesses of the world were so magically exciting. Oh, the pleasant evenings when one didn't think, but just enjoyed what was there! There's a great lump of Boy still in me, which I don't get rid of. The cache: think of the cache we were going to revisit in September, 1914! After all, It, the mystical thing that matters, was there all the time, though one didn't really know it.... But I should love to get the world as it was again. I don't want it for long, I think, but just for a little while. Rest, you know, child's play, nonsense, Italy. I would buckle to again afterwards, but it would be nice to be an animal again. I want not to think about anything that matters, God, and my soul, and right and wrong.... "I want to rebel. Just for a minute. I daresay it's the devil who makes me want. It's a way he has. 'Be an innocent child,' says he, 'and don't think. Just look at the jolly things, and the beautiful things, and take your choice!' I don't want to be beastly, but I do want to get out of the collar of the only life which I believe to be real. I want to eat and drink and sit in the sun, and hear the shutters bang, and read a witty wicked book, and see a friend--you, in fact--and do again what we did; I want to quench the light invisible, and make it invisible, really invisible, for a minute or two. I suppose that's blasphemy all right." He lay silent a moment, and then got up. "Oh, do go for a walk," he said, "while I prepare my posthumous packet. Or prepare a posthumous packet for me. You may die first, you see; it's easily possible that you may die first now that they're not sending me to the trenches again, and it would be so interesting after your lamentable decease to be told by a medium what you had put in the packet. Let's do that. Let each of us prepare a posthumous packet, and seal it up, and on yours you must put directions that it is to be delivered to me unopened. I needn't put anything on mine; you can keep them both in a cupboard till one of us dies. And the survivor will consult a medium as to what is in the late lamented's packet. Only the late lamented will know. Really, it will be a great test. Come on. It will be like playing caches again. Mind you put something ridiculous in yours." I procured two cardboard boxes, of which we each took one, and went to my bedroom to select unlikely objects. Eventually I decided on a "J" nib, a five-franc piece and a small quantity of carbolic tooth-powder. These I put in my box, put directions on the top that it was to be given on my death to Francis, and went downstairs again, where I found him sealing his up. I put them both in a drawer of a table and locked it. "Lord, how I long to tell you what I've put in mine!" said Francis. * * * * * More than half the month has passed (I am writing, as a matter of evidential data, on the 17th of January), and I desire to record with the utmost accuracy gleanable in such affairs, the general feeling of the inhabitants of London with regard to the war. Briefly, then, a huge wave of optimism--for which God be thanked--has roared over the town. Peace Notes, and the replies to them, and the replies to those replies have been probably the wind that raised that wave, or, in other words, the super-coxcomb who rules the German Empire has expressed his "holy wrath" at the reply of our Allied nations to his gracious granting of peace on his own terms. But England and France and Russia and Italy have unanimously wondered when, in the history of the world, a nation that proclaimed itself victor has offered peace to the adversary it proclaimed it has conquered. Germany, not only belligerent, but also apparently umpire, has announced that she has won the war, and therefore offers peace to her victims. That was a most astounding piece of news, and it surprised us all very much. But what must have surprised Germany more was the supposedly-expiring squeal of her victims which intimated that they were not conquered. Hence the "holy wrath" of the World-War-Lord, who had intimated, as out of Sinai, that they were conquered. They don't think so--they may be wrong, but they just don't think so. Instead they are delighted with his victorious proclamation, and take the proclamation as evidence that he is not victorious. German newspapers have been, if possible, more childishly profane than he, and tell us they are ready to grasp the hand of God Almighty, who is giving such success to their submarine warfare. They said just that; it was their duty to shake hands with God Almighty, because with His aid they had sunk so many defenceless merchant ships. Perhaps that "goes down" in Germany, for it appears that they are short of food, and would gladly swallow anything. But here we are, the conquered beleaguered nation--and by a tiresome perversity we delight in the savage glee of our conquerors, for we happen to believe that it expresses, not glee of the conqueror, but the savage snarl of a fighting beast at bay. Rightly or wrongly, we think just that, and the louder the pæans from Germany, the brighter are the eyes here. Though still the bitterness of this winter of war binds us with stricture of frost, a belief in the approaching advent of spring, now in mid-January, possesses everybody. Reports, the authenticity of which it is no longer possible to doubt, are rife concerning the internal condition of Germany and Austria, which is beginning to be intolerable. There is not starvation, nor anything like starvation, but the stress of real want grows daily, and we all believe that from one cause or other, from this, or from the great offensive on the Western front, the preparations for which, none doubts, are swiftly and steadily maturing, the breaking of winter is in sight. Perhaps all we optimists, as has happened before, will again prove to be wrong, and some great crumbling or collapse may be threatening one of the Allies. But to-day the quality of optimism is somehow different from what it has been before. Also, the black background of war (not yet lifted), in front of which for the last two years and a half our lives have enacted themselves, has become infinitely and intensely more engrossing. But here in England and France and Italy and Russia, it is pierced with sudden gleams of sunshine; there are rifts in it through which for a moment or two shines the light of the peace that is coming. Only over Germany it hangs black and unbroken. A king gave a feast to his lords and by his command there were brought in the spoils and the vessels which he had taken from the house of God which he had sacked and destroyed. In the same hour came forth fingers of a man's hand, and wrote on the wall of the king's palace. Then the king's countenance was changed, and his thoughts troubled him, so that the joints of his loins were loosed and his knees smote one against another. For he had lifted himself up against the Lord of Heaven, and he knew that his doom was written. There was no need to call in the astrologers and soothsayers, or to search for a Daniel who should be able to interpret the writing, or to promise to him who should read the writing and show the interpretation thereof a clothing of scarlet, a chain of gold, and that he should be the third ruler in the kingdom, for the king's captains and his lords, and the king himself, knew what the meaning and the interpretation of the writing was. In silence they sat as they read it, and they sat in silence looking in each other's eyes which were bright with terror, and on each other's faces which were blanched with dread. But most of all they looked at the king himself, still clad in his shining armour, and the cold foam of his doom was white on the lips that profaned the name of the Most Highest, and the hand that still grasped the hilt of the sword which to his eternal infamy he had unscabbarded and to his everlasting dishonour had soaked in innocent blood, was shaken with an ague of mortal fear. And this is the writing that was written: _MENE, MENE, TEKEL, UPHARSIN,_ for God had numbered his kingdom and finished it; he was weighed in the balance and found wanting; his kingdom was divided. Even so, as in the days of King Belshazzar, is the doom written of him who, above all others, is responsible for the blood that has been outpoured on the battle-field of Europe, for the shattered limbs, the blinded eyes, for the murder of women and children from below on the high seas, and from above in their undefended homes. God set him on the throne of his fathers, and out of his monstrous vanity, his colossal and inhuman ambitions, he has given over the harvest fields of the East to the reaper Death, and has caused blood to flow from the wine presses of the West. East and West he has blared out his infamous decree that evil is good, might is right, that murder and rape and the unspeakable tales of Teutonic atrocities are deeds well pleasing in the sight of God. And even as in the days when, with his fool's-cap stuck on top of his Imperial diadem, and the jester's bells a-tinkle against his shining armour, he paraded through the courts of Europe and the castles of his dupes, as Supreme Artist, Supreme Musician, Supreme Preacher, as well as Supreme War Lord, and fancied himself set so high above the common race of man that no human standard could measure him; so now his infamy has sunk him so low beneath the zones of human sympathy that not till we can feel pity for him who first left the love-supper of His Lord and hanged himself, we shall commiserate the doom that thickens round the head of the Judas who has betrayed his country and his God in hope to gratify his insensate dream of world-wide domination. There still he sits at the feast with his lords and captains, but the wine is spilt from his cup, and his thoughts are troubled and voices of despair whisper to him out of the invading night. Low already burn the lights in the banqueting-hall that was once so nobly ablaze with the glory of those who in the sciences and the arts and in learning and high philosophy made Germany a prince among nations. He and his dupes and his flatterers have made a brigand and a pirate of her, have well and truly earned for her the scorn and the detestation of all civilized minds and lovers of high endeavour, and in the _Dämmerung_ that gathers ever thicker round them the fingers of a man's hand trace on the wall the letters of pale flame that need no Daniel to interpret. The painted timbers of the roof are cracking, the tapestries are rent, the spilt wine congeals in pools of blood, and the legend of the decree of God blazes complete in the ruin of the shambles where they sit. * * * * * It is then this belief that ruin is moving swiftly and steadily up over the Central Empires that causes the war once more, as in its earlier days, to engross the whole of our thoughts. It is coming, as it were, in the traditional manner of a thunderstorm against the wind, for there is no use in pretending that, as far as military and naval operations go, the wind is not at the moment being favourable to our enemies. By sea the submarine menace is more serious than it has been since the war begun; there is still no advance on the West front, while on the East the complete over-running of Roumania cannot be called a success from our point of view. But in spite of this, there is the rooted belief that the collapse which we have so long waited for is getting measurably nearer. None knows, and few are rash enough to assert when it will come, or what month, near or distant, will see it, and in the meantime the broom of the new Government, to judge by the dust it raises, may be thought to be sweeping clean, and the appalling bequests of our late rulers, the accumulated remains of sloppy Cabinet puddings, are being vigorously relegated to the dustbins. With the ineradicable boyishness of the nation (which really has a good deal to be said for it), we still tend to make a game out of serious necessities, and are having great sport over the question of food. For a few weeks we amused ourselves over one of the most characteristic inventions of the last Government, and tried to see how much we could eat without indulging in more than three courses for dinner or two for lunch, which was what the late Food Controller allowed us. This was an amusing game, but as a policy it had insuperable defects, as, for instance, when we consider that the bulk of the working population takes its solid meal in the middle of the day, and would no more think of eating three courses in the evening than of eating four in the morning. There was a regular tariff: meat counted as one course, pudding another, toasted cheese another, but you were allowed any quantity of cold cheese, bread and butter (those articles in which national economy was really important) without counting anything at all. In the same way you could have as many slices of beef as you wished (as the Government wanted to effect a saving in the consumption of meat), but to touch an apple or a pear, about which there was no desire to save, cost you a course. Altogether it was one of the least helpful, but most comic schemes that could well be devised. Matilda, I fancy, thought it out and communicated it to Mr. Runciman by the telepathy that exists between bird-like brains. It is in flat and flagrant violation of human psychology, for you have only to tell the perverse race of mankind that they may only eat two dishes, to ensure that they will eat much more of those two dishes than was comprised in the whole of their unrestricted meals, while to allow them to eat as much cheese as they wish is simply to make cheese-eaters out of those who never dreamed of touching it before. But there is a rumour now that we are to go back to our ordinary diet again, which I take to be true, for when this morning I gave Matilda a list of the regulations to show her how it looked in print, she uttered a piercing yell and tore the card into a million fragments. But with the new broom has come a powerful deal of cleaning up: there is a new Food Board, and a Man Power Board, and a fifty per cent. increase in railway fares (which will be nice for the dividends of railway companies), and hints of meatless days and sugar tickets, and there are ideas of ploughing up the parks and planting wheat there (which will be nice for the wood-pigeons). Indeed, as Francis said, we are perhaps beginning to take the war seriously, though, on the other hand, since he left the prevalent optimism has largely remedied the absence of the gaiety which he so much deplored. FEBRUARY, 1917 Germany has proposed a toast. She drinks (_Hoch!_) to the freedom of the seas. And she couples with it the freedom (of herself) to torpedo from her submarines any vessel, neutral or belligerent, at sight, and without warning. So now at last we know what the freedom of the seas means. The seas are to be free in precisely the sense that Belgium is free, and Germany is free to commit murder on them. This declaration on the part of Germany was followed three days later by a declaration on the part of the United States. Diplomatic relations have been instantly severed, and President Wilson only waits for a "clear overt act" of hostility on the part of Germany to declare war. America has declared her mind with regard to the freedom of the seas, and that abominable toast has led to the severance of diplomatic relations between her and Germany. Count Bernstorff has been dismissed, and in Berlin Mr. Gerard has asked for his passports. There is no possible shadow of doubt what that means, for we all remember August 4th, 1914, when we refused to discuss the over-running of Belgium by Germany. War followed instantly and automatically. "You shan't do that," was the equivalent of "If you do, we fight." It is precisely the same position between America and Germany now. Germany _will_ torpedo neutrals at sight, just as Germany would overrun Belgium. The rest follows. Q.E.D. But it is impossible to overstate the relief with which England has hailed this unmistakable word on the part of the United States. Many people have said: "What can America do if she does come in?" But that was not really the point. Of course she will do, as a matter of fact, a tremendous lot. She will finance our Allies; she is rich, beyond all dreams of financiers, with the profits she has reaped from the war, and the loans she will float will eclipse into shadow all that England has already done in that regard. "But what else?" ask the sceptics. "What of her army? She has no army." Nor for that matter had England when the war began. But even the sceptics cannot deny the immense value of her fleet. In the matter of torpedo-boats and of light craft generally, which we so sorely need for the hunting down of those great-hearted champions of the freedom of the seas, the German submarines, she can double our weapons, or, as the more enthusiastic say, she can more than double them. All the Government munition factories will be working like ours, day and night; she may even bring in conscription; she will devote to the cause of her Allies the million inventive brains with which she teems. This is just a little part of what America could have done, when first the Belgian Treaty was torn over, and it is just a little part of what America will do now. But all that she can do, as I said, is beside the point. The point is, not what America can do, but what America _is_. Now she has shown what she is, a nation which will not suffer wrong and robbery and piracy. The disappointments of the past, with regard to her, are wiped off. She was remote from Europe, and remote from her was the wrong done to Belgium.... There is no need now to recount the tale of outrages that did not exhaust her patience. She waited--wisely, we are willing to believe--until she was ready, until the President knew that he had the country behind him, and until some outrage of the laws of man and of God became intolerable. It has now become intolerable to her, and if she is willing to clasp the hands of those who once doubted her, and now see how wrong it was to doubt, a myriad of hands are here held out for her grasping. The splendour of this, its late winter sunrise, has rendered quite colourless things that in time of peace would have filled the columns of every newspaper, and engrossed every thought of its readers. A plot, unequalled since the days of the Borgias, has come to light, the object of which was to kill the Prime Minister by means of poisoned arrows, or of poisoned thorns in the inside of the sole of his boot. Never was there so picturesque an abomination. The poison employed was to be that Indian secretion of deadly herbs called _curare,_ a prick of which produces a fatal result. A party of desperate women, opposed to conscription, invoked the aid of a conscripted chemist, and Borgianism, full-fledged, flared to life again in the twentieth century, with a setting of Downing Street and the golf-links at Walton Heath. To the student of criminology the Crippen affair should have faded like the breath on a frosty morning, compared with the scheme of this staggering plot. But with this Western sunrise over America to occupy our public minds, no one (except, I suppose, the counsel in the case and the prisoners) gave two thoughts to this anachronistic episode. And there was the Victory War Loan and National Service as well. But though the public mind of any individual can be satiated with sensation, my experience is that the private mind "carries on" much the same as usual. If the trump of the Last Judgment was to sound to-morrow morning, tearing us from our sleep, and summoning us out to Hyde Park or some other open space, I verily believe that we should all look up at the sky that was vanishing like a burning scroll, and consider the advisability of taking an umbrella, or of putting on a coat. Little things do not, in times of the greatest excitement, at all cease to concern us; the big thing absorbs a certain part of our faculties, and when it has annexed these, it cannot claim the dominion of little things as well. And for this reason, I suppose, I do not much attend to the Borgia plot, since my public sympathies are so inflamed with America; but when work is done (or shuffled somehow away, to be attended to to-morrow) I fly on the wings of the Tube to Regent's Park, and, once again, ridiculously concern myself with the marks that it is possible to make on ice with a pair of skates, used one at a time (unless you are so debased as to study grape-vines). There is a club which has its quarters in that park, which in summer is called the Toxophilite, and in winter "The Skating Club" ("The" as opposed to all other skating clubs), and to the ice provided there on the ground where in summer enthusiastic archers fit their winged arrows to yew-wood bows, we recapture the legitimate joys of winter. Admirals and Generals, individuals of private and public importance, all skulk up there with discreet black bags, which look as if they might hold dispatches, but really hold skates, and cast off Black Care, and cast themselves onto the ice. An unprecedented Three Weeks (quite as unprecedented as those of that amorous volume) have been vouchsafed us, and day after day, mindful of the fickleness of frost in our sub-tropical climate, we have compounded with our consciences, when they reminded us that it was time to go back to work, on the plea that skating was so scarce, and that in all probability the frost would be gone to-morrow. To snatch a pleasure that seldom comes within reach always gives a zest to the enjoyment of it, and we have snatched three weeks of this, under the perpetual stimulus of imagining that each day would be the last. Indeed, it has been a return to the Glacial Age, when we must suppose there was skating all the year round. Probably that was why there were no wars, as far as we can ascertain, in that pacific epoch of history. Everyone was so intent on skating and avoiding collisions with the mammoths (who must rather have spoiled the ice) that he couldn't find enough superfluous energy to quarrel with his fellows. You have to lash yourself up, and be lashed up in order to quarrel, and you are too busy for that when there is skating.... Was it to the Glacial Age that the hymn referred, which to my childish ears ran like this: That war shall be no more; And lusto, pression, crime Shall flee thy face before. I never knew, nor cared to inquire, what "lusto" was, nor what "Thy face before" could mean. For faces usually were before, not behind. While we have been enjoying these unusual rigours, Francis, "somewhere in Italy," at a place, as far as I can gather, which not so long ago used to be "somewhere in Austria," has not been enjoying the return of the Glacial Age at all. He has written, indeed, in a strain most unusual with him and as unlike as possible to his normal radiance of content. "On the calmer sort of day," he says, "the wind blows a hurricane, and on others two hurricanes. I can hear the wind whistling through my bones, whistling through them as it whistles through telegraph wires, and the cold eats them away, as when the frost gets into potatoes. Also, the work is duller than anything I have yet come across in this world, and I am doing nothing that the man in a gold-lace cap who stands about in the hall of an hotel and expects to be tipped because of his great glory, could not do quite as well as I. Besides, he would do it with much greater urbanity than I can scrape together, for it is hard to be urbane when you have an almost perpetual stomach-ache of the red-hot poker order. But in ten days now I go down to Rome, where I shall be for some weeks, and I shall sit in front of a fire or in the sun, if there is such a thing as the sun left in this ill-ordered universe, and see a doctor. I dislike the thought of that, because it always seems to me rather disgraceful to be ill. One wasn't intended to be ill.... But I daresay the doctor will tell me that I'm not, and it will be quite worth while hearing that. Anyhow, I shall hope to get across to the beloved island for a few days, before I return to this tooth-chattering table-land. This is too grousy and grumbly a letter to send off just as it is. Anyhow, I will keep it till to-morrow to see if I can't find anything more cheerful to tell you." * * * * * But there was nothing added, and I must simply wait for further news from him. It is impossible not to feel rather anxious, for the whole tenor of his letter, from which this is but an extract, is strangely unlike the Francis who extracted gaiety out of Gallipoli. There is, however, this to be said, that he has practically never known pain, in his serene imperturbable health, which, though I am not a Christian Scientist, I believe is largely due to the joyful serenity of his spiritual health, and that probably pain is far more intolerable to him than it would be to most people who have the ordinary mortal's share of that uncomfortable visitor. But a "red-hot poker" pain perpetually there does not sound a reassuring account, and I confess that I wait for his next letter with anxiety. * * * * * The ruthless submarine campaign has begun, and there is no use in blinking the fact that at present it constitutes a serious menace. Owing to the criminal folly of the late Government, their obstinate refusal to take any steps whatever with regard to the future, their happy-go-lucky and imperfect provision just for the needs of the day, without any foresight as to what the future enterprise of the enemy might contrive, we are, as usual, attempting to counter a blow after it has been struck. Pessimism and optimism succeed each other in alternate waves, and at one time we remind ourselves that there is not more than six weeks' supply of food in the country, and at another compare the infinitesimally small proportion of the tonnage that is sunk per week with that which arrives safely at its destination. Wild rumours fly about (all based on the best authority) concerning the number of submarines which are hunting the seas, only to be met by others, equally well attested, which tell us how many of those will hunt the seas no more. There appear to be rows and rows of them in Portsmouth Harbour; they line the quays. And instantly you are told that at the present rate of sinking going on among our merchant navy, we shall arrive at the very last grain of corn about the middle of May. For myself, I choose to believe all the optimistic reports, and turn a deaf ear, like the adder, to anything that rings with a sinister sound. Whatever be the truth of all these contradictory and reliable facts, it is quite outside my power to help or hinder, beyond making sure that my household does not exceed the weekly allowance of bread and meat that the Food Controller tells me is sufficient. If we are all going to starve by the middle of May, well, there it is! Starvation, I fancy, is an uncomfortable sort of death, and I would much sooner not suffer it, but it is quite outside my power to avert it. Frankly, also, I do not believe it in the smallest degree. Pessimistic acquaintances prove down to the hilt that it will be so, and not knowing anything about the subject, I am absolutely unable to find the slightest flaw in their depressing conclusions. They seem to me based on sound premises, which are quite unshakeable, and to be logically arrived at. But if you ask whether I believe in the inevitable fate that is going to overtake us, why, I do not. It simply doesn't seem in the least likely. In addition to this development of enemy submarine warfare (for our discomfort), there have been developments on the Western front (we hope for theirs). The English lines have pushed forward on both sides of the Ancre, to find that the Germans, anticipating the great spring offensive, which appears to be one of the few certain things in the unconjecturable unfolding of the war, have given ground without fighting. In consequence there has ensued a pause while our lines of communication have been brought up to the new front across the devastated and tortured terrain which for so many months has been torn up by the hail of exploding shells. And for that, as for everything else that happens, we find authoritative and contradictory reasons. Some say that the Germans could not hold it, and take this advance to be the first step in the great push which is to break and shatter them; others with long faces and longer tongues explain that this strategic retreat has checkmated our plans for the great push. But be this as it may (I verily believe that I am the only person in London who has not been taken into the confidence of our Army Council), all are agreed that the bell has sounded for the final round of the fight, except a few prudent folk who bid us prepare at once for the spring campaign of 1918 (though we are all going to be starved in 1917). * * * * * The frost came to an end, and a thaw more bitter and more congealing to the blood and the vital forces set in with cold and dispiriting airs from the South-East. For a week we paid in mud and darkness and fog for the days of exhilarating weather, and I suppose the Toxophilites took possession of the skating rink again. And then came one of those miracle days, that occasionally occur in February or March, a moulted feather from the breast of the bird of spring, circling high in the air before, with descending rustle of downward wings, it settled on the earth.... I had gone down into the country for a couple of nights, arriving at the house where I was to stay at the close of one of those chilly dim-lit February days, after a traverse of miry roads between sodden hedgerows off which the wind blew the drops of condensed mists that gathered there, and it seemed doubtful whether the moisture would not be turned to icicles before morning. I had a streaming cold, and it seemed quite in accordance with the existing "scheme of things entire" that the motor (open of course) should break down on the steep ascent, and demand half an hour's tinkering before it would move again. Eventually I arrived, only to find that my hostess had gone to bed that afternoon with influenza, having telegraphed too late to stop me, and that the two other guests were not coming till next day. Now I am no foe, on principle, to a solitary evening. There is a great deal to be said for dining quite alone, with a book propped up against the candlestick, a rapid repast, some small necessary task (or more book) to while away an hour or two in a useful or pleasant manner, and the sense of virtue which accompanies an early retirement to bed. But all this has to be anticipated, if not arranged, and I found a very different programme. I dined in a stately manner, and dish after dish (anyone who dines alone never wants more than two things to eat) was presented to my notice. At the conclusion of this repast, which would have been quite delicious had there only been somebody to enjoy it with me, or even if all sense of taste had not been utterly obliterated by catarrh, I was conducted to the most palatial room that I know in any English house, and shut in with the evening paper, a roaring fire, half a dozen of the finest Reynolds and Romneys in the world sailing about and smiling on the walls, and the news that my hostess was far from well, but hoped I had everything I wanted. As a matter of fact I had nothing I wanted, because I wanted somebody to talk to, though I had the most sumptuous _milieu_ of things that I didn't want. Reynolds and Romney and a grand piano and an array of books and a box of cigars were of no earthly use to me just then, because I wanted to be with something alive, and no achievement in mere material could take the place of a living thing. I would humbly have asked the footman who brought me my coffee-cup, or the butler who so generously filled it for me to stop and talk, or play cards, or do anything they enjoyed doing, if I had thought that there was the smallest chance of their consenting. But I saw from their set formal faces that they would only have thought me mad, and I supposed that the reputation for sanity should not be thrown away unless there was something to be gained from the hazard. And where was the use of going to bed at half-past nine? * * * * * The most hopeful object in the room was the fire, for it had some semblance of real life about it. True, it was only a make-believe: that roaring energy was really no more than a destructive process. But it glowed and coruscated; the light of its consuming logs leaped on the walls in jovial defiance of this sombre and solitary evening, it blazed forth a challenge against the depressing elements of wet and cold. It was elemental itself, and though it was destructive, it was yet the source of all life as well as its end. It warmed and comforted; to sit near its genial warmth was a make-believe of basking in the sun to those who had groped through an endless autumn and winter of dark days. The sunshine that had made the trees put forth the branches that were now burning on the hearth was stored in them, and was being released again in warmth and flame. It was but bottled sunshine, so to speak, but there was evidence in it that there once had been sunshine, and that encouraged the hope that one day there would be sunshine again. Quite suddenly I became aware that some huge subtle change had taken place. It was not that my dinner and the fire had warmed and comforted me, but it came from outside. Something was happening there, though it never occurred to me to guess what it was. But I pushed back my chair from the imitation of summer that sparkled on the hearth, drew back the curtain from the window that opened on to the terrace, and stepped out. And then I knew what it was, for spring had come. The rain had ceased, the clouds that had blanketed the sky two hours before had been pushed and packed away into a low bank in the West, and a crescent moon was swung high in the mid-heaven. And whether it was that by miraculous dispensation my cold, which for days had inhibited the powers of sense and taste, stood away from me for a moment, or whether certain smells are perceived, not by the clumsy superficial apparatus of material sense, but by some inward recognition, I drank in that odour which is among the most significant things that can be conveyed to the mortal sense, the smell of the damp fruitful earth touched once again with the eternal spell of life. You can often smell damp earth on summer mornings or after summer rain, when it is coupled with the odour of green leaves or flowers, or on an autumn morning, when there is infused into it the stale sharp scent of decaying foliage, but only once or twice in the year, and that when the first feather from the breast of spring falls to the ground, can you experience that thrill of promise that speaks not of what is, but of what is coming. It is just damp earth, but earth which holds in suspense that which makes the sap stream out to the uttermost finger-tips of the trees, and burst in squibs of green. Not growth itself, but the potentiality of growth is there. The earth says, "Behold, I make all things new!" and the germs of life, the seeds and the bulbs, and all that is waiting for spring, strain upwards and put forth the green spears that pierce the soil. But earth, young everlasting Mother Earth, must first issue her invitation; says she, "I am ready," and lies open to the renewal of life.... I hope that however long I happen to inhabit this delightful planet, I shall never outlive that secret call of spring. When you are young it calls to you more physically, and you go out into the moonlit night, or out into the dark, while the rain drips on you, and somehow you make yourself one with it, digging with your fingers into the earth, or clinging to a wet tree-bough in some blind yearning for communion with the life that tingles through the world. But when you are older, you do not, I hope, become in the least wiser, if by wisdom is implied the loss of that exquisite knowledge of the call of spring. You have learned that: it is yours, it has grown into your bones, and it is impossible to experience as new what you already possess. You act the play no longer; it is for you to sit and watch it, and the test of your freedom from fatigued senility, your certificate to that effect, will lie in the fact that you will observe with no less rapture than you once enjoyed. You stand a little apart, you must watch it now, not take active part in it. But you will have learned the lesson of spring and the lesson of life very badly if you turn your back on it. For the moment you turn your back on it, or yawn in your stall when that entrancing drama of unconscious youth is played in front of you, whether the actors are the moon and the dripping shrubs and the smell of damp earth, or a boy and a girl making love in a flowery lane or in a backyard, you declare yourself old. If the upspringing of life, the tremulous time, evokes no thrill in you, the best place (and probably the most comfortable) for you is the grave. On the other side of the grave there may be a faint possibility of your becoming young again (which, after all, is the only thing it is worth while being), but on this side of the grave you don't seem able to manage it. God forbid that on this side of the grave you should become a grizzly kitten, and continue dancing about and playing with the blind-cord long after you ought to have learned better, but playing with the blind-cord is one of the least important methods of manifesting youth.... I was recalled from the terrace by decorous clinkings within, and went indoors to find the butler depositing a further tray of syphons and spirits on the table, and wishing to know at what time I wished to be called. On which, taking this as a hint that before I was called, I certainly had to go to bed (else how could I be called?), I went upstairs, and letting the night of spring pour into my room, put off into clear shallow tides of sleep, grounding sometimes, and once more being conscious of the night wind stirring about my room, and sliding off again into calm and sunlit waters. Often sleep and consciousness were mixed up together; I was aware of the window curtains swaying in the draught while I lay in a back-water of calm, and then simultaneously, so it seemed, it was not this mature and middle-aged I who lay there, but myself twenty-five years ago, eager and expectant and flushed with the authentic call of spring. By some dim dream-like double-consciousness I could observe the young man who lay in my place; I knew how the young fool felt, and envied him a little, and then utterly ceased to envy him, just because _I had been that,_ and had sucked the honey out of what he felt, and had digested it and made it mine. It was part of me: where was the profit in asking for or wanting what I had got? There we lay, he and I, while the night wheeled round the earth, which was not sleeping, but was alert and awake. Some barrier that the past years thought they had set up between us was utterly battered down by those stirrings of spring, and all night I lay side by side with the boy that I had been. He whispered to me his surmises and his desires, as he conceived them in the wonder of spring nights, when he lay awake for the sheer excitement of being alive and of having the world in front of him. He wound himself more and more closely to me, nudging me with his elbow to drive into me the urgency of his schemes and dreams, and I recognized the reality of them. How closely he clung! How insistent was his demand that I should see with his eyes, and listen with his ears, and write with his hand. And, fool though he was, and little as I respected him, I could not help having a sort of tenderness for him and his youth and his eagerness and his ignorance. "I want so awfully," he repeated. "Surely if I want a thing enough I shall get it. Isn't that so?" "Yes; that is usually the case," said I. "Well, I want as much as I _can_ want," he said. "And yet, if you are what I shall be (and I feel that is so), you haven't got it yet. Why is that?" "Perhaps you aren't wanting enough," said I. "To get it, would you give up everything else, would you live, if necessary, in squalor and friendlessness? Would you put up with complete failure, as the world counts failure?" He drew a little away from me; his tense arm got slack and heavy. "But there's no question of failure," he said. "If I get it, that means success." "But it's a question of whether you will eagerly suffer anything that can happen sooner than relinquish your idea. Can you cling to your idea, whatever happens?" He was silent a moment. "I don't know," he said. "That means you aren't wanting enough," said I. "And you don't take trouble enough. You never do." "I wonder! Is that why you haven't got all I want?" "Probably. One of the reasons, at any rate. Another is that we are meant to fail. That's what we are here for. Just to go on failing, and go on trying again." "Oh, how awfully sad! But I don't believe it." "It's true. But it's also true that you have to go on acting as if you didn't believe it. You will get nothing done, if you believe it when you're young." "And do you believe it now?" he asked. "Rather not. But it's true." He left me and moved away to the window. "It's the first night of spring," he said. "I must go and run through the night. Why don't you come too?" "Because you can do it for me." "Good-night then," he said, and jumped out of the window. * * * * * All the next morning spring vibrated in the air; the bulbs in the garden-beds felt the advent of the tremulous time, and pushed up little erect horns of vigorous close-packed leaf, and the great downs beyond the garden were already flushed with the vivid green of new growth, that embroidered itself among the grey faded autumn grass. A blackbird fluted in the thicket, a thrush ran twinkle-footed on to the lawn, and round the house-eaves in the ivy sparrows pulled about straws and dead leaves, practising for nesting-time; and the scent, oh, the scent of the moist earth! In these few hours the whole aspect of the world was changed, the stagnation of winter was gone, and though cold and frost might come back again, life was on the move; the great tide had begun to flow, that should presently flood the earth with blossom and bird-song. Never, even in the days when first the wand of spring was waved before my enchanted eyes, have I known its spell so rapturously working, nor felt a sweeter compulsion in its touch, which makes old men dream dreams and middle-aged men see visions so that all for an hour or two open the leaves of the rose-scented manuscript again, and hear once more the intoxicating music, and read with renewed eyes the rhapsody that is recited at the opening of the high mass of youth. The years may be dropping their snowflakes onto our heads, and the plough of time making long furrows on our faces, but never perhaps till the day when the silver bowl is broken, and the spirit goes to God Who gave it, must we fail to feel the thrill and immortal youth of the first hours of spring-time. And who knows whether all that this divine moment wakes in us here may not be but the faint echo, heard by half-awakened ears, the dim reflection, seen in a glass darkly of the everlasting spring which shall dawn on us then? MARCH, 1917 Never has there been a March so compounded of squalls and snows and unseasonable inclemencies. Verily I believe that my _Lobgesang_ of that spring day in February was maliciously transmitted to the powers of the air, and, so far from being pleased with my distinguished approval, they merely said: "Very well; we will see what else we can do, if you like our arrangements so much." Indeed, it looks like that, for we all know how the powers of Nature (the unpleasant variety of them) seem to concentrate themselves on the fact of some harmless individual giving a picnic, or other outdoor festivity, for which sun and fine weather is the indispensable basis. But now in a few days I shall defy them, for I do not believe that their jurisdiction extends to Italy. Italy: yes, I said Italy, for at last an opportunity and a cause have presented themselves, and I am going out there "at the end of this month, D.V." (as the clergyman said), "or early in April, anyhow." Rome is the first objective, and then (or I am much mistaken) there will be an interval of Alatri, and then Rome again and Alatri again: a sumptuous sandwich. How I have longed for something of the sort in these two years and a half of insular northern existence I cannot hope to convey. Perhaps at last I have reached that point of wanting which ensures fulfilment, but though I am interested in fantastic psychology, I don't really care how the fulfilment came now that it has come. * * * * * I have had no word from Francis since his letter last month from the Italian front, announcing his departure for Rome. He mentioned that he hoped to go to Alatri, and since he did not give me his address in Rome, I telegraphed to the island, announcing my advent at the end of March or early in April. Rather to my surprise I got the following answer from Alatri: "Was meaning to write. Come out end of March if possible. Shall be here." For no very clear reason this somewhat perturbed me. There was no cause for perturbation, if one examined the grounds of disquietude, for if he was ill he would surely have told me so before. Far the more probable interpretation was that he had already forgotten about his discomforts and his very depressed letter, and was snatching a few rapturous days now and then from Rome, and spending them on the island. He might foresee that he could do this again at the end of the month, and wanted me to come then, because he would be back at the front in April. That all held water, whereas the conjecture that he was ill did not. But though I told myself this a good many times, I did not completely trust my rendering, and his silence both before and after this telegram was rather inexplicable. My reasonable self told me that there was no shadow of cause for anxiety, but something inside me that observed from a more intimate spy-hole than that of reason was not quite satisfied. However, as the days of March went by and the time for my departure got really within focus, this instinctive and unreasonable questioning grew less insistent, and finally, as if it had been a canary that annoyed me by its chatter, I put, so to speak, the green baize of reason quite over it and silenced it. Soon I shall be sitting on the pergola, where the shadows of the vine-leaves dance on the paving-stones, telling Francis how yet another of my famous presentiments had been added the list of failures. And, indeed, there were plenty of other things to think about. Bellona, goddess of war, has come out of her winter reverie, where, with her mantle round her mouth, she has lain with steadfast eyes unclosed, waiting her time. All these last months she has but moved a drowsy hand, just sparring, but now she has sprung up and cast her mantle from her mouth, and yelled to her attendant spirits "Wake! for winter is gone and spring is here!" And, day by day, fresh news has come of larger movements and the stir of greater forces. In Mesopotamia an advance began late in February, and gathering volume, like an avalanche rushing down a snow-clad cliff, it thundered on with ever-increasing velocity till one morning we heard that the Baghdad city was reached and fell into the hands of the British expedition. And still it rolls on with its broad path swept clean behind it.... Simultaneously the advance on the French front has continued, though without anything approaching a battle, as battles are reckoned nowadays. The Germans have been unable to hold their line, and retreating (I am sorry to say) in a masterly manner, have given us hundreds of square miles of territory. The ridge of Bapaume, which held out against the Somme offensive of last summer, has fallen into our hands; so, too, has Peronne. True to the highest and noblest precepts of _Kultur,_ the enemy in their retreat have poisoned wells, have smashed up all houses and cottages with their contents, down to mirrors and chairs; have slashed to pieces the plants and trees in gardens, in vineyards and orchards; have destroyed by fire and bomb all that was destructible, and have, of course, taken with them women and girls. The movement has been on a very large scale, and the strategists who stay at home have been very busy over telling us what it all means, and the "best authority" has been very plentifully invoked. The optimist has been informed that the enemy have literally been blown out of their trenches, and tells us that a headlong retreat that will not stop till it reaches the Rhine has begun, while the pessimist sees in the movement only a strategical retreat which will shorten the German line, and enable the enemy both to send reinforcements to other fronts, and establish himself with ever greater security on what is known as the "Hindenburg Line." The retreat, in fact, according to the pessimist (and in this the published German accounts agree with him) is a great German success, which has rendered ineffective all the Allies' preparations for a spring offensive. According to the optimist, we have taken, the French and we, some three hundred square miles of territory, some strongly fortified German positions, at a minimum of cost. Out of all this welter of conflicting opinion two incontestable facts emerge, the one that the enemy was unable to hold their line, the other that their retreat has cost them very little in men, and nothing at all in guns. In the midst of the excitement in the West has come a prodigious happening from Russia. For several days there had been rumours of riots and risings in Petrograd, but no authentic news came through till one morning we woke to find that a revolution had taken place, that the Tzar had abdicated for himself and the Tzarevitch, and that already a National Government had been established, which was speedily recognized by the Ambassadors of the various Powers. At one blow all the pro-German party in Russia, which had for its centre the ministers and intriguers surrounding the Imperial Family, had been turned out by the revolutionists, and the work that began with the murder of Rasputin at the end of December had been carried to completion. The Army and the Navy had declared for the new National Government, and the work of the National Government after the extirpation of German influence was to be the united effort of the Russian people to bring the war to a victorious close. The thing was done before we in the West knew any more than muttered rumours told us; it came to birth full-grown, as Athene was born from the head of Zeus. There are a thousand difficulties and dangers ahead, for the entire government of a huge people, involving the downfall of autocracy, cannot be changed as you change a suit of clothes, but the great thing has been accomplished, and at the head of affairs in Russia to-day are not the Imperial marionettes bobbing and gesticulating on their German wires, but those who represent the people. A thousand obscure issues are involved in the movement: we do not know for certain yet whether the Grand Duke Michael is Tzar of all the Russias, or the Grand Duke Nicholas the head of the Russian armies, or whether the whole family of Romanoffs have peeled off and thrown aside like an apple-paring; what is certain is that some form of national government has taken the place of a Germanized autocracy. How stable that will prove itself, and whether it will be able to set the derelict steam-roller at work again and start it on its way remains to be seen. For myself, I shout with the optimists, but certainly, if the crisis is over and there actually is now in power a firm and national Government, capable of directing the destinies of the country, it will have been the most wonderful revolution that ever happened. And then, even earlier than I had dared to hope, for I had not expected to get away before the last week in March, came that blessed moment, when one night at Waterloo Station the guard's whistle sounded, and we slid off down the steel ribands to Southampton. In itself, to any who has the least touch of the travelling or gipsy mind, to start on a long journey, to cross the sea, to go out of one country and into another where men think different thoughts and speak a different language, is one of the most real and essential refreshments of life, even when he leaves behind him peace and entertainment and content. For two years and a half, if you except those little niggardly journeys that are scarce worth while getting into the train for, I had lived without once properly moving, and, oh, the rapture of knowing that when I got out of this train, it was to get on to a boat, and when I got out of the boat (barring the exit entailed by a mine or a submarine), it would be to get into another train, and yet another train, and at the Italian frontier another train yet, all moving southwards. Then once more there would be a boat, and after that the garden at Alatri, and the stone-pine and Francis. Even had I been credibly informed by the angel Gabriel or some such unimpeachable authority that the chances were two to one that the Southampton boat would be torpedoed, I really believe I should have gone, and taken the other chance in the hope of getting safely across and, for the present, leaving England (which I love) and all the friends whom I love also, firmly and irrevocably behind. I wanted (as the doctors say) a change, not of climate only, but of everything else that makes up life, people and things and moral atmosphere and occupations. I was aware that there were some thousands of people then in London who wanted the same thing and could not get it, and I am afraid that that added a certain edge to ecstasy. To get away from the people I knew and from the nation to which I belonged was the very pith of this remission. A few hours ago, too, I had been hunting the columns of newspapers and watching the ticking tape to get the very last possible pieces of information about all the events of which I have just given the summary, and now part and parcel of my delight was to think that for many hours to come I should not see a tape or a newspaper. The war had been levelled at me, at point-blank range; for two years and a half I had never been certain that the very next moment some new report would not be fired at me (and, indeed, I intentionally drew such fire upon myself); but now I had got out of that London newspaper office, and was flying through the dark night southwards. Here in England everything was soaked in the associations of war (though the most we had seen of it was two or three futile Zeppelins), but in Alatri, which I had never known except in conditions of peace and serenity, its detonation and the smoke of its burning would surely be but a drowsy peal of thunder, a mist on the horizon, instead of that all-encompassing fog out of which leaped the flash of explosions. I wanted desperately, selfishly, unpatriotically, to get out of it all for a bit, and Alatri, in intervals of Rome, beckoned like the promised land. I am aware that a Latin poet tells us that a change of climate obtained by a sea-voyage does not alter a man's mind, but I felt convinced he was mistaken. Throughout that delightful journey my expectations mounted. First came the windy quay at Southampton, the stealing out into the night with shuttered portholes, and in the early morning the arrival at Havre. Then for a moment I almost thought that some ghastly practical joke had been played on us passengers, and that we had put back again into a British port, so Anglicized and khakied did the town appear. But no such unseemly jest had been played, and that night I slept in Paris, and woke to find a chilly fog over that lucent city, which again sent qualms of apprehension through me, for fear that by some cantrip trick this might be London again, and my fancied journey but a dream. But the dream every hour proved itself real, for again I was in the train that started from the Gare de Lyon, and not from my bedroom or the top of the Eiffel Tower, as would have been the wont of dreams, and in due time there was Aix-les-Bains with its white poplars and silvery lake, and the long pull upwards to Modane, and the great hill-side through which the tunnel went, with wreaths of snow still large on its northern slopes, and when we came out of the darkness again, we had passed into the "land of lands." The mountain valleys were still grey with winter, but it was Italy; and presently, as we sped clanking downwards, the chestnut trees were in leaf, and the petroleum tins stood on the rails of wooden balconies with carnations already in bud, and on the train was a _risotto_ for lunch and a dry and abominable piece of veal, which, insignificant in themselves, were like some signal that indicated Italy. The dry veal and the _risotto_ and the budding chestnut trees and the unwearied beneficence of the sun were all signals of the Beloved: tokens of the presence that, after so long, I was beginning to realize again. And then the great hopeless station of Turin happened, where nobody can ever find the place he wants, and trains steal out from the platform where he has left them, and hide themselves again, guarded by imperious officials in cocked hats at subtly-concealed side tracks, escaping the notice, like prudent burglars, of intending travellers. There were shrill altercations and immediate reconcilements, and polite salutings, and finally the knowledge that all was well, and I found my hat and my coat precisely where I had left them, as in some conjuring trick, in the identical compartment (though it and the train had moved elsewhere), and again we slid southwards. There were olive-trees now, green in a calm air, and grey when the wind struck them, and little ruined castles stuck on the tops of inaccessible hills, and houses painted pink, and stone-walled vineyards, and dust that came in through the windows, but it was the beloved Italian dust. Then came the sea again on the right-hand side of the train (only here was the magic of the Mediterranean), and the stifle of innumerable tunnels, punctuated with glimpses of Portofino, swimming in its hump-backed way out into the tideless sea, and the huddle of roofs at Rapallo, and the bridge at Zoagli, and the empty sands at Sestri, and the blue-jackets crowding the platform at Spezzia. All this was real; a dream, though the reality was as ecstatic as a dream, could not have produced those memories in their exact order and their accurate sequence, and when, next morning, I awoke somewhere near Rome, I thought that the years of war-time were the nightmare, and this golden morning which shone on fragments of ancient aqueducts and knuckled fig-trees was but the resumption of what had been before the unquiet night possessed and held me. Here again, as three years ago, was the serene wash of sun and southern air, untroubled and real and permanent. I could open my mouth and draw in my breath. Dimly I remembered the fogs of the north, and almost as dimly the fact that Italy was at war too, striving to put her foot on that damnable centipede that had emerged from Central Europe to bite and to sting and to claw all that resented its wrigglings and prevented its poisoning of the world. * * * * * I found that after four days in Rome I was free (except for a wallet of papers which required attention), to go wherever I pleased for the inside of a week, and you may judge where next the train took me. That morning I had sent to Francis news of my escape from Rome (how desirous "an escape from Rome" would have sounded a month ago), and the same evening, across the flames of the sunset, I saw the peaks and capes of the island, shaped like a harp lying on its back, grow from dimmest outline of dream-shape into distinctness again. There on the left was the lower horn of it, plunged into the sea; then came the inward curve, sloping downwards to the grey cluster of the town, where the fingers of the player would be, and it swelled upwards again into the larger horn which formed the top of it. Never for more than a moment, I think, did my eyes leave some part of that exquisite shape. How often in the lower horn of it had Francis and I sat perched on that little platform by the gilded statue of Our Lady, looking landwards across the blue plain of sea towards the streamer of smoke from the truncated volcano, or to the coastland northwards, where the port was whitely strung like a line of pearls along the shore of the bay. Just below the other horn is the divinest bathing-place that the world holds; on a rock a hundred yards from the shore there is a little cave, curtained by seaweed, and in it is a tin box where shall be found two cigarettes and matches to match. Those were to have been lit and smoked within two months of their concealment there, and that date has now long been buried beneath the three years' landslide of war. The matches will certainly be a mildewed fricassée of wood pulp and phosphorus, the cigarettes an almost more ignoble glue of paper and tobacco; but to-morrow morning I swear that Francis and I will swim there, and unearth the remains of the serene days before the war, and recapture the _feel_ that there was in the world before the Prussian centipede went forth on his doomed errand. Francis, I know, will hate swimming so early in the year as this, for he is a midsummer bather; but surely one who has been through the horrors of Gallipoli and earned the V.C. in France will not absolutely refuse to go through this ordeal by water for the sake of the recovery of the peace-cache. If it is possible to feel certain of anything, it is that to-morrow morning, whatever the weather, two futile Englishmen, as happy as they are silly, will swim out to the rock below the higher horn of the harp, and verify the existence of a tin box. The shores grew clearer, and at last through a thin low-lying haze of sunset we passed into the clear shadow of the island, and the houses and pier of the Marina on which Teresa stood to welcome the return of her _promesso,_ who was stricken to death as he was clasped in her outstretched arms, defined themselves with the engraved sharpness of evening in the south. As we entered this zone of liquid twilight, I could see the fishing boats drawn up on the beach, the open arch of the funicular station, the crowd on the quay awaiting the mild daily excitement of the boat from the mainland, and at the sight of all those things, unchanged and peaceful, I had for the moment more strongly than ever the sense that there had been no war and there was no war, and that I should presently step back into the days that preceded those nightmare years. In a moment now I shall be able to distinguish a tall white-flannelled figure, who will wave his hat as he catches sight of me in the bow of the first disembarking boat that comes from the steamer, and he will move forward to the steps, and he will say "Hullo!" and I shall say "Hullo!" as I step ashore to find that to-day is linked on without break to the summer of 1914 when I was here last. I may have been to Naples for a night, or did I only leave by the morning boat to-day? I really do not know.... And then I saw that Francis was not among the little group of islanders on the quay. Probably he had not got the telegram I sent from Rome to-day, for the postmaster of Alatri is no friend to telegrams, and, as I have often thought, keeps one in his desk for a day or two, in order to teach you not to be in such a hurry. And when he thinks you have learned your lesson, he has it delivered, two or three days afterwards, among your letters. But in spite of this perfectly adequate method of accounting for the undoubted fact that Francis had not come to meet the boat, I felt an inward resurgence of the uneasiness with which I had received his request that I should come out in March if possible, and not wait till April. I had accounted for that at the time by a reasonable explanation, and I could account, also reasonably, for his absence. But I could now, as the funicular railway drew us up like a bucket from the well, into the higher sunlit slopes of the island, account for both by one and the same explanation. He was ill when last he wrote.... I found a porter in the Piazza, who shouldered my luggage, and I went on ahead, striving to convince myself, with quite decent success, that I was being afraid "even where no fear was," and yielded myself up, though I walked briskly in order to put an end to my ominous surmises, to the enchantment of the hour, and of the sense that I really had arrived again. The little huddled town, with the Piazza from the doors and arches of which any moment the chorus of light-opera might issue with short skirts and "catchy" chorus, was quite unchanged, save that at this hour of sunset it used always to be guttural with Teutonic tourists, and a place to be avoided by the genuine islander. Unchanged, too, was the narrow street, where two could scarcely walk abreast, that led out to the hill-side on which the villa was perched; there was the narrow slit of blue overhead, and the vegetable shop and the tobacconist's and the _trattoria_ with the smell of spilt wine issuing from it and the lean cat blinking at the doorway. The same children apparently ran up against one's legs, the tailor was putting up his shutters, and two Americans, as always, were buying picture-postcards at the stationer's. The path dipped downwards, ran level between olive groves and villas, made a right turn and a left turn, and there above me was the flight of steps that led steeply up by the whitewashed wall of the garden, and above the wall, still catching the last rays of the sun, was the stone-pine, and behind it, greyish-white and green-shuttered, the house, where in a minute now Francis would welcome me. My bedroom shutters I saw were open, and blankets were being aired on the window-sill, and this looked as if I was expected. I opened the garden gate, pulling at the string that lifted the latch inside, and a great wave of the scent of wallflower and freesias poured over me, warm from their day-long sunning underneath the southern wall, and intoxicatingly sweet. And even as I inhaled the first breath of it, a woman came out of the dining-room door that opens on to the terrace. She was dressed in the uniform of a hospital nurse. "We were expecting you," she said, speaking with that precise utterance of foreigners. "I hope you have had a good journey." The scent of the freesias suddenly sickened me. "What is the matter?" I asked. "What has happened?" "He wants to tell you himself," she said. "He? And is it serious?" She looked at me with that calm, untroubled sympathy that is the reward of those who give up their lives to mitigate suffering. "Yes," she said. "It is very serious. Will you go up and see him now?" "Surely. Where is he?" "In his bedroom. The third door along the passage. Ah, I forgot; of course you know." He was lying much propped up in bed, opposite the open window, and as he turned towards the door at my entry, I thought that this must be some wicked, inexplicable joke, so radiant and young and normal was his face. "Ah, that's splendid!" he said. "It was ripping getting your telegram this morning." "Francis, what's the matter?" I asked. "Why are you in bed? Why is there a nurse here?" He had not let go of my hand, and now he clasped it more closely. "I'll tell you the end first," he said; "quickly; just in one word. I'm dying. I can't live more than a few weeks." There was a moment's silence, not prolonged, but at the end of it I felt that I had known this for years. "Will you hear all about it from the beginning?" he asked. "Or would it bore you?" He was so perfectly normal that there was really nothing left but to be normal too, or it may be that a great shock stuns your emotional faculties for a while. But I do not think it was that with me now. It was Francis's intense serenity and happiness that infected and enveloped me. "I can't tell whether it would bore me or not," I said, "until I hear it." "Then make yourself comfortable for about half an hour," he said. "But stop me when you like." * * * * * "It was very soon after I came out to Italy," he said, "that I kept getting attacks of the most infernal pain. Then they ceased to be attacks; at least, they attacked all the time. It was about then, when it was worst, that I wrote you a pig of a letter. Wasn't it?" "It was rather." "Yes. I was pretty bad in other ways as well, which I'll tell you of afterwards. At present this is just physical. I had an awful dread all the time in my mind what this might be, though I kept saying it was indigestion. Then I went down to Rome and saw Schiavetti, the doctor. And I can't describe to you--though it may sound odd--what a relief it was to know for certain that my fears were correct. The worst I had feared was true, but anyhow, the fear, the apprehension were gone. When you are up against a thing, you may dislike it very much, but you don't fear the possibility of it any longer. It's there; and nothing, even the worst, is as bad as suspense. I've got cancer." He looked radiantly at me. "That was one relief," he said, "and on the top of it came another. It was quite impossible to operate. I needn't be afraid of being cut about. All the surgery that I have had or will have is the morphia needle, which, when you are in bad pain, is neither more nor less than heaven. But I haven't wanted the morphia needle for the last fortnight, and they think I shan't want it again. After a few horrible weeks the pain grew much less, and then ceased altogether. I doze and sleep most of the time now, and when I wake it is to an ecstasy. I don't want to die, it isn't that, and I don't want to live. But that complete absence of desire isn't apathy at all. It's just the divinest content you can imagine. It's true that I wanted to see you, and here you are." An idea suddenly struck me. "Then there's something happened to you," said I, "which is not physical." "Ah! I wondered if you would think of that. Guess once more." It was no question of guessing; I knew. "You have passed through the dark night of the soul." He laughed. "Yes; that's it. And that explains a thing you must have been asking yourself, why I didn't write to tell you when I knew what was the matter with me. I couldn't. For among other things, which I will tell you of, I had the absolute conviction that you wouldn't come, and wouldn't want to be bothered. That's a decent specimen of the pleasures of the dark night." He turned a little in bed. "But I wouldn't have been spared the dark night for all the treasures of heaven," he said. "Out of His infinite Love Christ Jesus let me know something of what He felt when He said, 'My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?' I remember once we talked about it, and it is summed up in the sense of utter darkness and utter loneliness. My mind reasoned it all out, and came to the absolute conclusion that there was nothing: there was neither love anywhere nor God anywhere, nor honour, nor decency. Had I been physically capable of it, there was no pleasure, carnal and devilish, that I would not have plucked at. At least, I think I should, but perhaps that would not have seemed worth while. I didn't, anyhow, because I was in continual pain. But all that I believed, all the amazing happiness that I had enjoyed from such knowledge of God as I had attained to, was completely taken from me. I could remember it dimly, as in some nonsensical dream. My mind, I thought, must have been drugged into some hysterical sentimental mood; but now, clearly and lucidly it saw how fantastic its imagination had been. I went deeper and deeper into the horror of great darkness, and I suppose that it was just that (namely, that my spirit knew that existence without God _was_ horror) which was my means of rescue. I still clung blindly and without hope to something that my whole mind denied. It was precisely in the same way that I telegraphed to you to come in March if you could. My mind knew for certain that you didn't care, but I did that. "It was just about then that I had forty-eight hours of the worst pain I had ever known. The morphia had no effect, and I lay here in a sweat of agony. But in the middle of it the dark night lifted off my soul and it was morning. I can't give you any idea of that, for it happened from outside me, just as dawn comes over the hills. And even while my physical anguish was at its worst, I lay here in a content as deep as that which I have now, with you sitting by me, and that delicious sense of physical lassitude which comes when you are resting after a hard day. "Next day the pain began to get better, and two days afterwards it was gone. It has never come back since. I am glad of that, for it is quite beastly. But what matters more is that the dark night is gone. And that can't come back, because I know that the dawn that came to me after it was the dawn of the everlasting day." He paused a moment. "And that's all," he said. * * * * * He grew drowsy after this, and presently his nurse, a nun from a convent in the mainland, settled him for the night. Seraphina came from the kitchen after I had dined, and wept a little, and told me how Francis, "_il santo signorino,_" saw her every day, and took no less interest than before in her affairs and the little everyday things. Pasqualino was at the war, and the new boy who waited at dinner was a fat-head, as no doubt I had noticed, and Caterina (if so be I remembered about Caterina and Pasqualino and the baby) was in good service, and the baby throve amazingly. Provisions were dear; you had to take a foolish card with you when you wanted sugar, but the vegetables were coming on well, and we should not do so badly. The Signorino liked to hear all the news, and, if God willed, he would have no more pain; but she wished he would eat more, and then perhaps he would get his strength back, and cheat the undertaker after all. There was a cousin of hers who had done just that; he was dying, they all said, and then, _Dio!_ all of a sudden he got better from the moment Seraphina had cooked him a great beefsteak for his dinner. To those who have loved the lovely and the jolly things of this beautiful world, the day of little things is never over, and next morning, at Francis's request, I went down to the bathing-beach with orders not to mind if the water was chilly, but swim out to the rock of the cache and bring the tin box home. From his window he could not see the garden itself, but only the pine-tree, but would it not be possible to fix a looking-glass on the slant in the window-sill, so that from his bed he could see as well as smell the freesias and the narcissus and the wall-flowers? The success of this made him want to see more, and now that the weather was warm, there surely could not be any harm in transplanting him, bed and all, on to the paved platform at the end of the pergola, and letting him spend the rest of his days and nights in the garden. With a few sheets of canvas, to be let down at night, and could we not engineer a room for him there? He often used to sleep out there before. The question was referred to the nurse and met with her approval and that of the doctor; so that afternoon we made everything ready, and by tea-time had carried him out on his mattress with the aid of Seraphina and the fat-head, to his great contentment. This out-of-door bedroom was screened from the north by the house, and between the pillars of the pergola to east and south and west the nimble fingers of Seraphina had rigged up curtains of canvas that could be drawn or withdrawn according to the weather, while overhead was the matting underneath which we dined in the summer. The electric light was handy to his bed, and on the table by it was a bell with which he could summon the nurse, who slept in the bedroom overlooking the pergola. His bedside books stood there also: "Alice in Wonderland," a New Testament, "Emma," and a few more. The stone-pine whispered to the left of his bed, and the wind that stirred there blew in the wonderful fragrance of the spring-flowering garden. Francis had been very drowsy all day, but for an hour that evening we talked exactly as we might have talked nearly three years ago, before the flame of war had scorched Europe. There were plans we had been making then for certain improvements in the house, and those we discussed anew. We spoke of the odd story concerning the footstep that walked in the studio, and wondered if the _strega_ would be heard again; the tin box, which I had obediently fetched from its cache, was opened; Seraphina came out with commissariat suggestions for next day, and the news that Pasqualino had got a week's leave and would be here several days before Easter to see the _bambino_ on which he had never yet set eyes. Soon the stars began to appear in the darkening night-blue of the sky, and the breeze from the garden bore in no longer the scent of open flowers, but the veiled fragrance of their closing, and the smell of the damp earth, irrigated by the heavy dew, came with it.... We talked of pleasant and humorous little memories of the past, and plans for the future, just as if we were spending one of the serene summer evenings the last time we were here together, three years ago, and it seemed perfectly natural to do so. Among those plans for the future there came up the question of my movements, and we settled that I should go back to Rome the day after to-morrow, and return here if possible for Easter. "For that," said Francis cheerfully, "will be about the end of my tether. The end of it, I mean, in the sense that I shan't be tethered any more. Oh, and there's one thing I forgot. Be sure you go to some medium about the packet I sealed up on the last time I was in England. Don't you remember? We both sealed up a packet?" "Oh, don't!" said I. "I hate the thought of it." "But you mustn't shirk," he said. "If it had been you, not me, I shouldn't have shirked. You've got to go to some medium, and see if he can tell you what's in my packet. And the interesting thing is that I can't remember for the life of me what I put there, and certainly nobody else knows. So if any medium can tell you what's inside it, it will really be extremely curious. Mind you tell me--oh, I forgot." "Would you mind not being quite so horrible?" I said. "I'm not horrible. If anybody is being horrible it's you in not feeling that I shall be living, not only as much as before, but much more. I say, do get hold of that." "Yes, I'll try. But the flesh is weak." He was silent a moment. "It's through weakness that His strength is made perfect," he said. "And here's my nurse coming to settle me. What a jolly talk we've had!" I got up. "Good-night, then," I said. "Good-night. Sleep as well as I shall." It was still early and I went to the studio to read a little before I went to bed. But I found a book was not a thing one could attend to, and I sat doing nothing, scarcely even thinking. I did not want to think; all I wanted to do was to _look at_ what was going on here. Thought, with its perplexities and conjectures and burrowings, did not touch the heart of the situation. I could only contemplate; the best friend I had in the world lay dying, and yet there must be no sorrow. He was too utterly triumphant; banners and trumpets were assembling for his passing, and he called on the joy of the world to congratulate him. He was not dying, in his view, any more than a man dies who leaves a little sphere for a larger one. Death was not closing in upon him, but opening out for him! I saw him walking, not through a dark valley, but upon hill-tops at the approach of dawn, and soon for him the dim night world would burst into light and colour. Already had he been through the night, and now he lay there with morning in his eyes, assured of day. All that he waited for now was the dimming of the terrestrial stars, and the flooding with sun of the infinite heavens. He knew it; all I could decently do was to try to look at it through his eyes and not through my own, which were blinded with tears that should never have been shed.... I did not doubt the truth of his conviction, I knew it in my bones. But the flesh on my bones was weak, and it cried out for him. APRIL, 1917 It was on the evening of the Thursday before Easter that I got back to Alatri. Once more the outline of the island, that had been a soft cloud-like shape afloat on the sea, grew distinct, and before we got there it lay dark against an orange sunset and a flame of molten waters. There stood the little crowd on the pier waiting the steamer's arrival, but to-night I needed not to look for Francis among them. During the last ten days I had had frequent news from his nurse, always of the same sort: he suffered no more pain, but each day he was sensibly weaker. But there among the crowd stood Pasqualino very smart in his Bersaglieri uniform; he had come down to meet me with a similar message. He had arrived two days before on a week's leave, and, so he told me, spent most of the day up at the villa, helping in the house and weeding in the garden. Sometimes when the Signorino was awake he called to him, and they talked about all manner of things, as in the good days before he was ill and before the accursed war came. "And shall we all be as happy as the Signorino when we come to our last bed?" asked Pasqualino. There was a great change in Francis since ten days ago; he had drifted far on the tide that was carrying him so peacefully away. He just recognized me, said a few words, and then dozed off again into the stupor in which he had lain all day. Through the morning of Good Friday also, and into the afternoon he lay unconscious. But now for the first time his sleep was troubled, and he kept stirring and muttering to himself, unintelligibly for the most part, though now and then there came a coherent sentence. Some inner consciousness, I think, was aware of what day this was, for once he said, "It was I, my Lord, who scourged Thee, and crowned Thee with the thorns of many sorrows." During these hours the nurse and I remained at his bedside, for his breathing was difficult, and his pulse very feeble, and it was possible that at any moment the end might come. Pasqualino went softly about the garden barefooted, doing his weeding, and once or twice came to look at his Signorino. A cat dozed in the hot sunshine, the lizards scuttled about the pillars of the pergola, and in the stone-pine a linnet sang. But about three o'clock in the afternoon his breathing grew more quiet, his pulse grew stronger, and he slept an untroubled sleep for another hour. After that he awoke, and that evening and all Saturday morning he was completely conscious and brimming over with a serene happiness. Sometimes we talked, sometimes I read to him out of "Emma," or "Alice in Wonderland," and during the afternoon he asked me to read him the few verses in St John about Easter Eve. "Do come very early to-morrow morning," he said, when this was done, "and read the next chapter, the Easter morning chapter." I put down the Bible, still open, on his table. "Very well," I said, "I'll come at sunrise. But aren't you tired now? You've been talking and listening all day." "Yes; I'll go to sleep for a bit. And won't you go for a walk? You always get disagreeable towards evening if you've had no exercise." "Where shall I go?" I asked. He thought a moment, smiling, "Go to the very top of Monte Gennaro," he said, "to get the biggest view possible, and stand there and in a loud voice thank God for everything that there is. Say it for yourself and for me. Say 'Francis and I give thanks to Thee for Thy great glory.' That's about all that there is to say, isn't it?" "I can't think of anything else." "Off you go, then," he said. "Oh, Lor'! I wish I was coming too. But I'll go to sleep instead. Good-bye." * * * * * I woke very early next morning, before sunrise, with the impression that somebody had called to me from outside, and putting on a coat, I went out into the garden to see whether it was Francis's voice that I heard. But he lay there fast asleep, and I supposed that the impression that I had been called was but part of a dream. Overhead the stars were beginning to burn dim in a luminous sky, and in the East the sober dove-colour of dawn was spreading upwards from the horizon, growing brighter every moment. Very soon now the sun would rise, and as I had promised to come out then and read Francis the chapter in St John about the Resurrection morning, it was not worth while going back to bed again. So waiting for him to awake, I took up the Bible, which still lay open on his table where I had laid it yesterday, with "Emma" and "Alice in Wonderland," and as I waited I read to myself the verses that I should presently read aloud to him. Just as I began the first ray of the sun overtopped the steep hill-side to the East, and shone full on the page. It did not yet reach the bed where Francis lay asleep. "And when she had thus said, she turned herself and saw Jesus standing, and knew not that it was Jesus. "Jesus saith unto her, 'Woman, why weepest thou? Whom seekest thou?' She, supposing him to be the gardener...." At that moment I looked up, for I thought I heard footsteps coming towards me along the terrace, and it crossed my mind that this was Pasqualino arriving very early to help in the house and garden, though, as it was Sunday, I had not expected him. But there was no one visible; only at the entrance to the pergola, which was still in shadow, there seemed to be a faint column of light. I saw no more than that, and the impression was only vague and instantaneous, and perhaps the first sunray on the book had dazzled me.... And then I looked there no more, for a stir of movement from the bed made me turn, and I saw Francis sitting up with his hands clasped together in front of him. And whether it was but the glory of the terrestrial dawn that now shone on his face or the day-spring of the light invisible, so holy a splendour illuminated it that I could but look in amazement on him. He was gazing with bright and eager eyes to the entrance of the pergola, and in that moment I knew that he saw there Him whom Mary supposed to be the gardener. Then his clasped hands quivered, and in a voice tremulous with love and with exultation: "Rabboni!" he said, and his joyful soul went forth to meet his Lord. * * * * * Never have I felt the place so full of his dear and living presence as in the days that followed. It was so little of him that we laid in the English cemetery here, no more than the discarded envelope which he had done with, and the love of our comradeship seemed but to have been more closely knit. Day after day, and all day long, Francis was with me in an intensity of actual presence that never lost its security or its serenity. For a week I remained there, and hourly throughout it I expected to see him in bodily form or to hear the actual sound of his voice. But I am sure that no appearance of him, such as we call a ghost, or any hearing of his voice, could possibly have added to the reality of his companionship. What those laws are which sometimes permit us to be conscious with physical eye or ear of someone who has passed over that stream which daily seems to me more narrow, we do not certainly know; but never before did I realize how little the mere satisfaction of vision or audition matters, when the inward sense of the presence of the dead is so vivid. Nor was it I alone who felt this, for Seraphina has told me how often in those days she would hear the stir of a rattled door-handle or steps along the kitchen passage when she was at her cooking, and look round, expecting to see "her Signorino," before she recollected that she would see him no more. It was the same with Pasqualino, and, oddly enough, though the islanders are full of superstitious terror of the dead, and avoid certain places as haunted and uncanny, neither she nor he felt the slightest fear at the thought of seeing Francis, but looked round for him with bright eager faces which disappointment clouded again. And for me he was always there: in that hot blink of premature summer he came down to bathe, and lay beside me on the beach; he swam with me to the rock of the cache; he sat with me at meals; one afternoon he came up to the top of Monte Gennaro, to pick the orchises of the spring and to say his Gloria for himself. There was no break at all in our companionship; indeed, it but seemed, as I have said, to have grown intenser and more vivid. And that which, when he lay dying, seemed quite impossible, namely, that I should come back to the island and the villa again now that I should not find him here, has become perfectly natural, since I shall most assuredly find him here. He will be with me in England, too, and wherever I may go during the period of my mortal days, I shall find him, not by any act of faith that the dead die not, nor by any theoretical conviction that his individuality survives, but from the plain experience that it is so.... And when the dimness and the dream of life vanish from my awakening vision, I know also that among the first who will give me welcome will be Francis, and his grey merry eyes will greet me.... * * * * * I arrived back to a cold and snowy England towards the end of the month, and as soon as I got home unlocked the drawer in which I had placed on a certain day last January the two "posthumous packets," as Francis called them, which we had severally prepared. As the reader may remember, we had packed them to serve as a test concerning the possibility of spirit-communication, and in mine I had placed a "J" nib, a five-franc piece and some carbolic tooth-powder, and had written directions on it that it was to be sent to him to deal with in the event of my dying first. While I was doing this upstairs, he was making ready his packet in the sitting-room, and on my return gave it me wrapped up and bound with string and sealed. There in its drawer it had lain till to-day, and the time was now come when the test could be put. The box in which he had disposed a certain object or objects unknown to me was some six inches long, and about the same across. * * * * * I at once went to a friend who is much immersed in spiritualistic affairs, and asked him to arrange a sitting for me with some medium whom he believed to have power, and believed not to be fraudulent. (It did not really matter whether the medium was fraudulent or not, since no amount of trickery could discover the contents of that package.) I asked that my name should not be given, but that a sitting should be arranged on some appointed day. I begged him, finally, to come with me, so that between us we might get a fairly complete account of what occurred, and to be a witness. I may add that I was not at all sanguine as to anything occurring. * * * * * Accordingly a few days afterwards Jack Barrett arrived, and together we drove off to the medium's house. The packet that Francis had made still lay in the locked drawer of a black oak table, and I said no word to my friend either about Francis, whom he had known slightly, or about the packet. The procedure was of the kind common to trance-mediums. We sat in a small front-room of a rather dingy house in a dull respectable street. The room was partially darkened by the drawing of curtains over the window, but there was a bright fire burning on the hearth, and a lamp turned low was placed for my friend and me on a small round table, so that we could see sufficiently to write without difficulty. The medium herself was a pleasant-looking woman, about thirty years of age, with a slight cockney accent and a quiet level voice. Before the sitting began she made us an explanation of her powers, which I will give for what it is worth. Since she was a child she had often gone off into queer trances, which she could induce at will. When she awoke from them, she never knew more than that she had been having very vivid dreams, and talking to unknown people, but all recollection of what had passed instantly faded from her memory. Subsequently she married and had one child, a girl, who died at the age of ten. But, going into a trance a day or so after her death, the mother was aware when she awoke that she had been talking to her child. Thereafter she cultivated her gift, getting her husband or a friend to sit with her when she was in trance, and listen to and take down what she said. When in trance she spoke in Daisy's voice, not in her own, and the dead child told her about its present state of existence. Daisy described other dead people whom she came across, and could transmit messages from them. Such was Mrs. Masters's account of her gift. She asked me only one question, and that was whether I wanted to get into communication with a dead friend. I told her that this was so, and then quite suddenly found myself harbouring a strong distaste for all these proceedings. I should certainly have gone away and had no sitting at all, if I had not recollected my promise to Francis to go through with it. It seemed to me like taking some sacred thing into a place of ill-fame.... All that follows is a compilation from our joint notes, and I have inserted nothing which did not appear in the notes or in the recollection of both of us. The medium sat close to me in a high chair opposite the fire, so that her face was clearly visible. Her eyes were closed and she had her hands on her lap. For about five minutes she remained thus, and then her breathing began sensibly to quicken; she gasped and panted, and her hands writhed and wrestled with each other. That passed, and she sat quite quiet again. Presently she began to whisper to herself, and though I strained my ears to listen, I could catch no words. Very soon her voice grew louder, but it was a perfectly different voice from that in which she had spoken to us before.... It was a high childish treble, with a little lisp in it. The first coherent words were these: "Yes, I'm here. Daisy's here. What shall I tell you about?" "Ask her," said Barrett to me. "I want to know if you can tell me anything about a friend of mine," I said. "Yes, here he comes," she said. She then told us that he--whoever it was--was in the room, and was looking into my face, and was rather puzzled because I did not appear to see him. He put his hand on my shoulder and was talking to me and smiling, and again seemed puzzled that I could not hear him. She proceeded to describe him at length with very great accuracy, and presently, in answer to a question, spelled out the whole of his name quite correctly. She told us that he had not long passed over; he had been on this side but a few weeks before, that he had died not in England, and not fighting, but he was connected with fighting. She said he was talking about an island in the sea, and about bathing, and about a garden where he had died; did I not recollect all those things? Now so far all that had been told us could easily be arrived at and accounted for by mind-reading. All those things were perfectly well known to me, and contributed no shred of proof with regard to spirit-communication. For nearly an hour the medium went on in this manner, telling me nothing that I did not know already, and before the hour was up I had begun to weary of the performance. As a whole it was an extraordinary good demonstration of thought-reading, but nothing more at all. Indeed, I had ceased to take notes altogether, though Barrett's busy pencil went writing on, when quite suddenly I took my own up again, and attended as intently as I possibly could. Francis told her, she said, that there was a test, and the test was in a box, and the box was in a big black drawer. "It's a test, he says it's a test," she repeated several times. Then she stopped, and I could hear her whispering again. "But it's silly, it's nonsense," she said. "It doesn't mean anything." She laughed, and spoke again out loud. "He says, 'Bow, wow, wow! Puss,'" she said. "He says, 'Gott strafe the V.C.' He says it's a parrot. He says it's a grey feather of a parrot and something else besides. Something about burning, he says. He says it's a cinder. It's a cinder and a parrot's feather. That's what he says is the test." It was not long after this that the coherent speaking ceased and whisperings began again. Presently the medium said, still in the child's voice, that the power was getting less. Then the voice stopped altogether, and soon afterwards I saw her hands twisting and wrestling together. She stretched out her arms with the air of a tired woman, and rubbed her eyes, and came out of trance. My friend and I went home, and before we opened the box we compared and collated our notes. Then I unlocked the drawer, took out Francis's packet and broke the seals and cut the string. The cardboard box contained a piece of paper folded round one of Matilda's grey feathers and a fragment of burned coal. * * * * * Now I see no possible way of accounting for this unless we accept Mrs. Masters's explanation, and believe that in some mysterious manner Francis, his living self, was able to tell her while in this trance what were the contents of the packet he had sealed up. No possible theory of thought-transference between her and anyone living in the conditions of this earthly plane will fit the case, for the simple reason that no one living here and now has ever had the smallest knowledge of what the packet contained. That information had never, until the moment that Mrs. Masters communicated it to me and my friend, been known to more than one person. Francis had made the packet, had sealed it up, and in that locked drawer it had remained till we opened it after this sitting. I can conceive of no possible channel of communication except one, namely, that Francis himself spoke in some mysterious way to the medium's mind. My reason and my power of conjecture are utterly unable to think of any other explanation. So accepting that (for a certain reason to be touched on later, I rather shrink from accepting it), it follows as possible that all the earlier part of the sitting, which can certainly be accounted for by the established phenomenon of thought-transference, may not have been due to thought-transference at all, but to direct communication also with Francis. And yet while the medium was speaking, telling me that he was looking into my face, and wondering that I could not see him, I, who have so continually with me the sense of his personal presence, had no such feeling. That Francis whom I knew, the same one who is now so constantly with me, did not seem to be there at all ... Now I reject altogether the theory of the Roman Catholic Church, namely, that when we try to communicate with the dead and apparently succeed in so doing, we are not really brought into connection with them, but into connection with some evil spirit who impersonates them. I cannot discover or invent the smallest grounds for believing that; it seems to me more a subject for some gruesome magazine tale than a spiritual truth. But what does seem possible is this, that we are brought into connection not with the soul of the departed, his real essential personality, the thing we loved, but with a piece of his mere mechanical intelligence. Otherwise it is hard to see why those who have passed over rarely, if ever, tell us, except in the vaguest and most unconvincing manner, about the conditions under which they now exist. They speak of being happy, of being busy, of waiting for us, but they tell us nothing that the medium could not easily have invented herself. No _real_ news comes, nothing that can enable us to picture in the faintest degree what their life over there is like. Possibly the conditions are incommunicable; they may find it as hard to convey them as it would be to convey the sense and the effect of colour to a blind man. Material and temporal terms must naturally have ceased to bear any meaning to them, since they have passed out of this infinitesimal sphere of space and time into the timeless and immeasurable day, the sun of which for ever stands at the height of an imperishable noon. If they could tell us of that, perhaps we should not understand. The upshot, then, is this: I believe that when the medium, sitting opposite the fire in that dim room, said what was in the sealed packet, the discarnate mind of Francis told her what was there. I believe the door between the two worlds not to be locked and barred; certain people--such as we call mediums--have the power of turning the handle and for a little setting this door ajar. But what do we get when the door is set ajar? Nothing that is significant, nothing that brings us closer to those on the other side. If I had not already believed in the permanence and survival of individual life, I think it more than possible that the accurate and unerring statement of what was in the sealed packet might have convinced me of it. But it brought me no nearer Francis. * * * * * A great event has happened, for America has joined the cause of the Allies. That was long delayed, but there is now no possibility of doubting the wisdom of such delay, if from it sprang the tremendous enthusiasm which shows how solid is the nation's support. What this event means to the cause of the Allies cannot be over-estimated, for already it is clear that Russia is as unstable as a quicksand, and none knows what will be swallowed up next in those shifting, unfathomable depths. There is something stirring there below, and the first cries of liberty and unity which hailed the revolution have given place to queer mutterings, unconjecturable sounds.... April is nearly over, and spring, which came so late here in England that long after Easter the land lay white under unseasonable snows, has suddenly burst out into full choir of flower and bird-song. The blossoms that should have decked last month, the daffodils that should have "taken the winds of March with beauty," have delayed their golden epiphany till now, and it is as if their extra month of sleep had given them a vigour and a beauty that spring never saw before. The April flowers are here too, and the flowers of May have precociously joined them, and never was there such bustle among the birds, such hurried transport of nest-building material. But through all the din of the forest-murmurs sounds the thud of war. How still it was on that Easter morning.... 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{ "task_name": "narrativeqa" }
# Copyright 2010 Dmitry Naumenko ([email protected]) # Copyright 2015 Techcable # # Licensed under the Apache License, Version 2.0 (the "License"); # you may not use this file except in compliance with the License. # You may obtain a copy of the License at # # http://www.apache.org/licenses/LICENSE-2.0 # # Unless required by applicable law or agreed to in writing, software # distributed under the License is distributed on an "AS IS" BASIS, # WITHOUT WARRANTIES OR CONDITIONS OF ANY KIND, either express or implied. # See the License for the specific language governing permissions and # limitations under the License. """ A clean-room implementation of <a href="http://www.cs.arizona.edu/people/gene/">Eugene Myers</a> differencing algorithm. See the paper at http://www.cs.arizona.edu/people/gene/PAPERS/diff.ps """ from .core import Patch, Delta, Chunk from .engine import DiffEngine from typing import List, Optional, T import hashlib class MyersEngine(DiffEngine): def __init__(self, hash_optimization=True): self.hash_optimization = hash_optimization @property def name(self): return 'plain_myers' def diff(self, original, revised): if type(original) is not list: raise TypeError("Original must be a list: {!r}".format(original)) if type(revised) is not list: raise TypeError("Revised must be a list: {!r}".format(revised)) original_hashes = None # type: list[bytes] revised_hashes = None # type: list[bytes] if self.hash_optimization: # Since build_path actually doesn't need the elements themselves, we can take their sha256sum to speed up comparison # This can improve performance noticably, since hashes usually differ in the first few bytes and there are only 32 bytes at most original_hashes = [] for element in original: if type(element) is not str: original_hashes, revised_hashes = None, None break h = hashlib.sha256() h.update(element.encode('utf-8')) original_hashes.append(h.digest()) if original_hashes is not None: revised_hashes = [] for element in revised: if type(element) is not str: original_hashes, revised_hashes = None, None break h = hashlib.sha256() h.update(element.encode('utf-8')) revised_hashes.append(h.digest()) if original_hashes is not None: path = build_path(original_hashes, revised_hashes) else: path = build_path(original, revised) return build_revision(path, original, revised) def __repr__(self): if self.hash_optimization: return "PlainMyersEngine" else: return "PlainMyersEngine(hash_optimization=False)" def build_path(original: List[T], revised: List[T]) -> "DiffNode": """ Computes the minimum diffpath that expresses the differences between the original and revised sequences, according to Gene Myers differencing algorithm. According to the author of the algorithm, a diffpath will always be found, so a RuntimeError shouldn't be thrown. :param original: The original sequence. :param revised: The revised sequence. :return: A minimum {@link DiffNode Path} across the differences graph. :exception RuntimeError: if a diff path could not be found. """ original_size = len(original) revised_size = len(revised) max_size = original_size + revised_size + 1 size = 1 + 2 * max_size middle = size // 2 diagonal = [None] * size # type: list[Optional["DiffNode"]] diagonal[middle + 1] = create_snake(0, -1, None) for d in range(max_size): for k in range(-d, d + 1, 2): kmiddle = middle + k kplus = kmiddle + 1 kminus = kmiddle - 1 prev = None # For some reason this works, but not the other ways if (k == -d) or (k != d and diagonal[kminus].i < diagonal[kplus].i): i = diagonal[kplus].i prev = diagonal[kplus] else: i = diagonal[kminus].i + 1 prev = diagonal[kminus] diagonal[kminus] = None j = i - k node = create_diff_node(i, j, prev) # orig and rev are zero-based # but the algorithm is one-based # that's why there's no +1 when indexing the sequences while i < original_size and j < revised_size and original[i] == revised[j]: i += 1 j += 1 if i > node.i: node = create_snake(i, j, node) diagonal[kmiddle] = node if i >= original_size and j >= revised_size: return diagonal[kmiddle] diagonal[middle + d - 1] = None # According to Myers, this cannot happen raise RuntimeError("couldn't find a diff path") def build_revision(path: "DiffNode", original: List[T], revised: List[T]) -> Patch: """ Constructs a {@link Patch} from a difference path. :param path: The path. :param original: The original sequence. :param revised: The revised sequence. :exception ValueError: If there is an invalid diffpath :return: A Patch corresponding to the path. """ patch = Patch() if path.is_snake(): path = path.prev while path is not None and path.prev is not None and path.prev.j >= 0: if path.is_snake(): raise ValueError("Found snake when looking for diff") i = path.i j = path.j path = path.prev ianchor = path.i janchor = path.j original_chunk = Chunk(ianchor, original[ianchor:i]) revised_chunk = Chunk(janchor, revised[janchor:j]) delta = Delta.create(original_chunk, revised_chunk) patch.add_delta(delta) if path.is_snake(): path = path.prev return patch class DiffNode: """ A diffnode in a diffpath. A DiffNode and its previous node mark a delta between two input sequences, in other words, two differing sub-sequences (possibly 0 length) between two matching sequences. DiffNodes and Snakes allow for compression of diffpaths, because each snake is represented by a single Snake node and each contiguous series of insertions and deletions is represented by a DiffNode. :type i: int :type j: int :type lastSnake: Optional["DiffNode"] :type prev: Optional["DiffNode"] :type snake: bool """ __slots__ = "i", "j", "lastSnake", "snake", "prev" def __init__(self, i, j): """ Creates a new path node :param i: The position in the original sequence for the new node. :param j: The position in the revised sequence for the new node. :param prev: The previous node in the path. """ self.i = i self.j = j self.lastSnake = None self.snake = False def is_snake(self): """ Return if the node is a snake :return: true if the node is a snake """ return self.snake def previous_snake(self): """ Skips sequences of nodes until a snake or bootstrap node is found. If this node is a bootstrap node (no previous), this method will return None. :return: the first snake or bootstrap node found in the path, or None """ return self.lastSnake def create_diff_node(i, j, prev): node = DiffNode(i, j) prev = prev.lastSnake node.prev = prev if i < 0 or j < 0: node.lastSnake = None else: node.lastSnake = prev.lastSnake return node def create_snake(i, j, prev): snake = DiffNode(i, j) snake.prev = prev snake.lastSnake = snake snake.snake = True return snake
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
Document: A Pennsylvania man died from the injuries he suffered during a car accident over three decades ago, according to the Lehigh County Coroner's Office. James Koplik, 53, of Bethlehem, was struck by a vehicle approximately 35 years ago in New York State. Koplik died at the Lehigh Valley Hospital, Muhlenberg on Saturday at 11:19 a.m. from complications of the injuries he received from the crash, the Lehigh County Coroner’s Office. The manner of death was ruled an accident. Officials have not revealed the specific injuries he suffered or where he was struck in New York. The coroner’s office is searching for the next of kin for Koplik. Anyone with information on his family should call the Lehigh County Coroner’s Office at 610-782-3426. ||||| An Allentown man who was struck 50 years ago by a vehicle died Monday night from complications related to the injuries, the Lehigh County Coroner's Office reports. Richard Albright, 58, was hit by a vehicle in 1965 at South Eighth and St. John streets in the city, the coroner's office said. He died at 9:37 at Good Shepherd Home-Raker Center, the coroner's office said. Albright lived at Good Shepherd, the coroner's office said. His death was ruled an accident, the coroner's office said. Tony Rhodin may be reached at [email protected]. Follow him on Twitter @TonyRhodin. Find lehighvalleylive.com on Facebook. Summary: – An 8-year-old boy sustained serious injuries when he was hit by a car in Pennsylvania in July 1965—injuries that proved fatal 50 years later, the Lehigh County Coroner's Office has ruled. Richard Albright, 58, never recovered from head injuries he suffered in the July 8, 1965, pedestrian accident in Allentown, reports the Morning Call, which reported the day after the accident that the badly injured boy was "holding his own." "We looked back pretty far to see the chain of events," First Deputy Coroner Eric Minnich tells the Morning Call. Both of Albright's legs were broken in the accident, and the injuries he sustained "required a lifetime of treatment and basically he was paralyzed," says Minnich. "This is something that he never achieved a full recovery from." Lehighvalleylive.com reports Albright's death was ruled accidental by the coroner's office. Minnich says it's rare but not unheard of for injuries suffered in an accident to cause death after so many years. To wit, the very same office made a similar announcement in May of this year. NBC Philadelphia reports a 53-year-old Pennsylvania man died May 9 because of injuries caused when a car struck him in New York state some 35 years prior. James Koplik's death was also ruled an accident, reports NBC Philadelphia. (Last year a man survived a car crash, only to be killed when his wife came to help.)
{ "task_name": "multi_news" }
#!/usr/bin/env python3 """This is a small program for monitoring observations and alerting a maintainer if observations are not received within a specified time.""" import argparse import configparser import json import smtplib import re import sys from datetime import datetime, timedelta from email.mime.text import MIMEText from os.path import exists import psycopg import requests from bs4 import BeautifulSoup # pylint: disable=import-error class ObservationMonitor: """Class for monitoring environment observations.""" def __init__(self, config, state): self._config = config self._state = state def get_obs_time(self): """Returns the recording time of the latest observation.""" # pylint: disable=not-context-manager with psycopg.connect(create_db_conn_string(self._config['db'])) as conn: with conn.cursor() as cursor: cursor.execute('SELECT recorded FROM observations ORDER BY id DESC LIMIT 1') result = cursor.fetchone() return result[0] if result else datetime.now() def check_observation(self): """Checks when the last observation has been received and sends an email if the threshold is exceeded.""" last_obs_time = self.get_obs_time() time_diff = datetime.now(tz=last_obs_time.tzinfo) - last_obs_time if int(time_diff.total_seconds() / 60) > int(self._config['observation']['Timeout']): if self._state['email_sent'] == 'False': # pylint: disable=consider-using-f-string if send_email(self._config['email'], 'env-logger: observation inactivity warning', 'No observations have been received in the env-logger ' 'backend after {} (timeout {} minutes). Please check for ' 'possible problems.'.format(last_obs_time.isoformat(), self._config['observation']['Timeout'])): self._state['email_sent'] = 'True' else: self._state['email_sent'] = 'False' else: if self._state['email_sent'] == 'True': send_email(self._config['email'], 'env-logger: observation received', f'An observation has been received at {last_obs_time.isoformat()}.') self._state['email_sent'] = 'False' def get_state(self): """Returns the observation state.""" return self._state class BeaconMonitor: """Class for monitoring BLE beacon scans.""" def __init__(self, config, state): self._config = config self._state = state def get_beacon_scan_time(self): """Returns the recording time of the latest BLE beacon scan.""" # pylint: disable=not-context-manager with psycopg.connect(create_db_conn_string(self._config['db'])) as conn: with conn.cursor() as cursor: cursor.execute('SELECT recorded FROM observations WHERE id = ' '(SELECT obs_id FROM beacons ORDER BY id DESC LIMIT 1)') result = cursor.fetchone() return result[0] if result else datetime.now() def check_beacon(self): """Checks the latest BLE beacon scan time and sends an email if the threshold is exceeded.""" last_obs_time = self.get_beacon_scan_time() time_diff = datetime.now(tz=last_obs_time.tzinfo) - last_obs_time # Timeout is in hours if int(time_diff.total_seconds()) > int(self._config['blebeacon']['Timeout']) * 60 * 60: if self._state['email_sent'] == 'False': # pylint: disable=consider-using-f-string if send_email(self._config['email'], 'env-logger: BLE beacon inactivity warning', 'No BLE beacon has been scanned in env-logger ' 'after {} (timeout {} hours). Please check for ' 'possible problems.'.format(last_obs_time.isoformat(), self._config['blebeacon']['Timeout'])): self._state['email_sent'] = 'True' else: if self._state['email_sent'] == 'True': send_email(self._config['email'], 'env-logger: BLE beacon scanned', f'BLE beacon scanned was at {last_obs_time.isoformat()}.') self._state['email_sent'] = 'False' def get_state(self): """Returns the BLE beacon scan state.""" return self._state class RuuvitagMonitor: """Class for monitoring RuuviTag beacon observations.""" def __init__(self, config, state): self._config = config self._state = state def get_ruuvitag_scan_time(self): """Returns recording time of the latest RuuviTag beacon observation.""" results = {} # pylint: disable=not-context-manager with psycopg.connect(create_db_conn_string(self._config['db'])) as conn: with conn.cursor() as cursor: for location in self._config['ruuvitag']['Location'].split(','): cursor.execute("""SELECT recorded FROM ruuvitag_observations WHERE location = %s ORDER BY recorded DESC LIMIT 1""", (location,)) result = cursor.fetchone() results[location] = result[0] if result else datetime.now() return results def check_ruuvitag(self): """Checks the latest RuuviTag beacon scan time and sends an email if the threshold is exceeded.""" last_obs_time = self.get_ruuvitag_scan_time() for location in self._config['ruuvitag']['Location'].split(','): time_diff = datetime.now(tz=last_obs_time[location].tzinfo) - last_obs_time[location] # Timeout is in minutes if int(time_diff.total_seconds()) > int(self._config['ruuvitag']['Timeout']) * 60: if self._state[location]['email_sent'] == 'False': # pylint: disable=consider-using-f-string if send_email(self._config['email'], f'env-logger: RuuviTag beacon "{location}" inactivity warning', 'No RuuviTag observation for location "{}" has been ' 'scanned in env-logger after {} (timeout {} minutes). ' 'Please check for possible problems.' .format(location, last_obs_time[location].isoformat(), self._config['ruuvitag']['Timeout'])): self._state[location]['email_sent'] = 'True' else: self._state[location]['email_sent'] = 'False' else: if self._state[location]['email_sent'] == 'True': send_email(self._config['email'], f'env-logger: Ruuvitag beacon "{location}" scanned', f'A RuuviTag observation for location "{location}" ' f'was scanned at {last_obs_time[location].isoformat()}.') self._state[location]['email_sent'] = 'False' def get_state(self): """Returns the RuuviTag scan state.""" return self._state class YardcamImageMonitor: """Class for monitoring Yardcam images.""" def __init__(self, config, state): self._config = config self._state = state def get_yardcam_image_info(self): """Returns the name and date and time of the latest Yardcam image.""" url_base = self._config['yardcam']['UrlBase'] todays_date = datetime.now().strftime('%Y-%m-%d') image_page = f'{url_base}/{todays_date}' resp = requests.get(image_page) if not resp.ok and resp.status_code == 404: date = (datetime.now() - timedelta(days=1)).strftime('%Y-%m-%d') resp = requests.get(f'{url_base}/{date}') if not resp.ok: print(f'Yardcam image HTTP request of URL "{image_page}" failed with ' f'HTTP status code {resp.status_code}', file=sys.stderr) return None, None tree = BeautifulSoup(resp.content, features='lxml') image_name = tree.find_all('tr')[-2].find_all('td')[1].text image_ts = tree.find_all('tr')[-2].find_all('td')[-3].text.strip() if not re.match(r'\d{4}-\d{2}-\d{2} \d{2}:\d{2}', image_ts): print(f'Image date and time from {image_ts} is not in the expected format', file=sys.stderr) return None, None return image_name, datetime.strptime(image_ts, '%Y-%m-%d %H:%M') def send_yardcam_email(self, image_ts): """"Sends an email about a missing Yardcam image.""" # pylint: disable=consider-using-f-string if send_email(self._config['email'], 'env-logger: Yardcam image inactivity warning', 'No Yardcam image name has been stored ' 'in env-logger{} (timeout {} minutes). ' 'Please check for possible problems.' .format(' after {}'.format(image_ts.isoformat()) if image_ts else '', self._config['yardcam']['Timeout'])): self._state['email_sent'] = 'True' else: self._state['email_sent'] = 'False' def check_yardcam(self): """Checks the latest Yardcam image name timestamp and sends an email if the threshold is exceeded.""" image_name, image_dt = self.get_yardcam_image_info() if not image_name: return time_diff = int((datetime.now() - image_dt).total_seconds() / 60) if time_diff > int(self._config['yardcam']['Timeout']): if self._state['email_sent'] == 'False': self.send_yardcam_email(image_dt) else: if self._state['email_sent'] == 'True': send_email(self._config['email'], 'env-logger: Yardcam image found', f'A Yardcam image ({image_name}) has been stored ' f'at {image_dt.isoformat()}.') self._state['email_sent'] = 'False' def get_state(self): """Returns the RuuviTag scan state.""" return self._state def send_email(config, subject, message): """Sends an email with provided subject and message to specified recipients.""" msg = MIMEText(message) msg['Subject'] = subject msg['From'] = config['Sender'] msg['To'] = config['Recipient'] try: with smtplib.SMTP_SSL(config['Server']) as server: server.login(config['User'], config['Password']) server.send_message(msg) except smtplib.SMTPException as smtp_e: print(f'Failed to send email with subject "{subject}": {str(smtp_e)}', file=sys.stderr) return False return True def create_db_conn_string(db_config): """Create the database connection string.""" return f'host={db_config["Host"]} user={db_config["User"]} password={db_config["Password"]} ' \ f'dbname={db_config["Database"]}' def main(): """Module main function.""" state_file_name = 'monitor_state.json' parser = argparse.ArgumentParser(description='Monitors observation reception.') parser.add_argument('--config', type=str, help='configuration file to use') args = parser.parse_args() config_file = args.config if args.config else 'monitor.cfg' if not exists(config_file): print(f'Error: could not find configuration file {args.config_file}', file=sys.stderr) sys.exit(1) config = configparser.ConfigParser() config.read(config_file) try: with open(state_file_name, 'r', encoding='utf-8') as state_file: state = json.load(state_file) except FileNotFoundError: state = {'observation': {'email_sent': 'False'}, 'blebeacon': {'email_sent': 'False'}, 'yardcam': {'email_sent': 'False'}, 'ruuvitag': {}} for location in config['ruuvitag']['Location'].split(','): state['ruuvitag'][location] = {} state['ruuvitag'][location]['email_sent'] = 'False' if config['observation']['Enabled'] == 'True': obs = ObservationMonitor(config, state['observation']) obs.check_observation() state['observation'] = obs.get_state() if config['blebeacon']['Enabled'] == 'True': beacon = BeaconMonitor(config, state['blebeacon']) beacon.check_beacon() state['blebeacon'] = beacon.get_state() if config['ruuvitag']['Enabled'] == 'True': ruuvitag = RuuvitagMonitor(config, state['ruuvitag']) ruuvitag.check_ruuvitag() state['ruuvitag'] = ruuvitag.get_state() if config['yardcam']['Enabled'] == 'True': yardcam = YardcamImageMonitor(config, state['yardcam']) yardcam.check_yardcam() state['yardcam'] = yardcam.get_state() with open(state_file_name, 'w', encoding='utf-8') as state_file: json.dump(state, state_file, indent=4) if __name__ == '__main__': main()
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
Passage 1: Hassan Zee Hassan Zee is a Pakistani- American film director who was born in Chakwal, Pakistan. Passage 2: Jamie Uys Jacobus Johannes Uys( 30 May 1921 – 29 January 1996), better known as Jamie Uys, was a South African film director, best known for directing" The Gods Must Be Crazy". Passage 3: Wale Adebanwi Wale Adebanwi( born 1969) is a Nigerian- born first Black Rhodes Professor at St Antony's College, Oxford. Passage 4: Henry Moore (cricketer) Henry Walter Moore( 1849 – 20 August 1916) was an English- born first- class cricketer who spent most of his life in New Zealand. Passage 5: Rumbi Katedza Rumbi Katedza is a Zimbabwean Film Producer and Director who was born on 17 January 1974. Passage 6: Hartley Lobban Hartley W Lobban (9 May 1926 – 15 October 2004) was a Jamaican-born first-class cricketer who played 17 matches for Worcestershire in the early 1950s. Passage 7: All the Way to Paris All the Way to Paris is a 1965 South African comedy film directed by Jamie Uys and starring Uys, Bob Courtney and Reinet Maasdorf. It was the first South African film to be filmed overseas. Passage 8: John McMahon (Surrey and Somerset cricketer) John William Joseph McMahon( 28 December 1917 – 8 May 2001) was an Australian- born first- class cricketer who played for Surrey and Somerset in England from 1947 to 1957. Passage 9: Burnt Money Burnt Money is a 2001 Argentine action thriller directed by Marcelo Piñeyro and written by Piñeyro and Marcelo Figueras. Starring Leonardo Sbaraglia, Eduardo Noriega, Pablo Echarri, Leticia Brédice and Ricardo Bartis, it is based on Ricardo Piglia's 1997" Planeta" prize- winning novel of the same name. The novel was inspired by the true story of a notorious 1965 bank robbery in Buenos Aires. " Plata quemada" won, among other awards, the Goya Award for" Best Spanish Language Foreign Film" in 2002. It was partly funded by INCAA. Passage 10: Marcelo Piñeyro Marcelo Piñeyro( born March 5, 1953) is an Argentine award- winning film director, screenwriter, and film producer. Question: Which film has the director who was born first, All The Way To Paris or Burnt Money? Answer: All The Way To Paris
{ "task_name": "2WikiMultihopQA" }
Passage 1: Rasim Ojagov Rasim Ojagov (22 November 1933, Shaki, Azerbaijani SSR – 11 July 2006, Baku, Azerbaijan) -Azerbaijani film director and camera operator, Honoured Art Worker of Chechen-Ingush ASSR (1964), People's Artist of the Azerbaijan SSR (1982), laureate of the State Prize of the Azerbaijan SSR. Passage 2: Jesse E. Hobson Jesse Edward Hobson( May 2, 1911 – November 5, 1970) was the director of SRI International from 1947 to 1955. Prior to SRI, he was the director of the Armour Research Foundation. Passage 3: Dana Blankstein Dana Blankstein- Cohen( born March 3, 1981) is the director of the Israeli Academy of Film and Television. She is a film director, and an Israeli culture entrepreneur. Passage 4: Michael Govan Michael Govan( born 1963) is the director of the Los Angeles County Museum of Art since 2006. Prior to this, Govan worked as the director of the Dia Art Foundation in New York City. Passage 5: Olav Aaraas Olav Aaraas( born 10 July 1950) is a Norwegian historian and museum director. He was born in Fredrikstad. From 1982 to 1993 he was the director of Sogn Folk Museum, from 1993 to 2010 he was the director of Maihaugen and from 2001 he has been the director of the Norwegian Museum of Cultural History. In 2010 he was decorated with the Royal Norwegian Order of St. Olav. Passage 6: S. N. Mathur S.N. Mathur was the Director of the Indian Intelligence Bureau between September 1975 and February 1980. He was also the Director General of Police in Punjab. Passage 7: Ian Barry (director) Ian Barry is an Australian director of film and TV. Passage 8: Brian Kennedy (gallery director) Brian Patrick Kennedy( born 5 November 1961) is an Irish- born art museum director who has worked in Ireland and Australia, and now lives and works in the United States. He is currently the director of the Peabody Essex Museum. He was the director of the Toledo Museum of Art in Ohio from 2010 to 2019. He was the director of the Hood Museum of Art from 2005 to 2010, and the National Gallery of Australia( Canberra) from 1997- 2004. Passage 9: Tahmina (film) Tahmina is a 1993 Azerbaijani romantic drama. The screenplay was written by Anar Rzayev based on his novel The sixth floor of the 5-story building. Directed by Rasim Ojagov, this film depicts the love affair between Zaur, a man from an affluent family, and Tahmina, a divorced woman doing her best to survive in a conservative society. The film is considered to be one of the best Azerbaijani movies produced in the 1990s. Funding for the film was provided by a Turkish businessman. Passage 10: Peter Levin Peter Levin is an American director of film, television and theatre. Question: Where was the place of death of the director of film Tahmina (Film)? Answer: Baku
{ "task_name": "2WikiMultihopQA" }
# -*- coding: utf-8 -*- # Copyright 2021 Google LLC # # Licensed under the Apache License, Version 2.0 (the "License"); # you may not use this file except in compliance with the License. # You may obtain a copy of the License at # # http://www.apache.org/licenses/LICENSE-2.0 # # Unless required by applicable law or agreed to in writing, software # distributed under the License is distributed on an "AS IS" BASIS, # WITHOUT WARRANTIES OR CONDITIONS OF ANY KIND, either express or implied. # See the License for the specific language governing permissions and # limitations under the License. # # google-cloud-iap documentation build configuration file # # This file is execfile()d with the current directory set to its # containing dir. # # Note that not all possible configuration values are present in this # autogenerated file. # # All configuration values have a default; values that are commented out # serve to show the default. import sys import os import shlex # If extensions (or modules to document with autodoc) are in another directory, # add these directories to sys.path here. If the directory is relative to the # documentation root, use os.path.abspath to make it absolute, like shown here. sys.path.insert(0, os.path.abspath("..")) # For plugins that can not read conf.py. # See also: https://github.com/docascode/sphinx-docfx-yaml/issues/85 sys.path.insert(0, os.path.abspath(".")) __version__ = "" # -- General configuration ------------------------------------------------ # If your documentation needs a minimal Sphinx version, state it here. needs_sphinx = "1.5.5" # Add any Sphinx extension module names here, as strings. They can be # extensions coming with Sphinx (named 'sphinx.ext.*') or your custom # ones. extensions = [ "sphinx.ext.autodoc", "sphinx.ext.autosummary", "sphinx.ext.intersphinx", "sphinx.ext.coverage", "sphinx.ext.doctest", "sphinx.ext.napoleon", "sphinx.ext.todo", "sphinx.ext.viewcode", "recommonmark", ] # autodoc/autosummary flags autoclass_content = "both" autodoc_default_options = {"members": True} autosummary_generate = True # Add any paths that contain templates here, relative to this directory. templates_path = ["_templates"] # The suffix(es) of source filenames. # You can specify multiple suffix as a list of string: # source_suffix = ['.rst', '.md'] source_suffix = [".rst", ".md"] # The encoding of source files. # source_encoding = 'utf-8-sig' # The root toctree document. root_doc = "index" # General information about the project. project = "google-cloud-iap" copyright = "2019, Google" author = "Google APIs" # The version info for the project you're documenting, acts as replacement for # |version| and |release|, also used in various other places throughout the # built documents. # # The full version, including alpha/beta/rc tags. release = __version__ # The short X.Y version. version = ".".join(release.split(".")[0:2]) # The language for content autogenerated by Sphinx. Refer to documentation # for a list of supported languages. # # This is also used if you do content translation via gettext catalogs. # Usually you set "language" from the command line for these cases. language = None # There are two options for replacing |today|: either, you set today to some # non-false value, then it is used: # today = '' # Else, today_fmt is used as the format for a strftime call. # today_fmt = '%B %d, %Y' # List of patterns, relative to source directory, that match files and # directories to ignore when looking for source files. exclude_patterns = [ "_build", "**/.nox/**/*", "samples/AUTHORING_GUIDE.md", "samples/CONTRIBUTING.md", "samples/snippets/README.rst", ] # The reST default role (used for this markup: `text`) to use for all # documents. # default_role = None # If true, '()' will be appended to :func: etc. cross-reference text. # add_function_parentheses = True # If true, the current module name will be prepended to all description # unit titles (such as .. function::). # add_module_names = True # If true, sectionauthor and moduleauthor directives will be shown in the # output. They are ignored by default. # show_authors = False # The name of the Pygments (syntax highlighting) style to use. pygments_style = "sphinx" # A list of ignored prefixes for module index sorting. # modindex_common_prefix = [] # If true, keep warnings as "system message" paragraphs in the built documents. # keep_warnings = False # If true, `todo` and `todoList` produce output, else they produce nothing. todo_include_todos = True # -- Options for HTML output ---------------------------------------------- # The theme to use for HTML and HTML Help pages. See the documentation for # a list of builtin themes. html_theme = "alabaster" # Theme options are theme-specific and customize the look and feel of a theme # further. For a list of options available for each theme, see the # documentation. html_theme_options = { "description": "Google Cloud Client Libraries for google-cloud-iap", "github_user": "googleapis", "github_repo": "python-iap", "github_banner": True, "font_family": "'Roboto', Georgia, sans", "head_font_family": "'Roboto', Georgia, serif", "code_font_family": "'Roboto Mono', 'Consolas', monospace", } # Add any paths that contain custom themes here, relative to this directory. # html_theme_path = [] # The name for this set of Sphinx documents. If None, it defaults to # "<project> v<release> documentation". # html_title = None # A shorter title for the navigation bar. Default is the same as html_title. # html_short_title = None # The name of an image file (relative to this directory) to place at the top # of the sidebar. # html_logo = None # The name of an image file (within the static path) to use as favicon of the # docs. This file should be a Windows icon file (.ico) being 16x16 or 32x32 # pixels large. # html_favicon = None # Add any paths that contain custom static files (such as style sheets) here, # relative to this directory. They are copied after the builtin static files, # so a file named "default.css" will overwrite the builtin "default.css". html_static_path = ["_static"] # Add any extra paths that contain custom files (such as robots.txt or # .htaccess) here, relative to this directory. These files are copied # directly to the root of the documentation. # html_extra_path = [] # If not '', a 'Last updated on:' timestamp is inserted at every page bottom, # using the given strftime format. # html_last_updated_fmt = '%b %d, %Y' # If true, SmartyPants will be used to convert quotes and dashes to # typographically correct entities. # html_use_smartypants = True # Custom sidebar templates, maps document names to template names. # html_sidebars = {} # Additional templates that should be rendered to pages, maps page names to # template names. # html_additional_pages = {} # If false, no module index is generated. # html_domain_indices = True # If false, no index is generated. # html_use_index = True # If true, the index is split into individual pages for each letter. # html_split_index = False # If true, links to the reST sources are added to the pages. # html_show_sourcelink = True # If true, "Created using Sphinx" is shown in the HTML footer. Default is True. # html_show_sphinx = True # If true, "(C) Copyright ..." is shown in the HTML footer. Default is True. # html_show_copyright = True # If true, an OpenSearch description file will be output, and all pages will # contain a <link> tag referring to it. The value of this option must be the # base URL from which the finished HTML is served. # html_use_opensearch = '' # This is the file name suffix for HTML files (e.g. ".xhtml"). # html_file_suffix = None # Language to be used for generating the HTML full-text search index. # Sphinx supports the following languages: # 'da', 'de', 'en', 'es', 'fi', 'fr', 'hu', 'it', 'ja' # 'nl', 'no', 'pt', 'ro', 'ru', 'sv', 'tr' # html_search_language = 'en' # A dictionary with options for the search language support, empty by default. # Now only 'ja' uses this config value # html_search_options = {'type': 'default'} # The name of a javascript file (relative to the configuration directory) that # implements a search results scorer. If empty, the default will be used. # html_search_scorer = 'scorer.js' # Output file base name for HTML help builder. htmlhelp_basename = "google-cloud-iap-doc" # -- Options for warnings ------------------------------------------------------ suppress_warnings = [ # Temporarily suppress this to avoid "more than one target found for # cross-reference" warning, which are intractable for us to avoid while in # a mono-repo. # See https://github.com/sphinx-doc/sphinx/blob # /2a65ffeef5c107c19084fabdd706cdff3f52d93c/sphinx/domains/python.py#L843 "ref.python" ] # -- Options for LaTeX output --------------------------------------------- latex_elements = { # The paper size ('letterpaper' or 'a4paper'). #'papersize': 'letterpaper', # The font size ('10pt', '11pt' or '12pt'). #'pointsize': '10pt', # Additional stuff for the LaTeX preamble. #'preamble': '', # Latex figure (float) alignment #'figure_align': 'htbp', } # Grouping the document tree into LaTeX files. List of tuples # (source start file, target name, title, # author, documentclass [howto, manual, or own class]). latex_documents = [ ( root_doc, "google-cloud-iap.tex", "google-cloud-iap Documentation", author, "manual", ) ] # The name of an image file (relative to this directory) to place at the top of # the title page. # latex_logo = None # For "manual" documents, if this is true, then toplevel headings are parts, # not chapters. # latex_use_parts = False # If true, show page references after internal links. # latex_show_pagerefs = False # If true, show URL addresses after external links. # latex_show_urls = False # Documents to append as an appendix to all manuals. # latex_appendices = [] # If false, no module index is generated. # latex_domain_indices = True # -- Options for manual page output --------------------------------------- # One entry per manual page. List of tuples # (source start file, name, description, authors, manual section). man_pages = [ (root_doc, "google-cloud-iap", "google-cloud-iap Documentation", [author], 1,) ] # If true, show URL addresses after external links. # man_show_urls = False # -- Options for Texinfo output ------------------------------------------- # Grouping the document tree into Texinfo files. List of tuples # (source start file, target name, title, author, # dir menu entry, description, category) texinfo_documents = [ ( root_doc, "google-cloud-iap", "google-cloud-iap Documentation", author, "google-cloud-iap", "google-cloud-iap Library", "APIs", ) ] # Documents to append as an appendix to all manuals. # texinfo_appendices = [] # If false, no module index is generated. # texinfo_domain_indices = True # How to display URL addresses: 'footnote', 'no', or 'inline'. # texinfo_show_urls = 'footnote' # If true, do not generate a @detailmenu in the "Top" node's menu. # texinfo_no_detailmenu = False # Example configuration for intersphinx: refer to the Python standard library. intersphinx_mapping = { "python": ("https://python.readthedocs.org/en/latest/", None), "google-auth": ("https://googleapis.dev/python/google-auth/latest/", None), "google.api_core": ("https://googleapis.dev/python/google-api-core/latest/", None,), "grpc": ("https://grpc.github.io/grpc/python/", None), "proto-plus": ("https://proto-plus-python.readthedocs.io/en/latest/", None), "protobuf": ("https://googleapis.dev/python/protobuf/latest/", None), } # Napoleon settings napoleon_google_docstring = True napoleon_numpy_docstring = True napoleon_include_private_with_doc = False napoleon_include_special_with_doc = True napoleon_use_admonition_for_examples = False napoleon_use_admonition_for_notes = False napoleon_use_admonition_for_references = False napoleon_use_ivar = False napoleon_use_param = True napoleon_use_rtype = True
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
using System; using BigMath; using NUnit.Framework; using Raksha.Crypto; using Raksha.Crypto.Parameters; using Raksha.Math; using Raksha.Math.EC; using Raksha.Pkcs; using Raksha.Security; using Raksha.Utilities; using Raksha.Utilities.Encoders; using Raksha.Tests.Utilities; using Raksha.X509; namespace Raksha.Tests.Misc { [TestFixture] public class DHTest : SimpleTest { private static readonly BigInteger g512 = new BigInteger("153d5d6172adb43045b68ae8e1de1070b6137005686d29d3d73a7749199681ee5b212c9b96bfdcfa5b20cd5e3fd2044895d609cf9b410b7a0f12ca1cb9a428cc", 16); private static readonly BigInteger p512 = new BigInteger("9494fec095f3b85ee286542b3836fc81a5dd0a0349b4c239dd38744d488cf8e31db8bcb7d33b41abb9e5a33cca9144b1cef332c94bf0573bf047a3aca98cdf3b", 16); private static readonly BigInteger g768 = new BigInteger("7c240073c1316c621df461b71ebb0cdcc90a6e5527e5e126633d131f87461c4dc4afc60c2cb0f053b6758871489a69613e2a8b4c8acde23954c08c81cbd36132cfd64d69e4ed9f8e51ed6e516297206672d5c0a69135df0a5dcf010d289a9ca1", 16); private static readonly BigInteger p768 = new BigInteger("8c9dd223debed1b80103b8b309715be009d48860ed5ae9b9d5d8159508efd802e3ad4501a7f7e1cfec78844489148cd72da24b21eddd01aa624291c48393e277cfc529e37075eccef957f3616f962d15b44aeab4039d01b817fde9eaa12fd73f", 16); private static readonly BigInteger g1024 = new BigInteger("1db17639cdf96bc4eabba19454f0b7e5bd4e14862889a725c96eb61048dcd676ceb303d586e30f060dbafd8a571a39c4d823982117da5cc4e0f89c77388b7a08896362429b94a18a327604eb7ff227bffbc83459ade299e57b5f77b50fb045250934938efa145511166e3197373e1b5b1e52de713eb49792bedde722c6717abf", 16); private static readonly BigInteger p1024 = new BigInteger("a00e283b3c624e5b2b4d9fbc2653b5185d99499b00fd1bf244c6f0bb817b4d1c451b2958d62a0f8a38caef059fb5ecd25d75ed9af403f5b5bdab97a642902f824e3c13789fed95fa106ddfe0ff4a707c85e2eb77d49e68f2808bcea18ce128b178cd287c6bc00efa9a1ad2a673fe0dceace53166f75b81d6709d5f8af7c66bb7", 16); // public key with mismatched oid/parameters private byte[] oldPubEnc = Base64.Decode( "MIIBnzCCARQGByqGSM4+AgEwggEHAoGBAPxSrN417g43VAM9sZRf1dt6AocAf7D6" + "WVCtqEDcBJrMzt63+g+BNJzhXVtbZ9kp9vw8L/0PHgzv0Ot/kOLX7Khn+JalOECW" + "YlkyBhmOVbjR79TY5u2GAlvG6pqpizieQNBCEMlUuYuK1Iwseil6VoRuA13Zm7uw" + "WO1eZmaJtY7LAoGAQaPRCFKM5rEdkMrV9FNzeSsYRs8m3DqPnnJHpuySpyO9wUcX" + "OOJcJY5qvHbDO5SxHXu/+bMgXmVT6dXI5o0UeYqJR7fj6pR4E6T0FwG55RFr5Ok4" + "3C4cpXmaOu176SyWuoDqGs1RDGmYQjwbZUi23DjaaTFUly9LCYXMliKrQfEDgYQA" + "AoGAQUGCBN4TaBw1BpdBXdTvTfCU69XDB3eyU2FOBE3UWhpx9D8XJlx4f5DpA4Y6" + "6sQMuCbhfmjEph8W7/sbMurM/awR+PSR8tTY7jeQV0OkmAYdGK2nzh0ZSifMO1oE" + "NNhN2O62TLs67msxT28S4/S89+LMtc98mevQ2SX+JF3wEVU="); // bogus key with full PKCS parameter set private byte[] oldFullParams = Base64.Decode( "MIIBIzCCARgGByqGSM4+AgEwggELAoGBAP1/U4EddRIpUt9KnC7s5Of2EbdSPO9E" + "AMMeP4C2USZpRV1AIlH7WT2NWPq/xfW6MPbLm1Vs14E7gB00b/JmYLdrmVClpJ+f" + "6AR7ECLCT7up1/63xhv4O1fnxqimFQ8E+4P208UewwI1VBNaFpEy9nXzrith1yrv" + "8iIDGZ3RSAHHAoGBAPfhoIXWmz3ey7yrXDa4V7l5lK+7+jrqgvlXTAs9B4JnUVlX" + "jrrUWU/mcQcQgYC0SRZxI+hMKBYTt88JMozIpuE8FnqLVHyNKOCjrh4rs6Z1kW6j" + "fwv6ITVi8ftiegEkO8yk8b6oUZCJqIPf4VrlnwaSi2ZegHtVJWQBTDv+z0kqAgFk" + "AwUAAgIH0A=="); private byte[] samplePubEnc = Base64.Decode( "MIIBpjCCARsGCSqGSIb3DQEDATCCAQwCgYEA/X9TgR11EilS30qcLuzk5/YRt1I8" + "70QAwx4/gLZRJmlFXUAiUftZPY1Y+r/F9bow9subVWzXgTuAHTRv8mZgt2uZUKWk" + "n5/oBHsQIsJPu6nX/rfGG/g7V+fGqKYVDwT7g/bTxR7DAjVUE1oWkTL2dfOuK2HX" + "Ku/yIgMZndFIAccCgYEA9+GghdabPd7LvKtcNrhXuXmUr7v6OuqC+VdMCz0HgmdR" + "WVeOutRZT+ZxBxCBgLRJFnEj6EwoFhO3zwkyjMim4TwWeotUfI0o4KOuHiuzpnWR" + "bqN/C/ohNWLx+2J6ASQ7zKTxvqhRkImog9/hWuWfBpKLZl6Ae1UlZAFMO/7PSSoC" + "AgIAA4GEAAKBgEIiqxoUW6E6GChoOgcfNbVFclW91ITf5MFSUGQwt2R0RHoOhxvO" + "lZhNs++d0VPATLAyXovjfgENT9SGCbuZttYcqqLdKTbMXBWPek+rfnAl9E4iEMED" + "IDd83FJTKs9hQcPAm7zmp0Xm1bGF9CbUFjP5G02265z7eBmHDaT0SNlB"); private byte[] samplePrivEnc = Base64.Decode( "MIIBZgIBADCCARsGCSqGSIb3DQEDATCCAQwCgYEA/X9TgR11EilS30qcLuzk5/YR" + "t1I870QAwx4/gLZRJmlFXUAiUftZPY1Y+r/F9bow9subVWzXgTuAHTRv8mZgt2uZ" + "UKWkn5/oBHsQIsJPu6nX/rfGG/g7V+fGqKYVDwT7g/bTxR7DAjVUE1oWkTL2dfOu" + "K2HXKu/yIgMZndFIAccCgYEA9+GghdabPd7LvKtcNrhXuXmUr7v6OuqC+VdMCz0H" + "gmdRWVeOutRZT+ZxBxCBgLRJFnEj6EwoFhO3zwkyjMim4TwWeotUfI0o4KOuHiuz" + "pnWRbqN/C/ohNWLx+2J6ASQ7zKTxvqhRkImog9/hWuWfBpKLZl6Ae1UlZAFMO/7P" + "SSoCAgIABEICQAZYXnBHazxXUUdFP4NIf2Ipu7du0suJPZQKKff81wymi2zfCfHh" + "uhe9gQ9xdm4GpzeNtrQ8/MzpTy+ZVrtd29Q="); public override string Name { get { return "DH"; } } private void doTestGP( string algName, int size, int privateValueSize, BigInteger g, BigInteger p) { IAsymmetricCipherKeyPairGenerator keyGen = GeneratorUtilities.GetKeyPairGenerator(algName); DHParameters dhParams = new DHParameters(p, g, null, privateValueSize); KeyGenerationParameters kgp = new DHKeyGenerationParameters(new SecureRandom(), dhParams); keyGen.Init(kgp); // // a side // AsymmetricCipherKeyPair aKeyPair = keyGen.GenerateKeyPair(); IBasicAgreement aKeyAgreeBasic = AgreementUtilities.GetBasicAgreement(algName); checkKeySize(privateValueSize, aKeyPair); aKeyAgreeBasic.Init(aKeyPair.Private); // // b side // AsymmetricCipherKeyPair bKeyPair = keyGen.GenerateKeyPair(); IBasicAgreement bKeyAgreeBasic = AgreementUtilities.GetBasicAgreement(algName); checkKeySize(privateValueSize, bKeyPair); bKeyAgreeBasic.Init(bKeyPair.Private); // // agreement // // aKeyAgreeBasic.doPhase(bKeyPair.Public, true); // bKeyAgreeBasic.doPhase(aKeyPair.Public, true); // // BigInteger k1 = new BigInteger(aKeyAgreeBasic.generateSecret()); // BigInteger k2 = new BigInteger(bKeyAgreeBasic.generateSecret()); BigInteger k1 = aKeyAgreeBasic.CalculateAgreement(bKeyPair.Public); BigInteger k2 = bKeyAgreeBasic.CalculateAgreement(aKeyPair.Public); if (!k1.Equals(k2)) { Fail(size + " bit 2-way test failed"); } // // public key encoding test // // byte[] pubEnc = aKeyPair.Public.GetEncoded(); byte[] pubEnc = SubjectPublicKeyInfoFactory.CreateSubjectPublicKeyInfo(aKeyPair.Public).GetDerEncoded(); // KeyFactory keyFac = KeyFactory.getInstance(algName); // X509EncodedKeySpec pubX509 = new X509EncodedKeySpec(pubEnc); // DHPublicKey pubKey = (DHPublicKey)keyFac.generatePublic(pubX509); DHPublicKeyParameters pubKey = (DHPublicKeyParameters) PublicKeyFactory.CreateKey(pubEnc); // DHParameterSpec spec = pubKey.Parameters; DHParameters spec = pubKey.Parameters; if (!spec.G.Equals(dhParams.G) || !spec.P.Equals(dhParams.P)) { Fail(size + " bit public key encoding/decoding test failed on parameters"); } if (!((DHPublicKeyParameters)aKeyPair.Public).Y.Equals(pubKey.Y)) { Fail(size + " bit public key encoding/decoding test failed on y value"); } // // public key serialisation test // // TODO Put back in // MemoryStream bOut = new MemoryStream(); // ObjectOutputStream oOut = new ObjectOutputStream(bOut); // // oOut.WriteObject(aKeyPair.Public); // // MemoryStream bIn = new MemoryStream(bOut.ToArray(), false); // ObjectInputStream oIn = new ObjectInputStream(bIn); // // pubKey = (DHPublicKeyParameters)oIn.ReadObject(); spec = pubKey.Parameters; if (!spec.G.Equals(dhParams.G) || !spec.P.Equals(dhParams.P)) { Fail(size + " bit public key serialisation test failed on parameters"); } if (!((DHPublicKeyParameters)aKeyPair.Public).Y.Equals(pubKey.Y)) { Fail(size + " bit public key serialisation test failed on y value"); } // // private key encoding test // // byte[] privEnc = aKeyPair.Private.GetEncoded(); byte[] privEnc = PrivateKeyInfoFactory.CreatePrivateKeyInfo(aKeyPair.Private).GetDerEncoded(); // PKCS8EncodedKeySpec privPKCS8 = new PKCS8EncodedKeySpec(privEnc); // DHPrivateKeyParameters privKey = (DHPrivateKey)keyFac.generatePrivate(privPKCS8); DHPrivateKeyParameters privKey = (DHPrivateKeyParameters) PrivateKeyFactory.CreateKey(privEnc); spec = privKey.Parameters; if (!spec.G.Equals(dhParams.G) || !spec.P.Equals(dhParams.P)) { Fail(size + " bit private key encoding/decoding test failed on parameters"); } if (!((DHPrivateKeyParameters)aKeyPair.Private).X.Equals(privKey.X)) { Fail(size + " bit private key encoding/decoding test failed on y value"); } // // private key serialisation test // // TODO Put back in // bOut = new MemoryStream(); // oOut = new ObjectOutputStream(bOut); // // oOut.WriteObject(aKeyPair.Private); // // bIn = new MemoryStream(bOut.ToArray(), false); // oIn = new ObjectInputStream(bIn); // // privKey = (DHPrivateKeyParameters)oIn.ReadObject(); spec = privKey.Parameters; if (!spec.G.Equals(dhParams.G) || !spec.P.Equals(dhParams.P)) { Fail(size + " bit private key serialisation test failed on parameters"); } if (!((DHPrivateKeyParameters)aKeyPair.Private).X.Equals(privKey.X)) { Fail(size + " bit private key serialisation test failed on y value"); } // // three party test // IAsymmetricCipherKeyPairGenerator aPairGen = GeneratorUtilities.GetKeyPairGenerator(algName); aPairGen.Init(new DHKeyGenerationParameters(new SecureRandom(), spec)); AsymmetricCipherKeyPair aPair = aPairGen.GenerateKeyPair(); IAsymmetricCipherKeyPairGenerator bPairGen = GeneratorUtilities.GetKeyPairGenerator(algName); bPairGen.Init(new DHKeyGenerationParameters(new SecureRandom(), spec)); AsymmetricCipherKeyPair bPair = bPairGen.GenerateKeyPair(); IAsymmetricCipherKeyPairGenerator cPairGen = GeneratorUtilities.GetKeyPairGenerator(algName); cPairGen.Init(new DHKeyGenerationParameters(new SecureRandom(), spec)); AsymmetricCipherKeyPair cPair = cPairGen.GenerateKeyPair(); IBasicAgreement aKeyAgree = AgreementUtilities.GetBasicAgreement(algName); aKeyAgree.Init(aPair.Private); IBasicAgreement bKeyAgree = AgreementUtilities.GetBasicAgreement(algName); bKeyAgree.Init(bPair.Private); IBasicAgreement cKeyAgree = AgreementUtilities.GetBasicAgreement(algName); cKeyAgree.Init(cPair.Private); // Key ac = aKeyAgree.doPhase(cPair.Public, false); // Key ba = bKeyAgree.doPhase(aPair.Public, false); // Key cb = cKeyAgree.doPhase(bPair.Public, false); // // aKeyAgree.doPhase(cb, true); // bKeyAgree.doPhase(ac, true); // cKeyAgree.doPhase(ba, true); // // BigInteger aShared = new BigInteger(aKeyAgree.generateSecret()); // BigInteger bShared = new BigInteger(bKeyAgree.generateSecret()); // BigInteger cShared = new BigInteger(cKeyAgree.generateSecret()); DHPublicKeyParameters ac = new DHPublicKeyParameters(aKeyAgree.CalculateAgreement(cPair.Public), spec); DHPublicKeyParameters ba = new DHPublicKeyParameters(bKeyAgree.CalculateAgreement(aPair.Public), spec); DHPublicKeyParameters cb = new DHPublicKeyParameters(cKeyAgree.CalculateAgreement(bPair.Public), spec); BigInteger aShared = aKeyAgree.CalculateAgreement(cb); BigInteger bShared = bKeyAgree.CalculateAgreement(ac); BigInteger cShared = cKeyAgree.CalculateAgreement(ba); if (!aShared.Equals(bShared)) { Fail(size + " bit 3-way test failed (a and b differ)"); } if (!cShared.Equals(bShared)) { Fail(size + " bit 3-way test failed (c and b differ)"); } } private void doTestExplicitWrapping( int size, int privateValueSize, BigInteger g, BigInteger p) { DHParameters dhParams = new DHParameters(p, g, null, privateValueSize); IAsymmetricCipherKeyPairGenerator keyGen = GeneratorUtilities.GetKeyPairGenerator("DH"); keyGen.Init(new DHKeyGenerationParameters(new SecureRandom(), dhParams)); // // a side // AsymmetricCipherKeyPair aKeyPair = keyGen.GenerateKeyPair(); IBasicAgreement aKeyAgree = AgreementUtilities.GetBasicAgreement("DH"); checkKeySize(privateValueSize, aKeyPair); aKeyAgree.Init(aKeyPair.Private); // // b side // AsymmetricCipherKeyPair bKeyPair = keyGen.GenerateKeyPair(); IBasicAgreement bKeyAgree = AgreementUtilities.GetBasicAgreement("DH"); checkKeySize(privateValueSize, bKeyPair); bKeyAgree.Init(bKeyPair.Private); // // agreement // // aKeyAgree.doPhase(bKeyPair.Public, true); // bKeyAgree.doPhase(aKeyPair.Public, true); // // SecretKey k1 = aKeyAgree.generateSecret(PkcsObjectIdentifiers.IdAlgCms3DesWrap.Id); // SecretKey k2 = bKeyAgree.generateSecret(PkcsObjectIdentifiers.IdAlgCms3DesWrap.Id); // TODO Does this really test the same thing as the above code? BigInteger b1 = aKeyAgree.CalculateAgreement(bKeyPair.Public); BigInteger b2 = bKeyAgree.CalculateAgreement(aKeyPair.Public); if (!b1.Equals(b2)) { Fail("Explicit wrapping test failed"); } } private void checkKeySize( int privateValueSize, AsymmetricCipherKeyPair aKeyPair) { if (privateValueSize != 0) { DHPrivateKeyParameters key = (DHPrivateKeyParameters)aKeyPair.Private; if (key.X.BitLength != privateValueSize) { Fail("limited key check failed for key size " + privateValueSize); } } } // TODO Put back in // private void doTestRandom( // int size) // { // AlgorithmParameterGenerator a = AlgorithmParameterGenerator.getInstance("DH"); // a.init(size, new SecureRandom()); // AlgorithmParameters parameters = a.generateParameters(); // // byte[] encodeParams = parameters.GetEncoded(); // // AlgorithmParameters a2 = AlgorithmParameters.getInstance("DH"); // a2.init(encodeParams); // // // a and a2 should be equivalent! // byte[] encodeParams_2 = a2.GetEncoded(); // // if (!areEqual(encodeParams, encodeParams_2)) // { // Fail("encode/Decode parameters failed"); // } // // DHParameterSpec dhP = (DHParameterSpec)parameters.getParameterSpec(DHParameterSpec.class); // // doTestGP("DH", size, 0, dhP.G, dhP.P); // } [Test] public void TestECDH() { doTestECDH("ECDH"); } [Test] public void TestECDHC() { doTestECDH("ECDHC"); } private void doTestECDH( string algorithm) { IAsymmetricCipherKeyPairGenerator g = GeneratorUtilities.GetKeyPairGenerator(algorithm); // EllipticCurve curve = new EllipticCurve( // new ECFieldFp(new BigInteger("883423532389192164791648750360308885314476597252960362792450860609699839")), // q // new BigInteger("7fffffffffffffffffffffff7fffffffffff8000000000007ffffffffffc", 16), // a // new BigInteger("6b016c3bdcf18941d0d654921475ca71a9db2fb27d1d37796185c2942c0a", 16)); // b ECCurve curve = new FpCurve( new BigInteger("883423532389192164791648750360308885314476597252960362792450860609699839"), // q new BigInteger("7fffffffffffffffffffffff7fffffffffff8000000000007ffffffffffc", 16), // a new BigInteger("6b016c3bdcf18941d0d654921475ca71a9db2fb27d1d37796185c2942c0a", 16)); // b ECDomainParameters ecSpec = new ECDomainParameters( curve, // ECPointUtil.DecodePoint(curve, Hex.Decode("020ffa963cdca8816ccc33b8642bedf905c3d358573d3f27fbbd3b3cb9aaaf")), // G curve.DecodePoint(Hex.Decode("020ffa963cdca8816ccc33b8642bedf905c3d358573d3f27fbbd3b3cb9aaaf")), // G new BigInteger("883423532389192164791648750360308884807550341691627752275345424702807307"), // n BigInteger.One); //1); // h // g.initialize(ecSpec, new SecureRandom()); g.Init(new ECKeyGenerationParameters(ecSpec, new SecureRandom())); // // a side // AsymmetricCipherKeyPair aKeyPair = g.GenerateKeyPair(); IBasicAgreement aKeyAgreeBasic = AgreementUtilities.GetBasicAgreement(algorithm); aKeyAgreeBasic.Init(aKeyPair.Private); // // b side // AsymmetricCipherKeyPair bKeyPair = g.GenerateKeyPair(); IBasicAgreement bKeyAgreeBasic = AgreementUtilities.GetBasicAgreement(algorithm); bKeyAgreeBasic.Init(bKeyPair.Private); // // agreement // // aKeyAgreeBasic.doPhase(bKeyPair.Public, true); // bKeyAgreeBasic.doPhase(aKeyPair.Public, true); // // BigInteger k1 = new BigInteger(aKeyAgreeBasic.generateSecret()); // BigInteger k2 = new BigInteger(bKeyAgreeBasic.generateSecret()); BigInteger k1 = aKeyAgreeBasic.CalculateAgreement(bKeyPair.Public); BigInteger k2 = bKeyAgreeBasic.CalculateAgreement(aKeyPair.Public); if (!k1.Equals(k2)) { Fail(algorithm + " 2-way test failed"); } // // public key encoding test // // byte[] pubEnc = aKeyPair.Public.GetEncoded(); byte[] pubEnc = SubjectPublicKeyInfoFactory.CreateSubjectPublicKeyInfo(aKeyPair.Public).GetDerEncoded(); // KeyFactory keyFac = KeyFactory.getInstance(algorithm); // X509EncodedKeySpec pubX509 = new X509EncodedKeySpec(pubEnc); // ECPublicKey pubKey = (ECPublicKey)keyFac.generatePublic(pubX509); ECPublicKeyParameters pubKey = (ECPublicKeyParameters) PublicKeyFactory.CreateKey(pubEnc); ECDomainParameters ecDP = pubKey.Parameters; // if (!pubKey.getW().Equals(((ECPublicKeyParameters)aKeyPair.Public).getW())) if (!pubKey.Q.Equals(((ECPublicKeyParameters)aKeyPair.Public).Q)) { // Console.WriteLine(" expected " + pubKey.getW().getAffineX() + " got " + ((ECPublicKey)aKeyPair.Public).getW().getAffineX()); // Console.WriteLine(" expected " + pubKey.getW().getAffineY() + " got " + ((ECPublicKey)aKeyPair.Public).getW().getAffineY()); // Fail(algorithm + " public key encoding (W test) failed"); Console.WriteLine(" expected " + pubKey.Q.X.ToBigInteger() + " got " + ((ECPublicKeyParameters)aKeyPair.Public).Q.X.ToBigInteger()); Console.WriteLine(" expected " + pubKey.Q.Y.ToBigInteger() + " got " + ((ECPublicKeyParameters)aKeyPair.Public).Q.Y.ToBigInteger()); Fail(algorithm + " public key encoding (Q test) failed"); } // if (!pubKey.Parameters.getGenerator().Equals(((ECPublicKeyParameters)aKeyPair.Public).Parameters.getGenerator())) if (!pubKey.Parameters.G.Equals(((ECPublicKeyParameters)aKeyPair.Public).Parameters.G)) { Fail(algorithm + " public key encoding (G test) failed"); } // // private key encoding test // // byte[] privEnc = aKeyPair.Private.GetEncoded(); byte[] privEnc = PrivateKeyInfoFactory.CreatePrivateKeyInfo(aKeyPair.Private).GetDerEncoded(); // PKCS8EncodedKeySpec privPKCS8 = new PKCS8EncodedKeySpec(privEnc); // ECPrivateKey privKey = (ECPrivateKey)keyFac.generatePrivate(privPKCS8); ECPrivateKeyParameters privKey = (ECPrivateKeyParameters) PrivateKeyFactory.CreateKey(privEnc); // if (!privKey.getS().Equals(((ECPrivateKey)aKeyPair.Private).getS())) if (!privKey.D.Equals(((ECPrivateKeyParameters)aKeyPair.Private).D)) { // Fail(algorithm + " private key encoding (S test) failed"); Fail(algorithm + " private key encoding (D test) failed"); } // if (!privKey.Parameters.getGenerator().Equals(((ECPrivateKey)aKeyPair.Private).Parameters.getGenerator())) if (!privKey.Parameters.G.Equals(((ECPrivateKeyParameters)aKeyPair.Private).Parameters.G)) { Fail(algorithm + " private key encoding (G test) failed"); } } [Test] public void TestExceptions() { DHParameters dhParams = new DHParameters(p512, g512); try { IBasicAgreement aKeyAgreeBasic = AgreementUtilities.GetBasicAgreement("DH"); // aKeyAgreeBasic.generateSecret("DES"); aKeyAgreeBasic.CalculateAgreement(null); } catch (InvalidOperationException) { // okay } catch (Exception e) { Fail("Unexpected exception: " + e, e); } } private void doTestDesAndDesEde( BigInteger g, BigInteger p) { DHParameters dhParams = new DHParameters(p, g, null, 256); IAsymmetricCipherKeyPairGenerator keyGen = GeneratorUtilities.GetKeyPairGenerator("DH"); keyGen.Init(new DHKeyGenerationParameters(new SecureRandom(), dhParams)); AsymmetricCipherKeyPair kp = keyGen.GenerateKeyPair(); IBasicAgreement keyAgreement = AgreementUtilities.GetBasicAgreement("DH"); keyAgreement.Init(kp.Private); BigInteger agreed = keyAgreement.CalculateAgreement(kp.Public); byte[] agreedBytes = agreed.ToByteArrayUnsigned(); // TODO Figure out where the magic happens of choosing the right // bytes from 'agreedBytes' for each key type - need C# equivalent? // (see JCEDHKeyAgreement.engineGenerateSecret) // SecretKey key = keyAgreement.generateSecret("DES"); // // if (key.getEncoded().length != 8) // { // Fail("DES length wrong"); // } // // if (!DESKeySpec.isParityAdjusted(key.getEncoded(), 0)) // { // Fail("DES parity wrong"); // } // // key = keyAgreement.generateSecret("DESEDE"); // // if (key.getEncoded().length != 24) // { // Fail("DESEDE length wrong"); // } // // if (!DESedeKeySpec.isParityAdjusted(key.getEncoded(), 0)) // { // Fail("DESEDE parity wrong"); // } // // key = keyAgreement.generateSecret("Blowfish"); // // if (key.getEncoded().length != 16) // { // Fail("Blowfish length wrong"); // } } [Test] public void TestFunction() { doTestGP("DH", 512, 0, g512, p512); doTestGP("DiffieHellman", 768, 0, g768, p768); doTestGP("DIFFIEHELLMAN", 1024, 0, g1024, p1024); doTestGP("DH", 512, 64, g512, p512); doTestGP("DiffieHellman", 768, 128, g768, p768); doTestGP("DIFFIEHELLMAN", 1024, 256, g1024, p1024); doTestExplicitWrapping(512, 0, g512, p512); doTestDesAndDesEde(g768, p768); // TODO Put back in //doTestRandom(256); } [Test] public void TestEnc() { // KeyFactory kFact = KeyFactory.getInstance("DH", "BC"); // // Key k = kFact.generatePrivate(new PKCS8EncodedKeySpec(samplePrivEnc)); AsymmetricKeyParameter k = PrivateKeyFactory.CreateKey(samplePrivEnc); byte[] encoded = PrivateKeyInfoFactory.CreatePrivateKeyInfo(k).GetEncoded(); if (!Arrays.AreEqual(samplePrivEnc, encoded)) { Fail("private key re-encode failed"); } // k = kFact.generatePublic(new X509EncodedKeySpec(samplePubEnc)); k = PublicKeyFactory.CreateKey(samplePubEnc); encoded = SubjectPublicKeyInfoFactory.CreateSubjectPublicKeyInfo(k).GetEncoded(); if (!Arrays.AreEqual(samplePubEnc, encoded)) { Fail("public key re-encode failed"); } // k = kFact.generatePublic(new X509EncodedKeySpec(oldPubEnc)); k = PublicKeyFactory.CreateKey(oldPubEnc); encoded = SubjectPublicKeyInfoFactory.CreateSubjectPublicKeyInfo(k).GetEncoded(); if (!Arrays.AreEqual(oldPubEnc, encoded)) { Fail("old public key re-encode failed"); } // k = kFact.generatePublic(new X509EncodedKeySpec(oldFullParams)); k = PublicKeyFactory.CreateKey(oldFullParams); encoded = SubjectPublicKeyInfoFactory.CreateSubjectPublicKeyInfo(k).GetEncoded(); if (!Arrays.AreEqual(oldFullParams, encoded)) { Fail("old full public key re-encode failed"); } } public override void PerformTest() { TestEnc(); TestFunction(); TestECDH(); TestECDHC(); TestExceptions(); } public static void Main( string[] args) { RunTest(new DHTest()); } } }
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
// File generated automatically by ReswPlus. https://github.com/rudyhuyn/ReswPlus // The NuGet package PluralNet is necessary to support Pluralization. using System; using Windows.ApplicationModel.Resources; using Windows.UI.Xaml.Markup; using Windows.UI.Xaml.Data; namespace JustRemember.Strings { [global::System.CodeDom.Compiler.GeneratedCodeAttribute("Huyn.ReswPlus", "0.1.0.0")] [global::System.Diagnostics.DebuggerNonUserCodeAttribute()] [global::System.Runtime.CompilerServices.CompilerGeneratedAttribute()] public class Editor { private static ResourceLoader _resourceLoader; static Editor() { _resourceLoader = ResourceLoader.GetForViewIndependentUse("Editor"); } /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Setting /// </summary> public static string Editor_Setting_Header => _resourceLoader.GetString("Editor_Setting_Header"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Bold /// </summary> public static string Edit_bold => _resourceLoader.GetString("Edit_bold"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Show content when it less than specific value /// </summary> public static string Edit_Compare_Less => _resourceLoader.GetString("Edit_Compare_Less"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Show content when it more than specific /// </summary> public static string Edit_Compare_More => _resourceLoader.GetString("Edit_Compare_More"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Show content when it not equal the specific value /// </summary> public static string Edit_Compare_NotSame => _resourceLoader.GetString("Edit_Compare_NotSame"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Show content when it equal the specific value /// </summary> public static string Edit_Compare_Same => _resourceLoader.GetString("Edit_Compare_Same"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Copy /// </summary> public static string Edit_copy => _resourceLoader.GetString("Edit_copy"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Cut /// </summary> public static string Edit_cut => _resourceLoader.GetString("Edit_cut"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: This operation will replace all your exist content. Do you really want to continue? /// </summary> public static string Edit_Dialog_content => _resourceLoader.GetString("Edit_Dialog_content"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Warning. /// </summary> public static string Edit_Dialog_header => _resourceLoader.GetString("Edit_Dialog_header"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Italic /// </summary> public static string Edit_italic => _resourceLoader.GetString("Edit_italic"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Load /// </summary> public static string Edit_load => _resourceLoader.GetString("Edit_load"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Name must be supplied /// </summary> public static string Edit_name_empty => _resourceLoader.GetString("Edit_name_empty"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Name has already been used /// </summary> public static string Edit_name_exist => _resourceLoader.GetString("Edit_name_exist"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Name can't contain: \ / : * ? " < > | /// </summary> public static string Edit_name_illegal => _resourceLoader.GetString("Edit_name_illegal"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: New /// </summary> public static string Edit_new => _resourceLoader.GetString("Edit_new"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Paste /// </summary> public static string Edit_paste => _resourceLoader.GetString("Edit_paste"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Redo /// </summary> public static string Edit_redo => _resourceLoader.GetString("Edit_redo"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Save /// </summary> public static string Edit_save => _resourceLoader.GetString("Edit_save"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Save a copy /// </summary> public static string Edit_Save_copy => _resourceLoader.GetString("Edit_Save_copy"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Save outside /// </summary> public static string Edit_Save_outside => _resourceLoader.GetString("Edit_Save_outside"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Show warning /// </summary> public static string Edit_Show_warning => _resourceLoader.GetString("Edit_Show_warning"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Font size ( /// </summary> public static string Edit_size_a => _resourceLoader.GetString("Edit_size_a"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: ) /// </summary> public static string Edit_size_b => _resourceLoader.GetString("Edit_size_b"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Undo /// </summary> public static string Edit_undo => _resourceLoader.GetString("Edit_undo"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Default /// </summary> public static string Key_default => _resourceLoader.GetString("Key_default"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Toggled /// </summary> public static string Key_default_toggle => _resourceLoader.GetString("Key_default_toggle"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Number key /// </summary> public static string Key_type_number => _resourceLoader.GetString("Key_type_number"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Other key /// </summary> public static string Key_type_other => _resourceLoader.GetString("Key_type_other"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Select key /// </summary> public static string Key_type_select => _resourceLoader.GetString("Key_type_select"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Text key /// </summary> public static string Key_type_text => _resourceLoader.GetString("Key_type_text"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Toggle key /// </summary> public static string Key_type_toggle => _resourceLoader.GetString("Key_type_toggle"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: File /// </summary> public static string Menu_File => _resourceLoader.GetString("Menu_File"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Send to Question designer /// </summary> public static string ME_Send_To_QE => _resourceLoader.GetString("ME_Send_To_QE"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Word wrap /// </summary> public static string ME_Wordwrap => _resourceLoader.GetString("ME_Wordwrap"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Untitled /// </summary> public static string Note_Untitled => _resourceLoader.GetString("Note_Untitled"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Add question /// </summary> public static string QD_AddQuestion => _resourceLoader.GetString("QD_AddQuestion"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Answer position /// </summary> public static string QD_answer_pos => _resourceLoader.GetString("QD_answer_pos"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Behind question /// </summary> public static string QD_behind_question => _resourceLoader.GetString("QD_behind_question"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Bottom of memo /// </summary> public static string QD_bottom_memo => _resourceLoader.GetString("QD_bottom_memo"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Custom question header /// </summary> public static string QD_custom_header => _resourceLoader.GetString("QD_custom_header"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Example: /// </summary> public static string QD_example => _resourceLoader.GetString("QD_example"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Write a question /// </summary> public static string QD_Question_Holder => _resourceLoader.GetString("QD_Question_Holder"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Send to Memo editor /// </summary> public static string QD_send_away => _resourceLoader.GetString("QD_send_away"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Separate answer and number /// </summary> public static string QD_separator => _resourceLoader.GetString("QD_separator"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Separate with ")" /// </summary> public static string QD_separator_bracket => _resourceLoader.GetString("QD_separator_bracket"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Separate with "." /// </summary> public static string QD_separator_dot => _resourceLoader.GetString("QD_separator_dot"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Settings /// </summary> public static string QD_setting => _resourceLoader.GetString("QD_setting"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Space after separate symbol /// </summary> public static string QD_use_space => _resourceLoader.GetString("QD_use_space"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Answer header /// </summary> public static string QE_answer_header => _resourceLoader.GetString("QE_answer_header"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: No question /// </summary> public static string qe_no_question => _resourceLoader.GetString("qe_no_question"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Question /// </summary> public static string QE_Question => _resourceLoader.GetString("QE_Question"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Questions /// </summary> public static string QE_Questions => _resourceLoader.GetString("QE_Questions"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Separator /// </summary> public static string qe_separator => _resourceLoader.GetString("qe_separator"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Space separate /// </summary> public static string qe_space_sep => _resourceLoader.GetString("qe_space_sep"); /// <summary> /// Looks up a localized string similar to: Close /// </summary> public static string QuestionDesign_Close => _resourceLoader.GetString("QuestionDesign_Close"); } [global::System.CodeDom.Compiler.GeneratedCodeAttribute("Huyn.ReswPlus", "0.1.0.0")] [global::System.Diagnostics.DebuggerNonUserCodeAttribute()] [global::System.Runtime.CompilerServices.CompilerGeneratedAttribute()] [MarkupExtensionReturnType(ReturnType = typeof(string))] public class EditorExtension: MarkupExtension { public enum KeyEnum { __Undefined = 0, Editor_Setting_Header, Edit_bold, Edit_Compare_Less, Edit_Compare_More, Edit_Compare_NotSame, Edit_Compare_Same, Edit_copy, Edit_cut, Edit_Dialog_content, Edit_Dialog_header, Edit_italic, Edit_load, Edit_name_empty, Edit_name_exist, Edit_name_illegal, Edit_new, Edit_paste, Edit_redo, Edit_save, Edit_Save_copy, Edit_Save_outside, Edit_Show_warning, Edit_size_a, Edit_size_b, Edit_undo, Key_default, Key_default_toggle, Key_type_number, Key_type_other, Key_type_select, Key_type_text, Key_type_toggle, Menu_File, ME_Send_To_QE, ME_Wordwrap, Note_Untitled, QD_AddQuestion, QD_answer_pos, QD_behind_question, QD_bottom_memo, QD_custom_header, QD_example, QD_Question_Holder, QD_send_away, QD_separator, QD_separator_bracket, QD_separator_dot, QD_setting, QD_use_space, QE_answer_header, qe_no_question, QE_Question, QE_Questions, qe_separator, qe_space_sep, QuestionDesign_Close, } private static ResourceLoader _resourceLoader; static EditorExtension() { _resourceLoader = ResourceLoader.GetForViewIndependentUse("Editor"); } public KeyEnum Key { get; set;} public IValueConverter Converter { get; set;} public object ConverterParameter { get; set;} protected override object ProvideValue() { string res; if(Key == KeyEnum.__Undefined) { res = ""; } else { res = _resourceLoader.GetString(Key.ToString()); } return Converter == null ? res : Converter.Convert(res, typeof(String), ConverterParameter, null); } } }
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
Passage 1: Le roi l'a dit Le roi l'a dit ("The King Has Spoken") is an opéra comique in three acts by Léo Delibes to a French libretto by Edmond Gondinet. It is a lively comedy, remarkably requiring 14 singers – six men and eight women. The libretto had first been offered in 1871 to Offenbach; the title also went through various permutations ("Le Talon rouge", "Si le Roi le savait", "Le Roi le sait") before settling on its final name. The 1885 revival brought further modifications to the libretto. Passage 2: The Doctor in Spite of Himself (film) The Doctor in Spite of Himself () is a 1999 Hong Kong film based on the play "Le Médecin malgré lui" by Molière. Passage 3: Emmanuel Chabrier Alexis Emmanuel Chabrier (] ; January 18, 1841September 13, 1894) was a French Romantic composer and pianist. Although known primarily for two of his orchestral works, "España" and "Joyeuse marche", he left an important corpus of operas (including "L'étoile"), songs, and piano music. He was admired by composers as diverse as Debussy, Ravel, Richard Strauss, Satie, Schmitt, Stravinsky, and the group of composers known as Les six. Stravinsky alluded to "España" in his ballet "Petrushka"; Gustav Mahler called "España" "the beginnings of modern music" and alluded to the "Dance Villageoise" in the "Rondo Burleske" movement of his Ninth Symphony. Ravel wrote that the opening bars of "Le roi malgré lui" changed the course of harmony in France, Poulenc wrote a biography of the composer, and Richard Strauss conducted the first staged performance of Chabrier's incomplete opera "Briséïs". Passage 4: Le Médecin volant Le Médecin volant ("The Flying Doctor") is a French play by Molière, and his first, written in 1645. The date of its actual premiere is unknown, but its Paris premiere took place on 18 April 1659. Parts of the play were later reproduced in "L'Amour médecin", and "Le Médecin malgré lui". It is composed of 16 scenes and has seven characters largely based on stock "commedia dell'arte" roles: Passage 5: Le Médecin malgré lui Le Médecin malgré lui (] ; "The doctor/physician in spite of himself") is a farce by Molière first presented in 1666 (published as a manuscript in early 1667) at le théâtre du Palais-Royal by la Troupe du Roi. The play is one of several plays by Molière to center on Sganarelle, a character that Molière himself portrayed, and is a comedic satire of 17th century French medicine. Passage 6: The Warlock in Spite of Himself The Warlock in Spite of Himself is a science fantasy novel by American author Christopher Stasheff, published in 1969. It is the first book in "Warlock of Gramarye" series. The title is a play on the title of Molière's "Le Médecin malgré lui" ("The Doctor, in Spite of Himself"). Passage 7: Le roi malgré lui Le roi malgré lui ("King in Spite of Himself" or "The reluctant king") is an opéra-comique in three acts by Emmanuel Chabrier of 1887 with an original libretto by Emile de Najac and Paul Burani. The opera is revived occasionally, but has not yet found a place in repertory. Passage 8: The Doctor in Spite of Himself (1931 film) The Doctor in Spite of Himself (Italian: Medico per forza) is a 1931 Italian comedy film directed by Carlo Campogalliani. It is a free adaptation of Molière's play Le Médecin malgré lui. It was made at the Cines Studios in Rome. Passage 9: La Juive La Juive (] ) ("The Jewess") is a grand opera in five acts by Fromental Halévy to an original French libretto by Eugène Scribe; it was first performed at the Opéra, Paris, on 23 February 1835. Passage 10: Pascal Mazzotti Pasquale "Pascal" Mazzotti (16 December 1923 in Saint-Étienne-de-Baïgorry – 19 June 2002 in Saint-Ouen-l'Aumône) was a French actor who has appeared in film, television, and theater. He is known for having played a role in "Hibernatus" with Louis de Funès, as well as provided the voice of Le roi (The King) in the animated feature film, "Le Roi et l'oiseau" ("The King and the Mockingbird"). Question: Which opera La Juive or Le roi malgré lui has more acts? Answer: La Juive
{ "task_name": "hotpotqa" }
Depopulation, deurbanisation, invasion, and movement of peoples, which had begun in Late Antiquity, continued in the Early Middle Ages. The barbarian invaders, including various Germanic peoples, formed new kingdoms in what remained of the Western Roman Empire. In the 7th century, North Africa and the Middle East—once part of the Eastern Roman Empire—came under the rule of the Caliphate, an Islamic empire, after conquest by Muhammad's successors. Although there were substantial changes in society and political structures, the break with Antiquity was not complete. The still-sizeable Byzantine Empire survived in the east and remained a major power. The empire's law code, the Code of Justinian, was rediscovered in Northern Italy in 1070 and became widely admired later in the Middle Ages. In the West, most kingdoms incorporated the few extant Roman institutions. Monasteries were founded as campaigns to Christianise pagan Europe continued. The Franks, under the Carolingian dynasty, briefly established the Carolingian Empire during the later 8th and early 9th century. It covered much of Western Europe, but later succumbed to the pressures of internal civil wars combined with external invasions—Vikings from the north, Magyars from the east, and Saracens from the south. Question: Along with the movement of peoples, invasion and depopulation, what event started in Late Antiquity and continued into the Middle Ages? Answer: deurbanisation Question: In what state did barbarian invaders establish kingdoms? Answer: the Western Roman Empire Question: What empire was North Africa previously a part of? Answer: the Eastern Roman Empire Question: In what century did the Caliphate conquer North Africa? Answer: 7th Question: In what year did Italians discover the Code of Justinian? Answer: 1070
{ "task_name": "squadv2" }
# Licensed to the Software Freedom Conservancy (SFC) under one # or more contributor license agreements. See the NOTICE file # distributed with this work for additional information # regarding copyright ownership. The SFC licenses this file # to you under the Apache License, Version 2.0 (the # "License"); you may not use this file except in compliance # with the License. You may obtain a copy of the License at # # http://www.apache.org/licenses/LICENSE-2.0 # # Unless required by applicable law or agreed to in writing, # software distributed under the License is distributed on an # "AS IS" BASIS, WITHOUT WARRANTIES OR CONDITIONS OF ANY # KIND, either express or implied. See the License for the # specific language governing permissions and limitations # under the License. """The WebDriver implementation.""" import base64 import warnings from contextlib import contextmanager from .command import Command from .webelement import WebElement from .remote_connection import RemoteConnection from .errorhandler import ErrorHandler from .switch_to import SwitchTo from .mobile import Mobile from .file_detector import FileDetector, LocalFileDetector from selenium.common.exceptions import (InvalidArgumentException, WebDriverException) from selenium.webdriver.common.by import By from selenium.webdriver.common.html5.application_cache import ApplicationCache try: str = basestring except NameError: pass class WebDriver(object): """ Controls a browser by sending commands to a remote server. This server is expected to be running the WebDriver wire protocol as defined at https://github.com/SeleniumHQ/selenium/wiki/JsonWireProtocol :Attributes: - session_id - String ID of the browser session started and controlled by this WebDriver. - capabilities - Dictionaty of effective capabilities of this browser session as returned by the remote server. See https://github.com/SeleniumHQ/selenium/wiki/DesiredCapabilities - command_executor - remote_connection.RemoteConnection object used to execute commands. - error_handler - errorhandler.ErrorHandler object used to handle errors. """ _web_element_cls = WebElement def __init__(self, command_executor='http://127.0.0.1:4444/wd/hub', desired_capabilities=None, browser_profile=None, proxy=None, keep_alive=False, file_detector=None): """ Create a new driver that will issue commands using the wire protocol. :Args: - command_executor - Either a string representing URL of the remote server or a custom remote_connection.RemoteConnection object. Defaults to 'http://127.0.0.1:4444/wd/hub'. - desired_capabilities - A dictionary of capabilities to request when starting the browser session. Required parameter. - browser_profile - A selenium.webdriver.firefox.firefox_profile.FirefoxProfile object. Only used if Firefox is requested. Optional. - proxy - A selenium.webdriver.common.proxy.Proxy object. The browser session will be started with given proxy settings, if possible. Optional. - keep_alive - Whether to configure remote_connection.RemoteConnection to use HTTP keep-alive. Defaults to False. - file_detector - Pass custom file detector object during instantiation. If None, then default LocalFileDetector() will be used. """ if desired_capabilities is None: raise WebDriverException("Desired Capabilities can't be None") if not isinstance(desired_capabilities, dict): raise WebDriverException("Desired Capabilities must be a dictionary") if proxy is not None: warnings.warn("Please use FirefoxOptions to set proxy", DeprecationWarning) proxy.add_to_capabilities(desired_capabilities) self.command_executor = command_executor if type(self.command_executor) is bytes or isinstance(self.command_executor, str): self.command_executor = RemoteConnection(command_executor, keep_alive=keep_alive) self._is_remote = True self.session_id = None self.capabilities = {} self.error_handler = ErrorHandler() self.start_client() if browser_profile is not None: warnings.warn("Please use FirefoxOptions to set browser profile", DeprecationWarning) self.start_session(desired_capabilities, browser_profile) self._switch_to = SwitchTo(self) self._mobile = Mobile(self) self.file_detector = file_detector or LocalFileDetector() def __repr__(self): return '<{0.__module__}.{0.__name__} (session="{1}")>'.format( type(self), self.session_id) @contextmanager def file_detector_context(self, file_detector_class, *args, **kwargs): """ Overrides the current file detector (if necessary) in limited context. Ensures the original file detector is set afterwards. Example: with webdriver.file_detector_context(UselessFileDetector): someinput.send_keys('/etc/hosts') :Args: - file_detector_class - Class of the desired file detector. If the class is different from the current file_detector, then the class is instantiated with args and kwargs and used as a file detector during the duration of the context manager. - args - Optional arguments that get passed to the file detector class during instantiation. - kwargs - Keyword arguments, passed the same way as args. """ last_detector = None if not isinstance(self.file_detector, file_detector_class): last_detector = self.file_detector self.file_detector = file_detector_class(*args, **kwargs) try: yield finally: if last_detector is not None: self.file_detector = last_detector @property def mobile(self): return self._mobile @property def name(self): """Returns the name of the underlying browser for this instance. :Usage: - driver.name """ if 'browserName' in self.capabilities: return self.capabilities['browserName'] else: raise KeyError('browserName not specified in session capabilities') def start_client(self): """ Called before starting a new session. This method may be overridden to define custom startup behavior. """ pass def stop_client(self): """ Called after executing a quit command. This method may be overridden to define custom shutdown behavior. """ pass def start_session(self, capabilities, browser_profile=None): """ Creates a new session with the desired capabilities. :Args: - browser_name - The name of the browser to request. - version - Which browser version to request. - platform - Which platform to request the browser on. - javascript_enabled - Whether the new session should support JavaScript. - browser_profile - A selenium.webdriver.firefox.firefox_profile.FirefoxProfile object. Only used if Firefox is requested. """ if not isinstance(capabilities, dict): raise InvalidArgumentException("Capabilities must be a dictionary") w3c_caps = {"firstMatch": [], "alwaysMatch": {}} if browser_profile: if "moz:firefoxOptions" in capabilities: capabilities["moz:firefoxOptions"]["profile"] = browser_profile.encoded else: capabilities.update({'firefox_profile': browser_profile.encoded}) w3c_caps["alwaysMatch"].update(capabilities) parameters = {"capabilities": w3c_caps, "desiredCapabilities": capabilities} response = self.execute(Command.NEW_SESSION, parameters) if 'sessionId' not in response: response = response['value'] self.session_id = response['sessionId'] self.capabilities = response.get('value') # if capabilities is none we are probably speaking to # a W3C endpoint if self.capabilities is None: self.capabilities = response.get('capabilities') # Double check to see if we have a W3C Compliant browser self.w3c = response.get('status') is None def _wrap_value(self, value): if isinstance(value, dict): converted = {} for key, val in value.items(): converted[key] = self._wrap_value(val) return converted elif isinstance(value, self._web_element_cls): return {'ELEMENT': value.id, 'element-6066-11e4-a52e-4f735466cecf': value.id} elif isinstance(value, list): return list(self._wrap_value(item) for item in value) else: return value def create_web_element(self, element_id): """Creates a web element with the specified `element_id`.""" return self._web_element_cls(self, element_id, w3c=self.w3c) def _unwrap_value(self, value): if isinstance(value, dict): if 'ELEMENT' in value or 'element-6066-11e4-a52e-4f735466cecf' in value: wrapped_id = value.get('ELEMENT', None) if wrapped_id: return self.create_web_element(value['ELEMENT']) else: return self.create_web_element(value['element-6066-11e4-a52e-4f735466cecf']) else: for key, val in value.items(): value[key] = self._unwrap_value(val) return value elif isinstance(value, list): return list(self._unwrap_value(item) for item in value) else: return value def execute(self, driver_command, params=None): """ Sends a command to be executed by a command.CommandExecutor. :Args: - driver_command: The name of the command to execute as a string. - params: A dictionary of named parameters to send with the command. :Returns: The command's JSON response loaded into a dictionary object. """ if self.session_id is not None: if not params: params = {'sessionId': self.session_id} elif 'sessionId' not in params: params['sessionId'] = self.session_id params = self._wrap_value(params) response = self.command_executor.execute(driver_command, params) if response: self.error_handler.check_response(response) response['value'] = self._unwrap_value( response.get('value', None)) return response # If the server doesn't send a response, assume the command was # a success return {'success': 0, 'value': None, 'sessionId': self.session_id} def get(self, url): """ Loads a web page in the current browser session. """ self.execute(Command.GET, {'url': url}) @property def title(self): """Returns the title of the current page. :Usage: driver.title """ resp = self.execute(Command.GET_TITLE) return resp['value'] if resp['value'] is not None else "" def find_element_by_id(self, id_): """Finds an element by id. :Args: - id\_ - The id of the element to be found. :Usage: driver.find_element_by_id('foo') """ return self.find_element(by=By.ID, value=id_) def find_elements_by_id(self, id_): """ Finds multiple elements by id. :Args: - id\_ - The id of the elements to be found. :Usage: driver.find_elements_by_id('foo') """ return self.find_elements(by=By.ID, value=id_) def find_element_by_xpath(self, xpath): """ Finds an element by xpath. :Args: - xpath - The xpath locator of the element to find. :Usage: driver.find_element_by_xpath('//div/td[1]') """ return self.find_element(by=By.XPATH, value=xpath) def find_elements_by_xpath(self, xpath): """ Finds multiple elements by xpath. :Args: - xpath - The xpath locator of the elements to be found. :Usage: driver.find_elements_by_xpath("//div[contains(@class, 'foo')]") """ return self.find_elements(by=By.XPATH, value=xpath) def find_element_by_link_text(self, link_text): """ Finds an element by link text. :Args: - link_text: The text of the element to be found. :Usage: driver.find_element_by_link_text('Sign In') """ return self.find_element(by=By.LINK_TEXT, value=link_text) def find_elements_by_link_text(self, text): """ Finds elements by link text. :Args: - link_text: The text of the elements to be found. :Usage: driver.find_elements_by_link_text('Sign In') """ return self.find_elements(by=By.LINK_TEXT, value=text) def find_element_by_partial_link_text(self, link_text): """ Finds an element by a partial match of its link text. :Args: - link_text: The text of the element to partially match on. :Usage: driver.find_element_by_partial_link_text('Sign') """ return self.find_element(by=By.PARTIAL_LINK_TEXT, value=link_text) def find_elements_by_partial_link_text(self, link_text): """ Finds elements by a partial match of their link text. :Args: - link_text: The text of the element to partial match on. :Usage: driver.find_element_by_partial_link_text('Sign') """ return self.find_elements(by=By.PARTIAL_LINK_TEXT, value=link_text) def find_element_by_name(self, name): """ Finds an element by name. :Args: - name: The name of the element to find. :Usage: driver.find_element_by_name('foo') """ return self.find_element(by=By.NAME, value=name) def find_elements_by_name(self, name): """ Finds elements by name. :Args: - name: The name of the elements to find. :Usage: driver.find_elements_by_name('foo') """ return self.find_elements(by=By.NAME, value=name) def find_element_by_tag_name(self, name): """ Finds an element by tag name. :Args: - name: The tag name of the element to find. :Usage: driver.find_element_by_tag_name('foo') """ return self.find_element(by=By.TAG_NAME, value=name) def find_elements_by_tag_name(self, name): """ Finds elements by tag name. :Args: - name: The tag name the use when finding elements. :Usage: driver.find_elements_by_tag_name('foo') """ return self.find_elements(by=By.TAG_NAME, value=name) def find_element_by_class_name(self, name): """ Finds an element by class name. :Args: - name: The class name of the element to find. :Usage: driver.find_element_by_class_name('foo') """ return self.find_element(by=By.CLASS_NAME, value=name) def find_elements_by_class_name(self, name): """ Finds elements by class name. :Args: - name: The class name of the elements to find. :Usage: driver.find_elements_by_class_name('foo') """ return self.find_elements(by=By.CLASS_NAME, value=name) def find_element_by_css_selector(self, css_selector): """ Finds an element by css selector. :Args: - css_selector: The css selector to use when finding elements. :Usage: driver.find_element_by_css_selector('#foo') """ return self.find_element(by=By.CSS_SELECTOR, value=css_selector) def find_elements_by_css_selector(self, css_selector): """ Finds elements by css selector. :Args: - css_selector: The css selector to use when finding elements. :Usage: driver.find_elements_by_css_selector('.foo') """ return self.find_elements(by=By.CSS_SELECTOR, value=css_selector) def execute_script(self, script, *args): """ Synchronously Executes JavaScript in the current window/frame. :Args: - script: The JavaScript to execute. - \*args: Any applicable arguments for your JavaScript. :Usage: driver.execute_script('document.title') """ converted_args = list(args) command = None if self.w3c: command = Command.W3C_EXECUTE_SCRIPT else: command = Command.EXECUTE_SCRIPT return self.execute(command, { 'script': script, 'args': converted_args})['value'] def execute_async_script(self, script, *args): """ Asynchronously Executes JavaScript in the current window/frame. :Args: - script: The JavaScript to execute. - \*args: Any applicable arguments for your JavaScript. :Usage: driver.execute_async_script('document.title') """ converted_args = list(args) if self.w3c: command = Command.W3C_EXECUTE_SCRIPT_ASYNC else: command = Command.EXECUTE_ASYNC_SCRIPT return self.execute(command, { 'script': script, 'args': converted_args})['value'] @property def current_url(self): """ Gets the URL of the current page. :Usage: driver.current_url """ return self.execute(Command.GET_CURRENT_URL)['value'] @property def page_source(self): """ Gets the source of the current page. :Usage: driver.page_source """ return self.execute(Command.GET_PAGE_SOURCE)['value'] def close(self): """ Closes the current window. :Usage: driver.close() """ self.execute(Command.CLOSE) def quit(self): """ Quits the driver and closes every associated window. :Usage: driver.quit() """ try: self.execute(Command.QUIT) finally: self.stop_client() @property def current_window_handle(self): """ Returns the handle of the current window. :Usage: driver.current_window_handle """ if self.w3c: return self.execute(Command.W3C_GET_CURRENT_WINDOW_HANDLE)['value'] else: return self.execute(Command.GET_CURRENT_WINDOW_HANDLE)['value'] @property def window_handles(self): """ Returns the handles of all windows within the current session. :Usage: driver.window_handles """ if self.w3c: return self.execute(Command.W3C_GET_WINDOW_HANDLES)['value'] else: return self.execute(Command.GET_WINDOW_HANDLES)['value'] def maximize_window(self): """ Maximizes the current window that webdriver is using """ command = Command.MAXIMIZE_WINDOW if self.w3c: command = Command.W3C_MAXIMIZE_WINDOW self.execute(command, {"windowHandle": "current"}) @property def switch_to(self): return self._switch_to # Target Locators def switch_to_active_element(self): """ Deprecated use driver.switch_to.active_element """ warnings.warn("use driver.switch_to.active_element instead", DeprecationWarning) return self._switch_to.active_element def switch_to_window(self, window_name): """ Deprecated use driver.switch_to.window """ warnings.warn("use driver.switch_to.window instead", DeprecationWarning) self._switch_to.window(window_name) def switch_to_frame(self, frame_reference): """ Deprecated use driver.switch_to.frame """ warnings.warn("use driver.switch_to.frame instead", DeprecationWarning) self._switch_to.frame(frame_reference) def switch_to_default_content(self): """ Deprecated use driver.switch_to.default_content """ warnings.warn("use driver.switch_to.default_content instead", DeprecationWarning) self._switch_to.default_content() def switch_to_alert(self): """ Deprecated use driver.switch_to.alert """ warnings.warn("use driver.switch_to.alert instead", DeprecationWarning) return self._switch_to.alert # Navigation def back(self): """ Goes one step backward in the browser history. :Usage: driver.back() """ self.execute(Command.GO_BACK) def forward(self): """ Goes one step forward in the browser history. :Usage: driver.forward() """ self.execute(Command.GO_FORWARD) def refresh(self): """ Refreshes the current page. :Usage: driver.refresh() """ self.execute(Command.REFRESH) # Options def get_cookies(self): """ Returns a set of dictionaries, corresponding to cookies visible in the current session. :Usage: driver.get_cookies() """ return self.execute(Command.GET_ALL_COOKIES)['value'] def get_cookie(self, name): """ Get a single cookie by name. Returns the cookie if found, None if not. :Usage: driver.get_cookie('my_cookie') """ cookies = self.get_cookies() for cookie in cookies: if cookie['name'] == name: return cookie return None def delete_cookie(self, name): """ Deletes a single cookie with the given name. :Usage: driver.delete_cookie('my_cookie') """ self.execute(Command.DELETE_COOKIE, {'name': name}) def delete_all_cookies(self): """ Delete all cookies in the scope of the session. :Usage: driver.delete_all_cookies() """ self.execute(Command.DELETE_ALL_COOKIES) def add_cookie(self, cookie_dict): """ Adds a cookie to your current session. :Args: - cookie_dict: A dictionary object, with required keys - "name" and "value"; optional keys - "path", "domain", "secure", "expiry" Usage: driver.add_cookie({'name' : 'foo', 'value' : 'bar'}) driver.add_cookie({'name' : 'foo', 'value' : 'bar', 'path' : '/'}) driver.add_cookie({'name' : 'foo', 'value' : 'bar', 'path' : '/', 'secure':True}) """ self.execute(Command.ADD_COOKIE, {'cookie': cookie_dict}) # Timeouts def implicitly_wait(self, time_to_wait): """ Sets a sticky timeout to implicitly wait for an element to be found, or a command to complete. This method only needs to be called one time per session. To set the timeout for calls to execute_async_script, see set_script_timeout. :Args: - time_to_wait: Amount of time to wait (in seconds) :Usage: driver.implicitly_wait(30) """ if self.w3c: self.execute(Command.SET_TIMEOUTS, { 'implicit': int(float(time_to_wait) * 1000)}) else: self.execute(Command.IMPLICIT_WAIT, { 'ms': float(time_to_wait) * 1000}) def set_script_timeout(self, time_to_wait): """ Set the amount of time that the script should wait during an execute_async_script call before throwing an error. :Args: - time_to_wait: The amount of time to wait (in seconds) :Usage: driver.set_script_timeout(30) """ if self.w3c: self.execute(Command.SET_TIMEOUTS, { 'script': int(float(time_to_wait) * 1000)}) else: self.execute(Command.SET_SCRIPT_TIMEOUT, { 'ms': float(time_to_wait) * 1000}) def set_page_load_timeout(self, time_to_wait): """ Set the amount of time to wait for a page load to complete before throwing an error. :Args: - time_to_wait: The amount of time to wait :Usage: driver.set_page_load_timeout(30) """ try: self.execute(Command.SET_TIMEOUTS, { 'pageLoad': int(float(time_to_wait) * 1000)}) except WebDriverException: self.execute(Command.SET_TIMEOUTS, { 'ms': float(time_to_wait) * 1000, 'type': 'page load'}) def find_element(self, by=By.ID, value=None): """ 'Private' method used by the find_element_by_* methods. :Usage: Use the corresponding find_element_by_* instead of this. :rtype: WebElement """ if self.w3c: if by == By.ID: by = By.CSS_SELECTOR value = '[id="%s"]' % value elif by == By.TAG_NAME: by = By.CSS_SELECTOR elif by == By.CLASS_NAME: by = By.CSS_SELECTOR value = ".%s" % value elif by == By.NAME: by = By.CSS_SELECTOR value = '[name="%s"]' % value return self.execute(Command.FIND_ELEMENT, { 'using': by, 'value': value})['value'] def find_elements(self, by=By.ID, value=None): """ 'Private' method used by the find_elements_by_* methods. :Usage: Use the corresponding find_elements_by_* instead of this. :rtype: list of WebElement """ if self.w3c: if by == By.ID: by = By.CSS_SELECTOR value = '[id="%s"]' % value elif by == By.TAG_NAME: by = By.CSS_SELECTOR elif by == By.CLASS_NAME: by = By.CSS_SELECTOR value = ".%s" % value elif by == By.NAME: by = By.CSS_SELECTOR value = '[name="%s"]' % value return self.execute(Command.FIND_ELEMENTS, { 'using': by, 'value': value})['value'] @property def desired_capabilities(self): """ returns the drivers current desired capabilities being used """ return self.capabilities def get_screenshot_as_file(self, filename): """ Gets the screenshot of the current window. Returns False if there is any IOError, else returns True. Use full paths in your filename. :Args: - filename: The full path you wish to save your screenshot to. :Usage: driver.get_screenshot_as_file('/Screenshots/foo.png') """ png = self.get_screenshot_as_png() try: with open(filename, 'wb') as f: f.write(png) except IOError: return False finally: del png return True def save_screenshot(self, filename): """ Gets the screenshot of the current window. Returns False if there is any IOError, else returns True. Use full paths in your filename. :Args: - filename: The full path you wish to save your screenshot to. :Usage: driver.save_screenshot('/Screenshots/foo.png') """ return self.get_screenshot_as_file(filename) def get_screenshot_as_png(self): """ Gets the screenshot of the current window as a binary data. :Usage: driver.get_screenshot_as_png() """ return base64.b64decode(self.get_screenshot_as_base64().encode('ascii')) def get_screenshot_as_base64(self): """ Gets the screenshot of the current window as a base64 encoded string which is useful in embedded images in HTML. :Usage: driver.get_screenshot_as_base64() """ return self.execute(Command.SCREENSHOT)['value'] def set_window_size(self, width, height, windowHandle='current'): """ Sets the width and height of the current window. (window.resizeTo) :Args: - width: the width in pixels to set the window to - height: the height in pixels to set the window to :Usage: driver.set_window_size(800,600) """ command = Command.SET_WINDOW_SIZE if self.w3c: command = Command.W3C_SET_WINDOW_SIZE self.execute(command, { 'width': int(width), 'height': int(height), 'windowHandle': windowHandle}) def get_window_size(self, windowHandle='current'): """ Gets the width and height of the current window. :Usage: driver.get_window_size() """ command = Command.GET_WINDOW_SIZE if self.w3c: command = Command.W3C_GET_WINDOW_SIZE size = self.execute(command, {'windowHandle': windowHandle}) if size.get('value', None) is not None: return size['value'] else: return size def set_window_position(self, x, y, windowHandle='current'): """ Sets the x,y position of the current window. (window.moveTo) :Args: - x: the x-coordinate in pixels to set the window position - y: the y-coordinate in pixels to set the window position :Usage: driver.set_window_position(0,0) """ if self.w3c: return self.execute(Command.W3C_SET_WINDOW_POSITION, { 'x': int(x), 'y': int(y) }) else: self.execute(Command.SET_WINDOW_POSITION, { 'x': int(x), 'y': int(y), 'windowHandle': windowHandle }) def get_window_position(self, windowHandle='current'): """ Gets the x,y position of the current window. :Usage: driver.get_window_position() """ if self.w3c: return self.execute(Command.W3C_GET_WINDOW_POSITION)['value'] else: return self.execute(Command.GET_WINDOW_POSITION, { 'windowHandle': windowHandle})['value'] def get_window_rect(self): """ Gets the x, y coordinates of the window as well as height and width of the current window. :Usage: driver.get_window_rect() """ return self.execute(Command.GET_WINDOW_RECT)['value'] def set_window_rect(self, x=None, y=None, width=None, height=None): """ Sets the x, y coordinates of the window as well as height and width of the current window. :Usage: driver.set_window_rect(x=10, y=10) driver.set_window_rect(width=100, height=200) driver.set_window_rect(x=10, y=10, width=100, height=200) """ if (x is None and y is None) and (height is None and width is None): raise InvalidArgumentException("x and y or height and width need values") return self.execute(Command.SET_WINDOW_RECT, {"x": x, "y": y, "width": width, "height": height})['value'] @property def file_detector(self): return self._file_detector @file_detector.setter def file_detector(self, detector): """ Set the file detector to be used when sending keyboard input. By default, this is set to a file detector that does nothing. see FileDetector see LocalFileDetector see UselessFileDetector :Args: - detector: The detector to use. Must not be None. """ if detector is None: raise WebDriverException("You may not set a file detector that is null") if not isinstance(detector, FileDetector): raise WebDriverException("Detector has to be instance of FileDetector") self._file_detector = detector @property def orientation(self): """ Gets the current orientation of the device :Usage: orientation = driver.orientation """ return self.execute(Command.GET_SCREEN_ORIENTATION)['value'] @orientation.setter def orientation(self, value): """ Sets the current orientation of the device :Args: - value: orientation to set it to. :Usage: driver.orientation = 'landscape' """ allowed_values = ['LANDSCAPE', 'PORTRAIT'] if value.upper() in allowed_values: self.execute(Command.SET_SCREEN_ORIENTATION, {'orientation': value}) else: raise WebDriverException("You can only set the orientation to 'LANDSCAPE' and 'PORTRAIT'") @property def application_cache(self): """ Returns a ApplicationCache Object to interact with the browser app cache""" return ApplicationCache(self) @property def log_types(self): """ Gets a list of the available log types :Usage: driver.log_types """ return self.execute(Command.GET_AVAILABLE_LOG_TYPES)['value'] def get_log(self, log_type): """ Gets the log for a given log type :Args: - log_type: type of log that which will be returned :Usage: driver.get_log('browser') driver.get_log('driver') driver.get_log('client') driver.get_log('server') """ return self.execute(Command.GET_LOG, {'type': log_type})['value']
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
# Copyright 2011 Justin Santa Barbara # All Rights Reserved. # # Licensed under the Apache License, Version 2.0 (the "License"); you may # not use this file except in compliance with the License. You may obtain # a copy of the License at # # http://www.apache.org/licenses/LICENSE-2.0 # # Unless required by applicable law or agreed to in writing, software # distributed under the License is distributed on an "AS IS" BASIS, WITHOUT # WARRANTIES OR CONDITIONS OF ANY KIND, either express or implied. See the # License for the specific language governing permissions and limitations # under the License. """The volumes extension.""" from oslo_utils import strutils from webob import exc from nova.api.openstack import api_version_request from nova.api.openstack.api_version_request \ import MAX_PROXY_API_SUPPORT_VERSION from nova.api.openstack import common from nova.api.openstack.compute.schemas import volumes as volumes_schema from nova.api.openstack import wsgi from nova.api import validation from nova import compute from nova.compute import vm_states from nova import exception from nova.i18n import _ from nova import objects from nova.policies import volumes as vol_policies from nova.policies import volumes_attachments as va_policies from nova.volume import cinder ALIAS = "os-volumes" def _translate_volume_detail_view(context, vol): """Maps keys for volumes details view.""" d = _translate_volume_summary_view(context, vol) # No additional data / lookups at the moment return d def _translate_volume_summary_view(context, vol): """Maps keys for volumes summary view.""" d = {} d['id'] = vol['id'] d['status'] = vol['status'] d['size'] = vol['size'] d['availabilityZone'] = vol['availability_zone'] d['createdAt'] = vol['created_at'] if vol['attach_status'] == 'attached': # NOTE(ildikov): The attachments field in the volume info that # Cinder sends is converted to an OrderedDict with the # instance_uuid as key to make it easier for the multiattach # feature to check the required information. Multiattach will # be enable in the Nova API in Newton. # The format looks like the following: # attachments = {'instance_uuid': { # 'attachment_id': 'attachment_uuid', # 'mountpoint': '/dev/sda/ # } # } attachment = list(vol['attachments'].items())[0] d['attachments'] = [_translate_attachment_detail_view(vol['id'], attachment[0], attachment[1].get('mountpoint'))] else: d['attachments'] = [{}] d['displayName'] = vol['display_name'] d['displayDescription'] = vol['display_description'] if vol['volume_type_id'] and vol.get('volume_type'): d['volumeType'] = vol['volume_type']['name'] else: d['volumeType'] = vol['volume_type_id'] d['snapshotId'] = vol['snapshot_id'] if vol.get('volume_metadata'): d['metadata'] = vol.get('volume_metadata') else: d['metadata'] = {} return d class VolumeController(wsgi.Controller): """The Volumes API controller for the OpenStack API.""" def __init__(self): self.volume_api = cinder.API() super(VolumeController, self).__init__() @wsgi.Controller.api_version("2.1", MAX_PROXY_API_SUPPORT_VERSION) @wsgi.expected_errors(404) def show(self, req, id): """Return data about the given volume.""" context = req.environ['nova.context'] context.can(vol_policies.BASE_POLICY_NAME) try: vol = self.volume_api.get(context, id) except exception.VolumeNotFound as e: raise exc.HTTPNotFound(explanation=e.format_message()) return {'volume': _translate_volume_detail_view(context, vol)} @wsgi.Controller.api_version("2.1", MAX_PROXY_API_SUPPORT_VERSION) @wsgi.response(202) @wsgi.expected_errors((400, 404)) def delete(self, req, id): """Delete a volume.""" context = req.environ['nova.context'] context.can(vol_policies.BASE_POLICY_NAME) try: self.volume_api.delete(context, id) except exception.InvalidInput as e: raise exc.HTTPBadRequest(explanation=e.format_message()) except exception.VolumeNotFound as e: raise exc.HTTPNotFound(explanation=e.format_message()) @wsgi.Controller.api_version("2.1", MAX_PROXY_API_SUPPORT_VERSION) @validation.query_schema(volumes_schema.index_query) @wsgi.expected_errors(()) def index(self, req): """Returns a summary list of volumes.""" return self._items(req, entity_maker=_translate_volume_summary_view) @wsgi.Controller.api_version("2.1", MAX_PROXY_API_SUPPORT_VERSION) @validation.query_schema(volumes_schema.detail_query) @wsgi.expected_errors(()) def detail(self, req): """Returns a detailed list of volumes.""" return self._items(req, entity_maker=_translate_volume_detail_view) def _items(self, req, entity_maker): """Returns a list of volumes, transformed through entity_maker.""" context = req.environ['nova.context'] context.can(vol_policies.BASE_POLICY_NAME) volumes = self.volume_api.get_all(context) limited_list = common.limited(volumes, req) res = [entity_maker(context, vol) for vol in limited_list] return {'volumes': res} @wsgi.Controller.api_version("2.1", MAX_PROXY_API_SUPPORT_VERSION) @wsgi.expected_errors((400, 403, 404)) @validation.schema(volumes_schema.create) def create(self, req, body): """Creates a new volume.""" context = req.environ['nova.context'] context.can(vol_policies.BASE_POLICY_NAME) vol = body['volume'] vol_type = vol.get('volume_type') metadata = vol.get('metadata') snapshot_id = vol.get('snapshot_id', None) if snapshot_id is not None: try: snapshot = self.volume_api.get_snapshot(context, snapshot_id) except exception.SnapshotNotFound as e: raise exc.HTTPNotFound(explanation=e.format_message()) else: snapshot = None size = vol.get('size', None) if size is None and snapshot is not None: size = snapshot['volume_size'] availability_zone = vol.get('availability_zone') try: new_volume = self.volume_api.create( context, size, vol.get('display_name'), vol.get('display_description'), snapshot=snapshot, volume_type=vol_type, metadata=metadata, availability_zone=availability_zone ) except exception.InvalidInput as err: raise exc.HTTPBadRequest(explanation=err.format_message()) except exception.OverQuota as err: raise exc.HTTPForbidden(explanation=err.format_message()) # TODO(vish): Instance should be None at db layer instead of # trying to lazy load, but for now we turn it into # a dict to avoid an error. retval = _translate_volume_detail_view(context, dict(new_volume)) result = {'volume': retval} location = '%s/%s' % (req.url, new_volume['id']) return wsgi.ResponseObject(result, headers=dict(location=location)) def _translate_attachment_detail_view(volume_id, instance_uuid, mountpoint): """Maps keys for attachment details view.""" d = _translate_attachment_summary_view(volume_id, instance_uuid, mountpoint) # No additional data / lookups at the moment return d def _translate_attachment_summary_view(volume_id, instance_uuid, mountpoint): """Maps keys for attachment summary view.""" d = {} # NOTE(justinsb): We use the volume id as the id of the attachment object d['id'] = volume_id d['volumeId'] = volume_id d['serverId'] = instance_uuid if mountpoint: d['device'] = mountpoint return d def _check_request_version(req, min_version, method, server_id, server_state): if not api_version_request.is_supported(req, min_version=min_version): exc_inv = exception.InstanceInvalidState( attr='vm_state', instance_uuid=server_id, state=server_state, method=method) common.raise_http_conflict_for_instance_invalid_state( exc_inv, method, server_id) class VolumeAttachmentController(wsgi.Controller): """The volume attachment API controller for the OpenStack API. A child resource of the server. Note that we use the volume id as the ID of the attachment (though this is not guaranteed externally) """ def __init__(self): self.compute_api = compute.API() self.volume_api = cinder.API() super(VolumeAttachmentController, self).__init__() @wsgi.expected_errors(404) @validation.query_schema(volumes_schema.index_query) def index(self, req, server_id): """Returns the list of volume attachments for a given instance.""" context = req.environ['nova.context'] context.can(va_policies.POLICY_ROOT % 'index') instance = common.get_instance(self.compute_api, context, server_id) bdms = objects.BlockDeviceMappingList.get_by_instance_uuid( context, instance.uuid) limited_list = common.limited(bdms, req) results = [] for bdm in limited_list: if bdm.volume_id: va = _translate_attachment_summary_view(bdm.volume_id, bdm.instance_uuid, bdm.device_name) results.append(va) return {'volumeAttachments': results} @wsgi.expected_errors(404) def show(self, req, server_id, id): """Return data about the given volume attachment.""" context = req.environ['nova.context'] context.can(va_policies.POLICY_ROOT % 'show') volume_id = id instance = common.get_instance(self.compute_api, context, server_id) try: bdm = objects.BlockDeviceMapping.get_by_volume_and_instance( context, volume_id, instance.uuid) except exception.VolumeBDMNotFound: msg = (_("Instance %(instance)s is not attached " "to volume %(volume)s") % {'instance': server_id, 'volume': volume_id}) raise exc.HTTPNotFound(explanation=msg) assigned_mountpoint = bdm.device_name return {'volumeAttachment': _translate_attachment_detail_view( volume_id, instance.uuid, assigned_mountpoint)} # TODO(mriedem): This API should return a 202 instead of a 200 response. @wsgi.expected_errors((400, 404, 409)) @validation.schema(volumes_schema.create_volume_attachment, '2.0', '2.48') @validation.schema(volumes_schema.create_volume_attachment_v249, '2.49') def create(self, req, server_id, body): """Attach a volume to an instance.""" context = req.environ['nova.context'] context.can(va_policies.POLICY_ROOT % 'create') volume_id = body['volumeAttachment']['volumeId'] device = body['volumeAttachment'].get('device') tag = body['volumeAttachment'].get('tag') instance = common.get_instance(self.compute_api, context, server_id) if instance.vm_state in (vm_states.SHELVED, vm_states.SHELVED_OFFLOADED): _check_request_version(req, '2.20', 'attach_volume', server_id, instance.vm_state) try: supports_multiattach = common.supports_multiattach_volume(req) device = self.compute_api.attach_volume( context, instance, volume_id, device, tag=tag, supports_multiattach=supports_multiattach) except (exception.InstanceUnknownCell, exception.VolumeNotFound) as e: raise exc.HTTPNotFound(explanation=e.format_message()) except (exception.InstanceIsLocked, exception.DevicePathInUse, exception.MultiattachNotSupportedByVirtDriver, exception.MultiattachSupportNotYetAvailable) as e: raise exc.HTTPConflict(explanation=e.format_message()) except exception.InstanceInvalidState as state_error: common.raise_http_conflict_for_instance_invalid_state(state_error, 'attach_volume', server_id) except (exception.InvalidVolume, exception.InvalidDevicePath, exception.InvalidInput, exception.VolumeTaggedAttachNotSupported, exception.MultiattachNotSupportedOldMicroversion, exception.MultiattachToShelvedNotSupported) as e: raise exc.HTTPBadRequest(explanation=e.format_message()) # The attach is async attachment = {} attachment['id'] = volume_id attachment['serverId'] = server_id attachment['volumeId'] = volume_id attachment['device'] = device return {'volumeAttachment': attachment} @wsgi.response(202) @wsgi.expected_errors((400, 404, 409)) @validation.schema(volumes_schema.update_volume_attachment) def update(self, req, server_id, id, body): context = req.environ['nova.context'] context.can(va_policies.POLICY_ROOT % 'update') old_volume_id = id try: old_volume = self.volume_api.get(context, old_volume_id) except exception.VolumeNotFound as e: raise exc.HTTPNotFound(explanation=e.format_message()) new_volume_id = body['volumeAttachment']['volumeId'] try: new_volume = self.volume_api.get(context, new_volume_id) except exception.VolumeNotFound as e: # NOTE: This BadRequest is different from the above NotFound even # though the same VolumeNotFound exception. This is intentional # because new_volume_id is specified in a request body and if a # nonexistent resource in the body (not URI) the code should be # 400 Bad Request as API-WG guideline. On the other hand, # old_volume_id is specified with URI. So it is valid to return # NotFound response if that is not existent. raise exc.HTTPBadRequest(explanation=e.format_message()) instance = common.get_instance(self.compute_api, context, server_id) try: self.compute_api.swap_volume(context, instance, old_volume, new_volume) except exception.VolumeBDMNotFound as e: raise exc.HTTPNotFound(explanation=e.format_message()) except exception.InvalidVolume as e: raise exc.HTTPBadRequest(explanation=e.format_message()) except exception.InstanceIsLocked as e: raise exc.HTTPConflict(explanation=e.format_message()) except exception.InstanceInvalidState as state_error: common.raise_http_conflict_for_instance_invalid_state(state_error, 'swap_volume', server_id) @wsgi.response(202) @wsgi.expected_errors((400, 403, 404, 409)) def delete(self, req, server_id, id): """Detach a volume from an instance.""" context = req.environ['nova.context'] context.can(va_policies.POLICY_ROOT % 'delete') volume_id = id instance = common.get_instance(self.compute_api, context, server_id, expected_attrs=['device_metadata']) if instance.vm_state in (vm_states.SHELVED, vm_states.SHELVED_OFFLOADED): _check_request_version(req, '2.20', 'detach_volume', server_id, instance.vm_state) try: volume = self.volume_api.get(context, volume_id) except exception.VolumeNotFound as e: raise exc.HTTPNotFound(explanation=e.format_message()) try: bdm = objects.BlockDeviceMapping.get_by_volume_and_instance( context, volume_id, instance.uuid) except exception.VolumeBDMNotFound: msg = (_("Instance %(instance)s is not attached " "to volume %(volume)s") % {'instance': server_id, 'volume': volume_id}) raise exc.HTTPNotFound(explanation=msg) if bdm.is_root: msg = _("Cannot detach a root device volume") raise exc.HTTPBadRequest(explanation=msg) try: self.compute_api.detach_volume(context, instance, volume) except exception.InvalidVolume as e: raise exc.HTTPBadRequest(explanation=e.format_message()) except exception.InstanceUnknownCell as e: raise exc.HTTPNotFound(explanation=e.format_message()) except exception.InvalidInput as e: raise exc.HTTPBadRequest(explanation=e.format_message()) except exception.InstanceIsLocked as e: raise exc.HTTPConflict(explanation=e.format_message()) except exception.InstanceInvalidState as state_error: common.raise_http_conflict_for_instance_invalid_state(state_error, 'detach_volume', server_id) def _translate_snapshot_detail_view(context, vol): """Maps keys for snapshots details view.""" d = _translate_snapshot_summary_view(context, vol) # NOTE(gagupta): No additional data / lookups at the moment return d def _translate_snapshot_summary_view(context, vol): """Maps keys for snapshots summary view.""" d = {} d['id'] = vol['id'] d['volumeId'] = vol['volume_id'] d['status'] = vol['status'] # NOTE(gagupta): We map volume_size as the snapshot size d['size'] = vol['volume_size'] d['createdAt'] = vol['created_at'] d['displayName'] = vol['display_name'] d['displayDescription'] = vol['display_description'] return d class SnapshotController(wsgi.Controller): """The Snapshots API controller for the OpenStack API.""" def __init__(self): self.volume_api = cinder.API() super(SnapshotController, self).__init__() @wsgi.Controller.api_version("2.1", MAX_PROXY_API_SUPPORT_VERSION) @wsgi.expected_errors(404) def show(self, req, id): """Return data about the given snapshot.""" context = req.environ['nova.context'] context.can(vol_policies.BASE_POLICY_NAME) try: vol = self.volume_api.get_snapshot(context, id) except exception.SnapshotNotFound as e: raise exc.HTTPNotFound(explanation=e.format_message()) return {'snapshot': _translate_snapshot_detail_view(context, vol)} @wsgi.Controller.api_version("2.1", MAX_PROXY_API_SUPPORT_VERSION) @wsgi.response(202) @wsgi.expected_errors(404) def delete(self, req, id): """Delete a snapshot.""" context = req.environ['nova.context'] context.can(vol_policies.BASE_POLICY_NAME) try: self.volume_api.delete_snapshot(context, id) except exception.SnapshotNotFound as e: raise exc.HTTPNotFound(explanation=e.format_message()) @wsgi.Controller.api_version("2.1", MAX_PROXY_API_SUPPORT_VERSION) @validation.query_schema(volumes_schema.index_query) @wsgi.expected_errors(()) def index(self, req): """Returns a summary list of snapshots.""" return self._items(req, entity_maker=_translate_snapshot_summary_view) @wsgi.Controller.api_version("2.1", MAX_PROXY_API_SUPPORT_VERSION) @validation.query_schema(volumes_schema.detail_query) @wsgi.expected_errors(()) def detail(self, req): """Returns a detailed list of snapshots.""" return self._items(req, entity_maker=_translate_snapshot_detail_view) def _items(self, req, entity_maker): """Returns a list of snapshots, transformed through entity_maker.""" context = req.environ['nova.context'] context.can(vol_policies.BASE_POLICY_NAME) snapshots = self.volume_api.get_all_snapshots(context) limited_list = common.limited(snapshots, req) res = [entity_maker(context, snapshot) for snapshot in limited_list] return {'snapshots': res} @wsgi.Controller.api_version("2.1", MAX_PROXY_API_SUPPORT_VERSION) @wsgi.expected_errors((400, 403)) @validation.schema(volumes_schema.snapshot_create) def create(self, req, body): """Creates a new snapshot.""" context = req.environ['nova.context'] context.can(vol_policies.BASE_POLICY_NAME) snapshot = body['snapshot'] volume_id = snapshot['volume_id'] force = snapshot.get('force', False) force = strutils.bool_from_string(force, strict=True) if force: create_func = self.volume_api.create_snapshot_force else: create_func = self.volume_api.create_snapshot try: new_snapshot = create_func(context, volume_id, snapshot.get('display_name'), snapshot.get('display_description')) except exception.OverQuota as e: raise exc.HTTPForbidden(explanation=e.format_message()) retval = _translate_snapshot_detail_view(context, new_snapshot) return {'snapshot': retval}
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
using System; using System.Collections.Generic; using System.Text; using System.Data; using System.Data.SqlServerCe; using System.Collections; using System.Windows.Forms; using DowUtils; namespace Factotum{ public class EUnit : IEntity { public static event EventHandler<EntityChangedEventArgs> Changed; public static event EventHandler<EntityChangedEventArgs> Added; public static event EventHandler<EntityChangedEventArgs> Updated; public static event EventHandler<EntityChangedEventArgs> Deleted; protected virtual void OnChanged(Guid? ID) { // Copy to a temporary variable to be thread-safe. EventHandler<EntityChangedEventArgs> temp = Changed; if (temp != null) temp(this, new EntityChangedEventArgs(ID)); } protected virtual void OnAdded(Guid? ID) { // Copy to a temporary variable to be thread-safe. EventHandler<EntityChangedEventArgs> temp = Added; if (temp != null) temp(this, new EntityChangedEventArgs(ID)); } protected virtual void OnUpdated(Guid? ID) { // Copy to a temporary variable to be thread-safe. EventHandler<EntityChangedEventArgs> temp = Updated; if (temp != null) temp(this, new EntityChangedEventArgs(ID)); } protected virtual void OnDeleted(Guid? ID) { // Copy to a temporary variable to be thread-safe. EventHandler<EntityChangedEventArgs> temp = Deleted; if (temp != null) temp(this, new EntityChangedEventArgs(ID)); } // Mapped database columns // Use Guid?s for Primary Keys and foreign keys (whether they're nullable or not). // Use int?, decimal?, etc for nullable numbers // Strings, images, etc, are reference types already private Guid? UntDBid; private string UntName; private Guid? UntSitID; private bool UntIsActive; // Textbox limits public static int UntNameCharLimit = 10; // Field-specific error message strings (normally just needed for textbox data) private string UntNameErrMsg; // Form level validation message private string UntErrMsg; //-------------------------------------------------------- // Field Properties //-------------------------------------------------------- // Primary key accessor public Guid? ID { get { return UntDBid; } } public string UnitName { get { return UntName; } set { UntName = Util.NullifyEmpty(value); } } public Guid? UnitSitID { get { return UntSitID; } set { UntSitID = value; } } public bool UnitIsActive { get { return UntIsActive; } set { UntIsActive = value; } } public string UnitNameWithSite { get { if (UntSitID == null || UntName == null) return ""; ESite site = new ESite(UntSitID); return site.SiteName + " " + UntName; } } //----------------------------------------------------------------- // Field Level Error Messages. // Include one for every text column // In cases where we need to ensure data consistency, we may need // them for other types. //----------------------------------------------------------------- public string UnitNameErrMsg { get { return UntNameErrMsg; } } //-------------------------------------- // Form level Error Message //-------------------------------------- public string UnitErrMsg { get { return UntErrMsg; } set { UntErrMsg = Util.NullifyEmpty(value); } } //-------------------------------------- // Textbox Name Length Validation //-------------------------------------- public bool UnitNameLengthOk(string s) { if (s == null) return true; if (s.Length > UntNameCharLimit) { UntNameErrMsg = string.Format("Unit Names cannot exceed {0} characters", UntNameCharLimit); return false; } else { UntNameErrMsg = null; return true; } } //-------------------------------------- // Field-Specific Validation // sets and clears error messages //-------------------------------------- public bool UnitNameValid(string name) { bool existingIsInactive; if (!UnitNameLengthOk(name)) return false; // KEEP, MODIFY OR REMOVE THIS AS REQUIRED // YOU MAY NEED THE NAME TO BE UNIQUE FOR A SPECIFIC PARENT, ETC.. if (NameExistsForSite(name, UntDBid, (Guid)UntSitID, out existingIsInactive)) { UntNameErrMsg = existingIsInactive ? "A Unit with that Name exists but its status has been set to inactive.": "That Unit Name is already in use."; return false; } UntNameErrMsg = null; return true; } //-------------------------------------- // Constructors //-------------------------------------- // Default constructor. Field defaults must be set here. // Any defaults set by the database will be overridden. public EUnit() { this.UntIsActive = true; } // Constructor which loads itself from the supplied id. // If the id is null, this gives the same result as using the default constructor. public EUnit(Guid? id) : this() { Load(id); } //-------------------------------------- // Public Methods //-------------------------------------- //---------------------------------------------------- // Load the object from the database given a Guid? //---------------------------------------------------- public void Load(Guid? id) { if (id == null) return; SqlCeCommand cmd = Globals.cnn.CreateCommand(); SqlCeDataReader dr; cmd.CommandType = CommandType.Text; cmd.CommandText = @"Select UntDBid, UntName, UntSitID, UntIsActive from Units where UntDBid = @p0"; cmd.Parameters.Add(new SqlCeParameter("@p0", id)); if (Globals.cnn.State != ConnectionState.Open) Globals.cnn.Open(); dr = cmd.ExecuteReader(); // The query should return one record. // If it doesn't return anything (no match) the object is not affected if (dr.Read()) { UntDBid = (Guid?)dr[0]; UntName = (string)dr[1]; UntSitID = (Guid?)dr[2]; UntIsActive = (bool)dr[3]; } dr.Close(); } //-------------------------------------- // Save the current record if it's valid //-------------------------------------- public Guid? Save() { if (!Valid()) { // Note: We're returning null if we fail, // so don't just assume you're going to get your id back // and set your id to the result of this function call. return null; } SqlCeCommand cmd = Globals.cnn.CreateCommand(); cmd.CommandType = CommandType.Text; if (ID == null) { // we are inserting a new record // first ask the database for a new Guid cmd.CommandText = "Select Newid()"; if (Globals.cnn.State != ConnectionState.Open) Globals.cnn.Open(); UntDBid = (Guid?)(cmd.ExecuteScalar()); // Replace any nulls with dbnull cmd.Parameters.AddRange(new SqlCeParameter[] { new SqlCeParameter("@p0", UntDBid), new SqlCeParameter("@p1", UntName), new SqlCeParameter("@p2", UntSitID), new SqlCeParameter("@p3", UntIsActive) }); cmd.CommandText = @"Insert Into Units ( UntDBid, UntName, UntSitID, UntIsActive ) values (@p0,@p1,@p2,@p3)"; if (Globals.cnn.State != ConnectionState.Open) Globals.cnn.Open(); if (cmd.ExecuteNonQuery() != 1) { throw new Exception("Unable to insert Units row"); } OnAdded(ID); } else { // we are updating an existing record // Replace any nulls with dbnull cmd.Parameters.AddRange(new SqlCeParameter[] { new SqlCeParameter("@p0", UntDBid), new SqlCeParameter("@p1", UntName), new SqlCeParameter("@p2", UntSitID), new SqlCeParameter("@p3", UntIsActive)}); cmd.CommandText = @"Update Units set UntName = @p1, UntSitID = @p2, UntIsActive = @p3 Where UntDBid = @p0"; if (Globals.cnn.State != ConnectionState.Open) Globals.cnn.Open(); if (cmd.ExecuteNonQuery() != 1) { throw new Exception("Unable to update units row"); } OnUpdated(ID); } OnChanged(ID); return ID; } //-------------------------------------- // Validate the current record //-------------------------------------- // Make this public so that the UI can check validation itself // if it chooses to do so. This is also called by the Save function. public bool Valid() { // First check each field to see if it's valid from the UI perspective if (!UnitNameValid(UnitName)) return false; // Check form to make sure all required fields have been filled in if (!RequiredFieldsFilled()) return false; // Check for incorrect field interactions... return true; } //-------------------------------------- // Delete the current record //-------------------------------------- public bool Delete(bool promptUser) { // If the current object doesn't reference a database record, there's nothing to do. if (UntDBid == null) { UnitErrMsg = "Unable to delete. Record not found."; return false; } if (HasSystems()) { UnitErrMsg = "Unable to delete because Systems are defined for this Unit."; return false; } if (HasLines()) { UnitErrMsg = "Unable to delete because Lines are defined for this Unit."; return false; } if (HasOutages()) { UnitErrMsg = "Unable to delete because Outages are defined for this Unit."; return false; } DialogResult rslt = DialogResult.None; if (promptUser) { rslt = MessageBox.Show("Are you sure?", "Factotum: Deleting...", MessageBoxButtons.OKCancel, MessageBoxIcon.Question, MessageBoxDefaultButton.Button1); } if (!promptUser || rslt == DialogResult.OK) { SqlCeCommand cmd = Globals.cnn.CreateCommand(); cmd.CommandType = CommandType.Text; cmd.CommandText = @"Delete from Units where UntDBid = @p0"; cmd.Parameters.Add("@p0", UntDBid); if (Globals.cnn.State != ConnectionState.Open) Globals.cnn.Open(); int rowsAffected = cmd.ExecuteNonQuery(); // Todo: figure out how I really want to do this. // Is there a problem with letting the database try to do cascading deletes? // How should the user be notified of the problem?? if (rowsAffected < 1) { UnitErrMsg = "Unable to delete. Please try again later."; return false; } else { OnChanged(ID); OnDeleted(ID); return true; } } else { return false; } } private bool HasSystems() { SqlCeCommand cmd = Globals.cnn.CreateCommand(); cmd.CommandText = @"Select SysDBid from Systems where SysUntID = @p0"; cmd.Parameters.Add("@p0", UntDBid); if (Globals.cnn.State != ConnectionState.Open) Globals.cnn.Open(); object result = cmd.ExecuteScalar(); return result != null; } private bool HasLines() { SqlCeCommand cmd = Globals.cnn.CreateCommand(); cmd.CommandText = @"Select LinDBid from Lines where LinUntID = @p0"; cmd.Parameters.Add("@p0", UntDBid); if (Globals.cnn.State != ConnectionState.Open) Globals.cnn.Open(); object result = cmd.ExecuteScalar(); return result != null; } private bool HasOutages() { SqlCeCommand cmd = Globals.cnn.CreateCommand(); cmd.CommandText = @"Select OtgDBid from Outages where OtgUntID = @p0"; cmd.Parameters.Add("@p0", UntDBid); if (Globals.cnn.State != ConnectionState.Open) Globals.cnn.Open(); object result = cmd.ExecuteScalar(); return result != null; } //-------------------------------------------------------------------- // Static listing methods which return collections of units //-------------------------------------------------------------------- // This helper function builds the collection for you based on the flags you send it // I originally had a flag that would let you indicate inactive items by appending '(inactive)' // to the name. This was a bad idea, because sometimes the objects in this collection // will get modified and saved back to the database -- with the extra text appended to the name. public static EUnitCollection ListByName(bool showinactive, bool addNoSelection) { EUnit unit; EUnitCollection units = new EUnitCollection(); SqlCeCommand cmd = Globals.cnn.CreateCommand(); cmd.CommandType = CommandType.Text; string qry = @"Select UntDBid, UntName, UntSitID, UntIsActive from Units Left Outer Join Sites On UntSitID = SitDBid"; if (!showinactive) qry += " where UntIsActive = 1"; qry += " order by SitName, UntName"; cmd.CommandText = qry; if (addNoSelection) { // Insert a default item with name "<No Selection>" unit = new EUnit(); unit.UntName = "<No Selection>"; units.Add(unit); } SqlCeDataReader dr; if (Globals.cnn.State != ConnectionState.Open) Globals.cnn.Open(); dr = cmd.ExecuteReader(); // Build new objects and add them to the collection while (dr.Read()) { unit = new EUnit((Guid?)dr[0]); unit.UntName = (string)(dr[1]); unit.UntSitID = (Guid?)(dr[2]); unit.UntIsActive = (bool)(dr[3]); units.Add(unit); } // Finish up dr.Close(); return units; } // This helper function builds the collection for you based on the flags you send it // To fill a checked listbox you may want to set 'includeUnassigned' // To fill a treeview, you probably don't. public static EUnitCollection ListForSite(Guid SiteID, bool includeUnassigned, bool showactive, bool showinactive, bool addNoSelection) { EUnit unit; EUnitCollection units = new EUnitCollection(); SqlCeCommand cmd = Globals.cnn.CreateCommand(); cmd.CommandType = CommandType.Text; string qry = @"Select UntDBid, UntSitID, UntName, UntIsActive from Units"; if (includeUnassigned) qry += " where (UntSitID is Null or UntSitID = @p1)"; else qry += " where UntSitID = @p1"; if (showactive && !showinactive) qry += " where UntIsActive = 1"; else if (!showactive && showinactive) qry += " where UntIsActive = 0"; qry += " order by UntName"; cmd.CommandText = qry; cmd.Parameters.Add(new SqlCeParameter("@p1", SiteID)); if (addNoSelection) { // Insert a default item with name "<No Selection>" unit = new EUnit(); unit.UntName = "<No Selection>"; units.Add(unit); } SqlCeDataReader dr; if (Globals.cnn.State != ConnectionState.Open) Globals.cnn.Open(); dr = cmd.ExecuteReader(); // Build new objects and add them to the collection while (dr.Read()) { unit = new EUnit((Guid?)dr[0]); unit.UntSitID = (Guid?)(dr[1]); unit.UntName = (string)(dr[2]); unit.UntIsActive = (bool)(dr[3]); units.Add(unit); } // Finish up dr.Close(); return units; } // Get a Default data view with all columns that a user would likely want to see. // You can bind this view to a DataGridView, hide the columns you don't need, filter, etc. // I decided not to indicate inactive in the names of inactive items. The 'user' // can always show the inactive column if they wish. public static DataView GetDefaultDataView() { DataSet ds = new DataSet(); DataView dv; SqlCeDataAdapter da = new SqlCeDataAdapter(); SqlCeCommand cmd = Globals.cnn.CreateCommand(); cmd.CommandType = CommandType.Text; // Changing the booleans to 'Yes' and 'No' eliminates the silly checkboxes and // makes the column sortable. // You'll likely want to modify this query further, joining in other tables, etc. string qry = @"Select UntDBid as ID, UntName as UnitName, UntSitID as UnitSitID, CASE WHEN UntIsActive = 0 THEN 'No' ELSE 'Yes' END as UnitIsActive from Units"; cmd.CommandText = qry; da.SelectCommand = cmd; if (Globals.cnn.State != ConnectionState.Open) Globals.cnn.Open(); da.Fill(ds); dv = new DataView(ds.Tables[0]); return dv; } //-------------------------------------- // Private utilities //-------------------------------------- // Check if the name exists for any records besides the current one // This is used to show an error when the user tabs away from the field. // We don't want to show an error if the user has left the field blank. // If it's a required field, we'll catch it when the user hits save. private bool NameExists(string name, Guid? id) { if (Util.IsNullOrEmpty(name)) return false; SqlCeCommand cmd = Globals.cnn.CreateCommand(); cmd.CommandType = CommandType.Text; cmd.Parameters.Add(new SqlCeParameter("@p1", name)); if (id == null) { cmd.CommandText = "Select UntDBid from Units where UntName = @p1"; } else { cmd.CommandText = "Select UntDBid from Units where UntName = @p1 and UntDBid != @p0"; cmd.Parameters.Add(new SqlCeParameter("@p0", id)); } if (Globals.cnn.State != ConnectionState.Open) Globals.cnn.Open(); bool test = (cmd.ExecuteScalar() != null); return test; } // Check if the name exists for any records besides the current one // This is used to show an error when the user tabs away from the field. // We don't want to show an error if the user has left the field blank. // If it's a required field, we'll catch it when the user hits save. private bool NameExistsForSite(string name, Guid? id, Guid siteId, out bool existingIsInactive) { existingIsInactive = false; if (Util.IsNullOrEmpty(name)) return false; SqlCeCommand cmd = Globals.cnn.CreateCommand(); cmd.CommandType = CommandType.Text; cmd.Parameters.Add(new SqlCeParameter("@p1", name)); cmd.Parameters.Add(new SqlCeParameter("@p2", siteId)); if (id == null) { cmd.CommandText = @"Select UntIsActive from Units where UntName = @p1 and UntSitID = @p2"; } else { cmd.CommandText = @"Select UntIsActive from Units where UntName = @p1 and UntSitID = @p2 and UntDBid != @p0"; cmd.Parameters.Add(new SqlCeParameter("@p0", id)); } if (Globals.cnn.State != ConnectionState.Open) Globals.cnn.Open(); object val = cmd.ExecuteScalar(); bool exists = (val != null); if (exists) existingIsInactive = !(bool)val; return exists; } // Check for required fields, setting the individual error messages private bool RequiredFieldsFilled() { bool allFilled = true; if (UnitName == null) { UntNameErrMsg = "A Unit Name is required."; allFilled = false; } else { UntNameErrMsg = null; } return allFilled; } } //-------------------------------------- // Unit Collection class //-------------------------------------- public class EUnitCollection : CollectionBase { //this event is fired when the collection's items have changed public event EventHandler Changed; //this is the constructor of the collection. public EUnitCollection() { } //the indexer of the collection public EUnit this[int index] { get { return (EUnit)this.List[index]; } } //this method fires the Changed event. protected virtual void OnChanged(EventArgs e) { if (Changed != null) { Changed(this, e); } } public bool ContainsID(Guid? ID) { if (ID == null) return false; foreach (EUnit unit in InnerList) { if (unit.ID == ID) return true; } return false; } //returns the index of an item in the collection public int IndexOf(EUnit item) { return InnerList.IndexOf(item); } //adds an item to the collection public void Add(EUnit item) { this.List.Add(item); OnChanged(EventArgs.Empty); } //inserts an item in the collection at a specified index public void Insert(int index, EUnit item) { this.List.Insert(index, item); OnChanged(EventArgs.Empty); } //removes an item from the collection. public void Remove(EUnit item) { this.List.Remove(item); OnChanged(EventArgs.Empty); } } }
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
// CodeContracts // // Copyright (c) Microsoft Corporation // // All rights reserved. // // MIT License // // Permission is hereby granted, free of charge, to any person obtaining a copy of this software and associated documentation files (the "Software"), to deal in the Software without restriction, including without limitation the rights to use, copy, modify, merge, publish, distribute, sublicense, and/or sell copies of the Software, and to permit persons to whom the Software is furnished to do so, subject to the following conditions: // // The above copyright notice and this permission notice shall be included in all copies or substantial portions of the Software. // // THE SOFTWARE IS PROVIDED *AS IS*, WITHOUT WARRANTY OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO THE WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY, FITNESS FOR A PARTICULAR PURPOSE AND NONINFRINGEMENT. IN NO EVENT SHALL THE AUTHORS OR COPYRIGHT HOLDERS BE LIABLE FOR ANY CLAIM, DAMAGES OR OTHER LIABILITY, WHETHER IN AN ACTION OF CONTRACT, TORT OR OTHERWISE, ARISING FROM, OUT OF OR IN CONNECTION WITH THE SOFTWARE OR THE USE OR OTHER DEALINGS IN THE SOFTWARE. using System.Diagnostics.Contracts; using System; using System.Collections.Generic; namespace System.IO { #if !SILVERLIGHT_4_0_WP // Summary: // Specifies whether to search the current directory, or the current directory // and all subdirectories. public enum SearchOption { // Summary: // Includes only the current directory in a search operation. TopDirectoryOnly = 0, // // Summary: // Includes the current directory and all its subdirectories in a search operation. // This option includes reparse points such as mounted drives and symbolic links // in the search. AllDirectories = 1, } #endif public class Directory { #if false public static void Delete(string path, bool recursive) { } public static void Delete(string path) { } #endif public static void Move(string sourceDirName, string destDirName) { Contract.Requires(!String.IsNullOrEmpty(sourceDirName)); Contract.Requires(!String.IsNullOrEmpty(destDirName)); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.IOException>(true, @"An attempt was made to move a directory to a different volume. -or- destDirName already exists. -or- The sourceDirName and destDirName parameters refer to the same file or directory."); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.PathTooLongException>(true, @"The specified path, file name, or both exceed the system-defined maximum length."); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.DirectoryNotFoundException>(true, @"The specified path is invalid (for example, it is on an unmapped drive."); } #if !SILVERLIGHT_5_0 public static void SetCurrentDirectory(string path) { Contract.Requires(!String.IsNullOrEmpty(path)); Contract.Requires(path.Length < 260); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.IOException>(true, @"An I/O error occurred."); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.PathTooLongException>(true, @"The specified path, file name, or both exceed the system-defined maximum length."); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.DirectoryNotFoundException>(true, @"The specified path is invalid (for example, it is on an unmapped drive."); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.FileNotFoundException>(true, @"The specified path was not found."); } #endif public static string GetCurrentDirectory() { Contract.Ensures(Contract.Result<string>() != null); return default(string); } public static string GetDirectoryRoot(string path) { Contract.Requires(!String.IsNullOrEmpty(path)); Contract.Ensures(Contract.Result<string>() != null); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.PathTooLongException>(true, @"The specified path, file name, or both exceed the system-defined maximum length."); return default(string); } #if !SILVERLIGHT public static String[] GetLogicalDrives() { Contract.Ensures(Contract.Result<string[]>() != null); Contract.Ensures(Contract.ForAll(Contract.Result<string[]>(), dir => dir != null)); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.IOException>(true, @"An I/O error occurred."); return default(String[]); } #endif #if !SILVERLIGHT_4_0 && !SILVERLIGHT_5_0 public static String[] GetFileSystemEntries(string path, string searchPattern) { Contract.Requires(!String.IsNullOrEmpty(path)); Contract.Requires(searchPattern != null); Contract.Ensures(Contract.Result<string[]>() != null); Contract.Ensures(Contract.ForAll(Contract.Result<string[]>(), file => file != null)); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.IOException>(true, @"path is a file name."); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.PathTooLongException>(true, @"The specified path, file name, or both exceed the system-defined maximum length."); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.DirectoryNotFoundException>(true, @"The specified path is invalid (for example, it is on an unmapped drive."); return default(String[]); } public static String[] GetFileSystemEntries(string path) { Contract.Requires(!String.IsNullOrEmpty(path)); Contract.Requires(path.Length < 260); Contract.Ensures(Contract.Result<string[]>() != null); Contract.Ensures(Contract.ForAll(Contract.Result<string[]>(), file => file != null)); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.IOException>(true, @"path is a file name."); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.PathTooLongException>(true, @"The specified path, file name, or both exceed the system-defined maximum length."); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.DirectoryNotFoundException>(true, @"The specified path is invalid (for example, it is on an unmapped drive."); return default(String[]); } public static String[] GetDirectories(string path, string searchPattern) { Contract.Requires(!String.IsNullOrEmpty(path)); Contract.Requires(searchPattern != null); Contract.Ensures(Contract.Result<string[]>() != null); Contract.Ensures(Contract.ForAll(Contract.Result<string[]>(), dir => dir != null)); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.IOException>(true, @"path is a file name."); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.PathTooLongException>(true, @"The specified path, file name, or both exceed the system-defined maximum length."); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.DirectoryNotFoundException>(true, @"The specified path is invalid (for example, it is on an unmapped drive."); return default(String[]); } public static String[] GetDirectories(string path) { Contract.Requires(!String.IsNullOrEmpty(path)); Contract.Ensures(Contract.Result<string[]>() != null); Contract.Ensures(Contract.ForAll(Contract.Result<string[]>(), dir => dir != null)); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.IOException>(true, @"path is a file name."); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.PathTooLongException>(true, @"The specified path, file name, or both exceed the system-defined maximum length."); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.DirectoryNotFoundException>(true, @"The specified path is invalid (for example, it is on an unmapped drive."); return default(String[]); } public static String[] GetFiles(string path, string searchPattern) { Contract.Requires(!String.IsNullOrEmpty(path)); Contract.Requires(searchPattern != null); Contract.Ensures(Contract.Result<string[]>() != null); Contract.Ensures(Contract.ForAll(Contract.Result<string[]>(), file => file != null)); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.IOException>(true, @"path is a file name."); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.PathTooLongException>(true, @"The specified path, file name, or both exceed the system-defined maximum length."); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.DirectoryNotFoundException>(true, @"The specified path is invalid (for example, it is on an unmapped drive."); return default(String[]); } public static String[] GetFiles(string path) { Contract.Requires(!String.IsNullOrEmpty(path)); Contract.Ensures(Contract.Result<string[]>() != null); Contract.Ensures(Contract.ForAll(Contract.Result<string[]>(), file => file != null)); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.IOException>(true, @"path is a file name."); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.PathTooLongException>(true, @"The specified path, file name, or both exceed the system-defined maximum length."); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.DirectoryNotFoundException>(true, @"The specified path is invalid (for example, it is on an unmapped drive."); return default(String[]); } #endif #if !SILVERLIGHT public static DateTime GetLastAccessTimeUtc(string path) { Contract.Requires(!String.IsNullOrEmpty(path)); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.PathTooLongException>(true, @"The specified path, file name, or both exceed the system-defined maximum length."); return default(DateTime); } #endif public static DateTime GetLastAccessTime(string path) { Contract.Requires(!String.IsNullOrEmpty(path)); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.PathTooLongException>(true, @"The specified path, file name, or both exceed the system-defined maximum length."); return default(DateTime); } #if !SILVERLIGHT public static void SetLastAccessTimeUtc(string path, DateTime lastAccessTimeUtc) { Contract.Requires(!String.IsNullOrEmpty(path)); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.FileNotFoundException>(true, @"The specified path was not found."); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.PathTooLongException>(true, @"The specified path, file name, or both exceed the system-defined maximum length."); } public static void SetLastAccessTime(string path, DateTime lastAccessTime) { Contract.Requires(!String.IsNullOrEmpty(path)); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.FileNotFoundException>(true, @"The specified path was not found."); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.PathTooLongException>(true, @"The specified path, file name, or both exceed the system-defined maximum length."); } public static DateTime GetLastWriteTimeUtc(string path) { Contract.Requires(!String.IsNullOrEmpty(path)); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.PathTooLongException>(true, @"The specified path, file name, or both exceed the system-defined maximum length."); return default(DateTime); } #endif public static DateTime GetLastWriteTime(string path) { Contract.Requires(!String.IsNullOrEmpty(path)); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.PathTooLongException>(true, @"The specified path, file name, or both exceed the system-defined maximum length."); return default(DateTime); } #if !SILVERLIGHT public static void SetLastWriteTimeUtc(string path, DateTime lastWriteTimeUtc) { Contract.Requires(!String.IsNullOrEmpty(path)); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.FileNotFoundException>(true, @"The specified path was not found."); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.PathTooLongException>(true, @"The specified path, file name, or both exceed the system-defined maximum length."); } public static void SetLastWriteTime(string path, DateTime lastWriteTime) { Contract.Requires(!String.IsNullOrEmpty(path)); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.FileNotFoundException>(true, @"The specified path was not found."); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.PathTooLongException>(true, @"The specified path, file name, or both exceed the system-defined maximum length."); } #endif #if !SILVERLIGHT public static DateTime GetCreationTimeUtc(string path) { Contract.Requires(!String.IsNullOrEmpty(path)); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.PathTooLongException>(true, @"The specified path, file name, or both exceed the system-defined maximum length."); return default(DateTime); } #endif public static DateTime GetCreationTime(string path) { Contract.Requires(!String.IsNullOrEmpty(path)); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.PathTooLongException>(true, @"The specified path, file name, or both exceed the system-defined maximum length."); return default(DateTime); } #if !SILVERLIGHT public static void SetCreationTimeUtc(string path, DateTime creationTimeUtc) { Contract.Requires(!String.IsNullOrEmpty(path)); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.FileNotFoundException>(true, @"The specified path was not found."); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.PathTooLongException>(true, @"The specified path, file name, or both exceed the system-defined maximum length."); } public static void SetCreationTime(string path, DateTime creationTime) { Contract.Requires(!String.IsNullOrEmpty(path)); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.FileNotFoundException>(true, @"The specified path was not found."); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.PathTooLongException>(true, @"The specified path, file name, or both exceed the system-defined maximum length."); } #endif #if !SILVERLIGHT_4_0_WP && !SILVERLIGHT_3_0 && !NETFRAMEWORK_3_5 // // Summary: // Returns an enumerable collection of directory names in a specified path. // // Parameters: // path: // The directory to search. // // Returns: // An enumerable collection of the full names (including paths) for the directories // in the directory specified by path. // // Exceptions: // System.ArgumentException: // path is a zero-length string, contains only white space, or contains invalid // characters as defined by System.IO.Path.GetInvalidPathChars(). // // System.ArgumentNullException: // path is null. // // System.IO.DirectoryNotFoundException: // path is invalid, such as referring to an unmapped drive. // // System.IO.IOException: // path is a file name. // // System.IO.PathTooLongException: // The specified path, file name, or combined exceed the system-defined maximum // length. For example, on Windows-based platforms, paths must be less than // 248 characters and file names must be less than 260 characters. // // System.Security.SecurityException: // The caller does not have the required permission. // // System.UnauthorizedAccessException: // The caller does not have the required permission. public static IEnumerable<string> EnumerateDirectories(string path) { Contract.Requires(path != null); Contract.Ensures(Contract.Result<IEnumerable<string>>() != null); Contract.Ensures(Contract.ForAll(Contract.Result<IEnumerable<string>>(), d => d != null)); return null; } // // Summary: // Returns an enumerable collection of directory names that match a search pattern // in a specified path. // // Parameters: // path: // The directory to search. // // searchPattern: // The search string to match against the names of directories in path. // // Returns: // An enumerable collection of the full names (including paths) for the directories // in the directory specified by path and that match the specified search pattern. // // Exceptions: // System.ArgumentException: // path is a zero-length string, contains only white space, or contains invalid // characters as defined by System.IO.Path.GetInvalidPathChars().- or -searchPattern // does not contain a valid pattern. // // System.ArgumentNullException: // path is null.-or-searchPattern is null. // // System.IO.DirectoryNotFoundException: // path is invalid, such as referring to an unmapped drive. // // System.IO.IOException: // path is a file name. // // System.IO.PathTooLongException: // The specified path, file name, or combined exceed the system-defined maximum // length. For example, on Windows-based platforms, paths must be less than // 248 characters and file names must be less than 260 characters. // // System.Security.SecurityException: // The caller does not have the required permission. // // System.UnauthorizedAccessException: // The caller does not have the required permission. public static IEnumerable<string> EnumerateDirectories(string path, string searchPattern) { Contract.Requires(path != null); Contract.Requires(searchPattern != null); Contract.Ensures(Contract.Result<IEnumerable<string>>() != null); Contract.Ensures(Contract.ForAll(Contract.Result<IEnumerable<string>>(), d => d != null)); return null; } // // Summary: // Returns an enumerable collection of directory names that match a search pattern // in a specified path, and optionally searches subdirectories. // // Parameters: // path: // The directory to search. // // searchPattern: // The search string to match against the names of directories in path. // // searchOption: // One of the enumeration values that specifies whether the search operation // should include only the current directory or should include all subdirectories.The // default value is System.IO.SearchOption.TopDirectoryOnly. // // Returns: // An enumerable collection of the full names (including paths) for the directories // in the directory specified by path and that match the specified search pattern // and option. // // Exceptions: // System.ArgumentException: // path is a zero-length string, contains only white space, or contains invalid // characters as defined by System.IO.Path.GetInvalidPathChars().- or -searchPattern // does not contain a valid pattern. // // System.ArgumentNullException: // path is null.-or-searchPattern is null. // // System.ArgumentOutOfRangeException: // searchOption is not a valid System.IO.SearchOption value. // // System.IO.DirectoryNotFoundException: // path is invalid, such as referring to an unmapped drive. // // System.IO.IOException: // path is a file name. // // System.IO.PathTooLongException: // The specified path, file name, or combined exceed the system-defined maximum // length. For example, on Windows-based platforms, paths must be less than // 248 characters and file names must be less than 260 characters. // // System.Security.SecurityException: // The caller does not have the required permission. // // System.UnauthorizedAccessException: // The caller does not have the required permission. public static IEnumerable<string> EnumerateDirectories(string path, string searchPattern, SearchOption searchOption) { Contract.Requires(path != null); Contract.Requires(searchPattern != null); Contract.Ensures(Contract.Result<IEnumerable<string>>() != null); Contract.Ensures(Contract.ForAll(Contract.Result<IEnumerable<string>>(), d => d != null)); return null; } // // Summary: // Returns an enumerable collection of file names in a specified path. // // Parameters: // path: // The directory to search. // // Returns: // An enumerable collection of the full names (including paths) for the files // in the directory specified by path. // // Exceptions: // System.ArgumentException: // path is a zero-length string, contains only white space, or contains invalid // characters as defined by System.IO.Path.GetInvalidPathChars(). // // System.ArgumentNullException: // path is null. // // System.IO.DirectoryNotFoundException: // path is invalid, such as referring to an unmapped drive. // // System.IO.IOException: // path is a file name. // // System.IO.PathTooLongException: // The specified path, file name, or combined exceed the system-defined maximum // length. For example, on Windows-based platforms, paths must be less than // 248 characters and file names must be less than 260 characters. // // System.Security.SecurityException: // The caller does not have the required permission. // // System.UnauthorizedAccessException: // The caller does not have the required permission. public static IEnumerable<string> EnumerateFiles(string path) { Contract.Requires(path != null); Contract.Ensures(Contract.Result<IEnumerable<string>>() != null); Contract.Ensures(Contract.ForAll(Contract.Result<IEnumerable<string>>(), f => f != null)); return null; } // // Summary: // Returns an enumerable collection of file names that match a search pattern // in a specified path. // // Parameters: // path: // The directory to search. // // searchPattern: // The search string to match against the names of directories in path. // // Returns: // An enumerable collection of the full names (including paths) for the files // in the directory specified by path and that match the specified search pattern. // // Exceptions: // System.ArgumentException: // path is a zero-length string, contains only white space, or contains invalid // characters as defined by System.IO.Path.GetInvalidPathChars().- or -searchPattern // does not contain a valid pattern. // // System.ArgumentNullException: // path is null.-or-searchPattern is null. // // System.IO.DirectoryNotFoundException: // path is invalid, such as referring to an unmapped drive. // // System.IO.IOException: // path is a file name. // // System.IO.PathTooLongException: // The specified path, file name, or combined exceed the system-defined maximum // length. For example, on Windows-based platforms, paths must be less than // 248 characters and file names must be less than 260 characters. // // System.Security.SecurityException: // The caller does not have the required permission. // // System.UnauthorizedAccessException: // The caller does not have the required permission. public static IEnumerable<string> EnumerateFiles(string path, string searchPattern) { Contract.Requires(path != null); Contract.Requires(searchPattern != null); Contract.Ensures(Contract.Result<IEnumerable<string>>() != null); Contract.Ensures(Contract.ForAll(Contract.Result<IEnumerable<string>>(), f => f != null)); return null; } // // Summary: // Returns an enumerable collection of file names that match a search pattern // in a specified path, and optionally searches subdirectories. // // Parameters: // path: // The directory to search. // // searchPattern: // The search string to match against the names of directories in path. // // searchOption: // One of the enumeration values that specifies whether the search operation // should include only the current directory or should include all subdirectories.The // default value is System.IO.SearchOption.TopDirectoryOnly. // // Returns: // An enumerable collection of the full names (including paths) for the files // in the directory specified by path and that match the specified search pattern // and option. // // Exceptions: // System.ArgumentException: // path is a zero-length string, contains only white space, or contains invalid // characters as defined by System.IO.Path.GetInvalidPathChars().- or -searchPattern // does not contain a valid pattern. // // System.ArgumentNullException: // path is null.-or-searchPattern is null. // // System.ArgumentOutOfRangeException: // searchOption is not a valid System.IO.SearchOption value. // // System.IO.DirectoryNotFoundException: // path is invalid, such as referring to an unmapped drive. // // System.IO.IOException: // path is a file name. // // System.IO.PathTooLongException: // The specified path, file name, or combined exceed the system-defined maximum // length. For example, on Windows-based platforms, paths must be less than // 248 characters and file names must be less than 260 characters. // // System.Security.SecurityException: // The caller does not have the required permission. // // System.UnauthorizedAccessException: // The caller does not have the required permission. public static IEnumerable<string> EnumerateFiles(string path, string searchPattern, SearchOption searchOption) { Contract.Requires(path != null); Contract.Requires(searchPattern != null); Contract.Ensures(Contract.Result<IEnumerable<string>>() != null); Contract.Ensures(Contract.ForAll(Contract.Result<IEnumerable<string>>(), f => f != null)); return null; } // // Summary: // Returns an enumerable collection of file-system entries in a specified path. // // Parameters: // path: // The directory to search. // // Returns: // An enumerable collection of file-system entries in the directory specified // by path. // // Exceptions: // System.ArgumentException: // path is a zero-length string, contains only white space, or contains invalid // characters as defined by System.IO.Path.GetInvalidPathChars(). // // System.ArgumentNullException: // path is null. // // System.IO.DirectoryNotFoundException: // path is invalid, such as referring to an unmapped drive. // // System.IO.IOException: // path is a file name. // // System.IO.PathTooLongException: // The specified path, file name, or combined exceed the system-defined maximum // length. For example, on Windows-based platforms, paths must be less than // 248 characters and file names must be less than 260 characters. // // System.Security.SecurityException: // The caller does not have the required permission. // // System.UnauthorizedAccessException: // The caller does not have the required permission. public static IEnumerable<string> EnumerateFileSystemEntries(string path) { Contract.Requires(path != null); Contract.Ensures(Contract.Result<IEnumerable<string>>() != null); Contract.Ensures(Contract.ForAll(Contract.Result<IEnumerable<string>>(), fs => fs != null)); return null; } // // Summary: // Returns an enumerable collection of file-system entries that match a search // pattern in a specified path. // // Parameters: // path: // The directory to search. // // searchPattern: // The search string to match against the names of directories in path. // // Returns: // An enumerable collection of file-system entries in the directory specified // by path and that match the specified search pattern. // // Exceptions: // System.ArgumentException: // path is a zero-length string, contains only white space, or contains invalid // characters as defined by System.IO.Path.GetInvalidPathChars().- or -searchPattern // does not contain a valid pattern. // // System.ArgumentNullException: // path is null.-or-searchPattern is null. // // System.IO.DirectoryNotFoundException: // path is invalid, such as referring to an unmapped drive. // // System.IO.IOException: // path is a file name. // // System.IO.PathTooLongException: // The specified path, file name, or combined exceed the system-defined maximum // length. For example, on Windows-based platforms, paths must be less than // 248 characters and file names must be less than 260 characters. // // System.Security.SecurityException: // The caller does not have the required permission. // // System.UnauthorizedAccessException: // The caller does not have the required permission. public static IEnumerable<string> EnumerateFileSystemEntries(string path, string searchPattern) { Contract.Requires(path != null); Contract.Requires(searchPattern != null); Contract.Ensures(Contract.Result<IEnumerable<string>>() != null); Contract.Ensures(Contract.ForAll(Contract.Result<IEnumerable<string>>(), fs => fs != null)); return null; } // // Summary: // Returns an enumerable collection of file names and directory names that match // a search pattern in a specified path, and optionally searches subdirectories. // // Parameters: // path: // The directory to search. // // searchPattern: // The search string to match against the names of directories in path. // // searchOption: // One of the enumeration values that specifies whether the search operation // should include only the current directory or should include all subdirectories.The // default value is System.IO.SearchOption.TopDirectoryOnly. // // Returns: // An enumerable collection of file-system entries in the directory specified // by path and that match the specified search pattern and option. // // Exceptions: // System.ArgumentException: // path is a zero-length string, contains only white space, or contains invalid // characters as defined by System.IO.Path.GetInvalidPathChars().- or -searchPattern // does not contain a valid pattern. // // System.ArgumentNullException: // path is null.-or-searchPattern is null. // // System.ArgumentOutOfRangeException: // searchOption is not a valid System.IO.SearchOption value. // // System.IO.DirectoryNotFoundException: // path is invalid, such as referring to an unmapped drive. // // System.IO.IOException: // path is a file name. // // System.IO.PathTooLongException: // The specified path, file name, or combined exceed the system-defined maximum // length. For example, on Windows-based platforms, paths must be less than // 248 characters and file names must be less than 260 characters. // // System.Security.SecurityException: // The caller does not have the required permission. // // System.UnauthorizedAccessException: // The caller does not have the required permission. public static IEnumerable<string> EnumerateFileSystemEntries(string path, string searchPattern, SearchOption searchOption) { Contract.Requires(path != null); Contract.Requires(searchPattern != null); Contract.Ensures(Contract.Result<IEnumerable<string>>() != null); Contract.Ensures(Contract.ForAll(Contract.Result<IEnumerable<string>>(), fs => fs != null)); return null; } #endif public static bool Exists(string path) { Contract.Requires(!String.IsNullOrEmpty(path)); return default(bool); } public static DirectoryInfo CreateDirectory(string path) { Contract.Requires(!String.IsNullOrEmpty(path)); Contract.Requires(path.Length != 0); Contract.Ensures(Contract.Result<DirectoryInfo>() != null); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.IOException>(true, @"path is a file name."); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.PathTooLongException>(true, @"The specified path, file name, or both exceed the system-defined maximum length."); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.DirectoryNotFoundException>(true, @"The specified path is invalid (for example, it is on an unmapped drive."); return default(DirectoryInfo); } #if !SILVERLIGHT public static DirectoryInfo GetParent(string path) { Contract.Requires(!String.IsNullOrEmpty(path)); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.IOException>(true, @"path is a file name."); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.PathTooLongException>(true, @"The specified path, file name, or both exceed the system-defined maximum length."); Contract.EnsuresOnThrow<System.IO.DirectoryNotFoundException>(true, @"The specified path is invalid (for example, it is on an unmapped drive."); return default(DirectoryInfo); } #endif } }
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Passage 1: Abd al-Muttalib Abd al- Muttalib Shaybah ibn Hashim( c. 497 – 578) was the grandfather of Islamic prophet Muhammad. Passage 2: Prithvipati Shah Prithvipati Shah( ?–1716) was the king of the Gorkha Kingdom in the Indian subcontinent, present- day Nepal. He was the grandfather of Nara Bhupal Shah. Passage 3: Guillaume Wittouck Guillaume Wittouck( 1749- 1829) was a Belgian lawyer and High Magistrate. He was the Grandfather of industrialist Paul Wittouck. Passage 4: John Westley Rev. John Westley( 1636 – 78) was an English nonconformist minister. He was the grandfather of John Wesley( founder of Methodism). Passage 5: Fujiwara no Nagara , also known as Fujiwara no Nagayoshi, was a Japanese statesman, courtier and politician of the early Heian period. He was the grandfather of Emperor Yōzei. Passage 6: Lyon Cohen Lyon Cohen( 1868–1937) was a Polish- born Canadian businessman and a philanthropist. He was the grandfather of singer/ poet Leonard Cohen. Passage 7: Kaya Alp Kaya Alp was, according to Ottoman tradition, the son of Kızıl Buğa and the father of Suleyman Shah, who was, in turn, the grandfather of Ertuğrul, and the great grandfather of the Ottoman Empire founder, Osman I. Passage 8: Rolf Rude Rolf Rude (2 April 1899 – 5 November 1971) was a Norwegian painter. He was born in Oslo as a son of photographer Ernest Rude. He is represented in the National Gallery of Norway with six paintings and several woodcuts. He chaired the Association of Norwegian Printmakers from 1953 to 1964 and Bildende Kunstneres Styre from 1964 to 1967. He resided in Bærum, later in Ullern. Passage 9: Ernest Rude Ernest Rude (23 January 1871 – 18 March 1948) was a Norwegian photographer. He was born in Drammen as a son of photographer Christoffer Gade Rude (1839–1901) and his wife Andrea Elise Geelmuyden (1839–1920). He was an uncle of Finn Støren. He started his career in his father's company, and from 1907 to 1910 he ran a company together with Frederik Hilfling-Rasmussen. He continued to run this company until his death in March 1948 in Oslo, from 1943 with Andreas Thorsrud who took it over. As a photographer Rude was best known for portrait photography. He chaired the Norwegian Association of Professional Photographers from 1912 to 1927 and became an honorary member in 1946. He was also an honorary member of the Swedish and Danish associations, and was appointed a Knight of the Order of the Dannebrog in 1925. Passage 10: Henry Bryant (naturalist) Henry Bryant( May 12, 1820 – February 2, 1867) was an American physician and naturalist. He was the grandfather of Henry Bryant Bigelow. Question: Who is Rolf Rude's paternal grandfather? Answer: Christoffer Gade Rude
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Passage: Suint - definition of suint by The Free Dictionary Suint - definition of suint by The Free Dictionary http://www.thefreedictionary.com/suint Also found in: Medical , Encyclopedia . su·int  (so͞o′ĭnt, swĭnt) n. A natural grease formed from dried perspiration found in the fleece of sheep, formerly used as a source of potash. [French, from Old French, from suer, to sweat, from Latin sūdāre; see sweid- in the Appendix of Indo-European roots.] suint (ˈsuːɪnt; swɪnt) n (Elements & Compounds) a water-soluble substance found in the fleece of sheep, consisting of peptides, organic acids, metal ions, and inorganic cations and formed from dried perspiration [C18: from French suer to sweat, from Latin sūdāre] su•int (ˈsu ɪnt, swɪnt) n. a natural grease of sheep that dries on the wool, consisting of fatty matter and potassium salts. [1785–95; < French, Middle French, derivative of su(er) to sweat (< Latin sūdāre; see sweat )] Question: Suint is a natural grease formed from the dried perspiration on the coat of which animal? Answer: {'aliases': ['Sheep', 'Ovis aries', 'Domestic ram', 'Yorkshire Leicester', 'Persian Lamb', '🐏', '🐑', 'Bleat', 'Domesticated sheep', 'Ovine', 'Domestic ewe', 'Domestic sheep', 'Sheeps', 'Agnine', 'Feral sheep', 'Domestic Sheep', 'Ovis orientalis aries', 'Sheep sounds', 'Sheep description', 'Ram (sheep)', 'Yowe', 'Sheep, domestic'], 'normalized_aliases': ['sheep domestic', 'agnine', 'sheep sounds', '🐑', '🐏', 'domesticated sheep', 'persian lamb', 'ovis orientalis aries', 'ram sheep', 'domestic sheep', 'ovine', 'sheep description', 'domestic ewe', 'domestic ram', 'yorkshire leicester', 'ovis aries', 'sheeps', 'feral sheep', 'yowe', 'sheep', 'bleat'], 'matched_wiki_entity_name': '', 'normalized_matched_wiki_entity_name': '', 'normalized_value': 'sheep', 'type': 'WikipediaEntity', 'value': 'Sheep'} Passage: Top 10 Sex Demons - Listverse Top 10 Sex Demons Christian White January 13, 2011 Throughout history and all across the world, people have reported sexual contact with all manner of supernatural beings. Many people believe “sex demons” were born out of a need to explain away subjects that were generally considered taboo. More often than not, things such as unexpected pregnancy, abortion and promiscuity were met with anger and persecution. As a result, society came up with a number of mythical creatures, ten of which are listen below. 10 Popobawa Popobawa (meaning “bat-wing” in Swahili) is said to be a large, bat-like creature with one eye and a very large penis. It is said to stalk the men and women of Zanzibar, Africa, and surrounding islands. It is a shapeshifter, often taking the form of a human or animal. It usually visits households at night, and it doesn’t discriminate against men, women or children, often sodomising an entire household before moving on. Victims are warned by Popobawa to tell others about the attack, or risk it returning. Popobawa first appeared on the island of Pemba in 1965, and sightings have been reported as recently as 2007. There are several different theories about Popobawa’s origin. Some say it is an angry spirit created by a Sheikh to take vengeance on his neighbours. In 2007, Researcher Benjamin Radford investigated Popobawa and found that its roots are in Islam, the dominant religion of the area. According to Radford, “holding or reciting the Koran is said to keep the Popobawa at bay, much as the Bible is said to dispel Christian demons.” Others argue (perhaps more realistically) that Popobawa is an articulated social memory of the horrors of slavery. The way in which Popobawa is said to sodomise its victims may also have something to do with the fact that homosexuality is still illegal in Zanzibar. 9 Trauco and La Fiura Chiloé, an island off the south of Chile, is said to be home to the Trauco, a sexually potent Dwarf with the power to paralyze women with a look, before having sex with them. The Trauco is described as being ugly and goblin-like, often wearing a hat and suit. His feet are stumps and he communicates through a series of grunts. Some reports suggest the Trauco doesn’t even need to have intercourse with his victims, that he can, in fact, impregnate them with his gaze. Often, when a single woman on Chiloé falls pregnant people assume the Trauco is the father. In these cases the women are considered blameless as the Trauco is said to be irresistible to women. El Trauco’s wife, La Fiura, is said to be a grotesquely ugly dwarf with the ability to cast a “sickness spell” against anyone who rejects her sexual advances. Her breath is so foul it can physically scar a human and turn animals lame. Despite her appearance, she is generally irresistible to men and, after having intercourse with them, she drives them insane. 8 Succubus and Incubus Probably the most well known sex demon, the Succubus is a female demon who takes the form of an attractive seductress in order to seduce men. It is generally believed that the Succubus legend came about as a result of the medieval preoccupation with sin, especially sexual sins of women. The male version of the Succubus is the Incubus. Like his female counterpart, the Incubus will drain the strength and life energy from his victims. Unlike the Succubus, the Incubus will impregnate his victims with another incubus. The victim will then carry the baby to term, but when she gives birth the baby appears to be stillborn. It will have no pulse and it won’t appear to breath. Then, around the age of seven the child will appear to behave normally, but will usually be very attractive and intelligent. According to some legends, the wizard Merlin is the product of an Incubus father and a human mother. It is also believed by some that the Virgin Mary was de-flowered by an Incubus. Many believe the Incubi most likely came about as a scapegoat for rape and sexual assault. Both victim and rapist would have most likely found it easier to explain the attack supernaturally rather than confronting the truth. 7 Encantado In Brazil, and the rainforests of the Amazon Basin, the Boto river dolphin was believed to have shapeshifting powers. It could turn into a very charming and beautiful man called Encantado, or “the enchanted one.” Encantado would take women back to the river, retake dolphin form, and impregnate them. Young women of the region were wary of any man wearing a hat because, according to legend, Encantado always wore a hat to cover up his blowhole. In many parts of Brazil it is considered bad luck to kill Boto river dolphins. If you kill one, or in some cases just look them in the eye, it is said you will suffer nightmares for the rest of your life. 6 Lilu Jewish folklore tells of Lilu, a demon who visits women while they sleep. His feminine counterpart is Lilin. These demons were a particular source of anxiety for mothers because they were known to kidnap children. Ardat Lili was another succubus who would visit men at night to ensure the continuation of her demonic race. The incubus was Irdu Lili, who would visit human women to ensure they would produce his offspring. 5 Liderc In the Northern regions of Hungary there was said to live a creature called the Liderc (or ludvérc, lucfir, or ördög depending on the region). It hatches from the first egg of a black hen, and is often said to hide in people’s pockets. It enters its victims homes through the keyhole. Once inside, the Liderc shapeshifts into a human, often taking the form of a dead relative of the intended victim. It rapes its victim, and then makes the house very dirty before departing. Some reports say that Liderc becomes attached to its victims and never leaves. The Liderc can be exorcized by either sealing it inside a tree hollow, or persuading it to perform a near impossible task, such as carrying water with a bucket full of holes. It is common even today for children in Hungary to stomp on eggs taken from a black hen, or leave the eggs on doorsteps to cause mischief. 4 Orang Minyak In the 1960’s a large number of young women were raped in several Malaysian towns. The attacker was described as a naked man, covered from head to toe with oil. Some said that Orang Minyak could appear invisible to non-virgins. Mass panic ensued, and many young women of the region began wearing sweaty, stinky clothes so the Orang Minyak would mistake them for male and leave them be. Some speculate that the Orang Minyak was, in fact, a regular human criminal, who covered himself with oil to camouflage himself against the night, and to make him especially slippery to catch. Sightings of the “Oily Man” have continued through the decades, with the last sighting in 2005. 3 Alp Originating from Teutonic or German folklore, an Alp is a small, elf-like creature who is said to have climbed onto a sleeping victim’s chest, turned into a fine mist and entered the body through the nostrils, mouth or vagina. Once inside, the Alp had the ability to control its victim’s dreams, creating horrible nightmares. Its victims reported a breathless feeling when they awoke. This may have been an early explanation for sleep apnea and other sleep disorders. 2 Angels According to the Hebrew Bible, the Nephilim were a race of giants who came about as a result of fallen angels having intercourse with human women. Translated from the Hebrew text, “Nephililim” means “fallen ones”. Genesis 6:4 tells us, “Now giants were upon the earth in those days. For after the sons of God went in to the daughters of men, and they brought forth children, these are the mighty men of old, men of renown.” The story of Nephilim originates with a story of Shemhazau, a high ranking angel who led a group of angels to earth to teach humans to be righteous. Over the centuries many of the angels pined for human women, and eventually mated with them, creating the Nephilim. This unholy union is said to have instilled an inherit wickedness in the Nephilim, making them capable of terrible sin. God was so disgusted by their existence that he ordered the angel Gabriel to ignite a civil war among the Nephilim, which eventually led to their extinction. 1 Aliens A modern-day version of the Incubi myth, there are countless cases of alien abductions, many with sexual undertones. Some reports suggest the use of an invasive anal probe, and others talk of a sexual union with the aliens themselves. 52 year old Jazz singer Pamela Stonebrook claims to have regular sex with a six-foot tall reptilian alien. “My first sexual encounter with an alien was unlike any love-making I’ve experienced before,” Stonebrook claims. “It was so intense and enjoyable and, without wanting to get too graphic, he was so much larger than most men. I remember exactly how I felt when I saw him for the first time. I awoke from my sleep to find myself making love to what appeared to be a Greek god. At first I assumed it was an exceptionally lucid dream. But the sex was very intense and as I closed my eyes I was overwhelmed by how comfortable I felt with this unknown being. The next time I opened my eyes he had transformed into a reptilian entity with scaly, snake-like skin. It was then I realized I was making love to a shape-shifting alien. Sensing I was scared, the reptile whispered, ‘We’ve always been together, we love each other.’ The orgasms were intense. When I tell men about my reptilian experience, they find it difficult.” There are countless stories involving alien/ human lovemaking. Antonio Villas Boas of Brazil claims that, in 1957, he was abducted by aliens and put in a room with a beautiful, fair-haired woman and forced to mate with her. Howard Menger claimed to have regular sexual liaisons with Marla, a beautiful blond woman from space who claimed to be 500 years old. In the 1970’s, a 19-year-old girl in California claimed to have been gang-raped by six blue-skinned, web-footed humanoids who attacked her after she watched their spaceship land. Due to the outlandish nature of the claims and the general lack of evidence, most people dismiss such reports. Sadly though, it is likely that many of the people who make such claims, do so as a result of a deep, psychological need. More Great Lists Question: What is the name of the female demon, or supernatural entity, believed to have sex with a sleeping man? Answer: {'aliases': ['Succubus', 'Succubi', 'Qarînah', 'Suckubus', 'Sucubus', 'Succubae', 'Succuba', 'Succubus (video games)', 'Sucubai', 'Succubus (fantasy games)'], 'normalized_aliases': ['succubus', 'qarînah', 'succubae', 'succubus video games', 'suckubus', 'sucubus', 'succubi', 'succuba', 'sucubai', 'succubus fantasy games'], 'matched_wiki_entity_name': '', 'normalized_matched_wiki_entity_name': '', 'normalized_value': 'succubus', 'type': 'WikipediaEntity', 'value': 'Succubus'} Passage: Zebra (Equus zebra, Equus quagga, Equus grevyi) - Animals - A-Z Animals - Animal Facts, Information, Pictures, Videos, Resources and Links   Listen Zebra Classification and Evolution The Zebra is a large species of equine that is natively found roaming the grassy plains of sub-Saharan Africa. They are the largest and most distinctive wild horses with bodies that are patterned with white and black stripes, the exact placement of which is unique to each individual. There are three different species of Zebra that are found in Africa which are the Common Zebra (also known as the Plains Zebra and the Burchell's Zebra), the Grevy's Zebra (also known as the Imperial Zebra) and the Mountain Zebra. They are incredibly sociable animals that can travel vast distances in search of fresh grass and water but are severely threatened throughout much of their natural range due to increasing levels of human activity. Today, both the Grevy's Zebra and the Mountain Zebra are considered to be endangered species and although the Common Zebra is more widespread and numerous, there have been sharp population declines in certain areas. Zebra Anatomy and Appearance Zebras are heavy bodied animals that are perfectly designed for speed with their long and slender legs and narrow hooves helping them to reach speeds of 40kph when running. In the same way as horses, they only have a single toe on each foot which they walk on the tip of and is protected by their tough hooves. Their black and white stripes are unique to each individual and help them to identify each other when in the herd. Zebras have long necks and heads that mean they can easily reach the grass on the ground and a mane that extends from their forehead and along their back to the tail. The pattern of their stripes varies between the species with Grevy's and Mountain Zebras having narrower stripes and white undersides, while the Common Zebra has broad stripes that cover it's entire body. The Grevy's Zebra is not only the largest of the Zebra species but is also easily identifiable by it's large, rounded ears. Zebra Distribution and Habitat Zebras are found inhabiting the open grasslands and plains of East and Southern Africa where they spend almost of their time grazing on the grasses. The Common Zebra is the most numerous and has the widest natural range throughout East Africa where they are found roaming the grassy plains. The Mountain Zebra can be found grazing on the mountain grasslands of South-West Africa, while the Grevy's Zebra is confined to the arid grasslands and sub-desert steppe throughout Ethiopia, Somalia and in northern Kenya. Zebras have evolved to run incredibly fast so they are able to escape from dangerous predators and so rely heavily on the open plains for their survival. Although the Common Zebra has been least affected, all three species are at risk from population declines due to the loss of their natural habitats caused by by increasing levels of human activity. Zebra Behaviour and Lifestyle Zebras are highly sociable animals that roam the savanna in herds for protection from predators. The Grevy's Zebra occupies herds more loosely than the other species with a stallion (male) patrolling enormous territories of up to 10 square kilometres, with mares (females) and their foals grazing freely and occasionally forming small groups that feed together. Both the Common Zebra and the Mountain Zebra inhabit their native regions in long-term herds that split into smaller family groups which are led by a dominant stallion and contain between one and six mares with their young. Their strong social bonds can make them very affectionate towards one another, often grooming each other using their teeth. During the mating season, males will fight fiercely for the right to breed with the females and do so by rearing up on their back legs whilst kicking and biting one another. Zebra Reproduction and Life Cycles The Zebra is a relatively slow-developing mammal with females not being able to first breed until they are at least a few years old. After a gestation period that can last for between 10 months and a year, the female gives birth to a single foal that is born with it's stripes, mane and also has a little patch of hair in the middle of it's tummy. Zebra foals are able to stand within minutes of birth which is vital to ensure that they are able to run away to escape from predators. They are able to begin eating grass after a week and are weaned by the time they are 11 months old. Young Zebras remain with their mother until they are mature at around three years old when the males leave their natal herd to join an all-male bachelor group, while females stay with their mother. These bachelor groups begin to challenge the dominant stallions to try and take over the harem during the mating season. Zebra Diet and Prey The Zebra is a herbivorous animal meaning that it only eats plant-matter in order to gain the nutrition that it needs to survive. The majority of the Zebra's diet (in fact around 90%) is comprised of a wide variety of different grasses with other plant matter including leaves and buds making up the rest. They use their sharp front teeth to nibble on the tough ends of grasses before grinding them up using the flat molars along it's cheeks. Due to the fact that grass has little nutritional value, Zebras must spend between 60% and 80% of the day grazing. Common Zebras are often seen drinking at water holes which they do every day but, due to the fact that the Grevy's Zebra and the Mountain Zebra inhabit drier, more arid regions, they often don't drink for several days at a time. In the dry season Zebras can travel vast distances in search of fresh grass and water holes that haven't yet dried up, with the Grevy's Zebra also known to dig into the ground of dried up river beds to access the water underground. Zebra Predators and Threats The Zebra is a large and powerful animal that despite being herbivorous can easily outrun many of it's predators. Zebras are preyed upon by Lions, Leopards, Hyenas and African Wild Dogs, along with numerous other large carnivores such as Crocodiles when they are crossing rivers or drinking. Although their first instinct is to run away, Zebras are sometimes known to attack the animal that is threatening it by kicking and biting. However, when danger is spotted, Zebras alert one another of the threat and by running away from their predator as a tight herd, they often either confuse or simply intimidate their attacker. The biggest threat though to Africa's remaining Zebra populations is the increasing encroachment on their natural habitats by people, with the loss of their open plains to grazing for livestock and to clear land for agriculture. Zebra Interesting Facts and Features The stripes of the Zebra remain a slight mystery to science even today as they were once thought to camouflage them into the natural light and shade of their surroundings to confuse predators, as once running as a herd, it is extremely difficult to remain focused on a single animal. The formation of the stripes on their rear end of the Zebra differs greatly between the three species with Common Zebras having horizontal stripes on it's haunches where those of the Grevy's Zebra curve upwards. These patterns on their rear ends are thought to differ so greatly so that members of the same herd are able to easily identify the individual at the front of the pack when running. As with other male horses, Zebra stallions are known to curl their top lips up which is thought to heighten their sense of smell. This so-called "horse laugh" is thought to prove vital for the male to be able to detect when a female is ready to mate. Zebra Relationship with Humans Due to the free-roaming nature of Zebras and over vast distances, the increasing human presence throughout the world has meant that Zebras have been affected by the loss of their habitats throughout much of the natural range. However, one of the most intriguing things about Zebras to people is that because they are so closely related to other equines including Horses and Donkeys, Zebras has actually been able to breed with them to produce a hybrid foal, known as a Zonkey (Zebras and Donkeys) or as a Zorse (Zebras and Horses). Although it is not thought that the two species would naturally be able to mate in the wild due to geographical differences, a number of both Zonkey and Zorse individuals now exist around the world. Zebras are thought to have natural protection to certain parasites which has led people to breed Horses and Donkeys with Zebras to produce an animal that has the character and size of a Horse or Donkey but with the power and resilience of a Zebra. As with other cross-breed offspring though, Zonkeys and Zorses are infertile and so are unable to reproduce themselves. Zebra Conservation Status and Life Today Today, two out of the three Zebras species are listed by the IUCN as animals that are Endangered and therefore face extinction from their natural habitats in the future. The Grevy's Zebra and the Mountain Zebra are found in increasingly isolated regions and their numbers continue to fall throughout their natural ranges. The Common Zebra is an animal that is listed as being Near Threatened by extinction in the wild and although they are still widespread and numbers appear to be relatively stable, they like the other species, are threatened by habitat loss throughout much of their natural range. Zebra Comments Question: Equus quagga is the scientific name for which animal? Answer: {'aliases': ['Zevra', 'Zebras', 'Hippotigris', 'Diseases in zebras', 'Zebra', 'Baby zebra', 'ZEBRA'], 'normalized_aliases': ['hippotigris', 'zebra', 'baby zebra', 'diseases in zebras', 'zebras', 'zevra'], 'matched_wiki_entity_name': '', 'normalized_matched_wiki_entity_name': '', 'normalized_value': 'zebra', 'type': 'WikipediaEntity', 'value': 'Zebra'} Passage: FC Jazz results, fixtures | Futsal, Finland Show more matches results SA÷11¬~ZA÷FINLAND: Liiga¬ZEE÷jwKvKhGa¬ZB÷76¬ZY÷Finland¬ZC÷t6Kb5X76¬ZD÷p¬ZE÷tMj1fjOH¬ZF÷2¬ZO÷0¬ZG÷1¬ZH÷76_jwKvKhGa¬ZJ÷2¬ZK÷Liiga¬ZL÷/futsal/finland/liiga/¬ZX÷14Finland 007inland0010000000153000Liiga 005......000¬ZCC÷0¬ZAC÷LII¬~AA÷vJuZAL1K¬AD÷1362229200¬AB÷3¬CR÷3¬AC÷3¬CX÷ESC¬AX÷0¬BX÷-1¬WM÷ESC¬AE÷ESC¬IE÷fijaiNGg¬WU÷esc¬AS÷1¬AZ÷1¬BA÷2¬BC÷1¬AG÷3¬WN÷FCJ¬AF÷FC Jazz¬IF÷x0DBjsWa¬WV÷fc-jazz¬BB÷0¬BD÷2¬AH÷2¬AN÷n¬~AA÷CCmmmI9D¬AD÷1361638800¬AB÷3¬CR÷3¬AC÷3¬CX÷FC Jazz¬AX÷0¬BX÷-1¬WM÷FCJ¬AE÷FC Jazz¬IE÷x0DBjsWa¬WU÷fc-jazz¬BA÷0¬BC÷0¬AG÷0¬WN÷ILV¬AF÷Ilves¬IF÷8S6VWIdA¬WV÷ilves¬AS÷2¬AZ÷2¬BB÷3¬BD÷4¬AH÷7¬AN÷n¬~AA÷EwauEoET¬AD÷1361109600¬AB÷3¬CR÷3¬AC÷3¬CX÷SoFo¬AX÷0¬BX÷-1¬WM÷SOF¬AE÷SoFo¬IE÷Cpohloba¬WU÷sofo¬AS÷1¬AZ÷1¬AG÷10¬BA÷4¬BC÷6¬WN÷FCJ¬AF÷FC Jazz¬IF÷x0DBjsWa¬WV÷fc-jazz¬AH÷5¬BB÷4¬BD÷1¬AN÷n¬~AA÷xfZ4zuQ7¬AD÷1360949400¬AB÷3¬CR÷3¬AC÷3¬CX÷Mad Max¬AX÷0¬BX÷-1¬WM÷MAD¬AE÷Mad Max¬IE÷QuFhZ0co¬WU÷mad-max¬AS÷0¬AZ÷0¬AG÷2¬WN÷FCJ¬AF÷FC Jazz¬IF÷x0DBjsWa¬WV÷fc-jazz¬AS÷0¬AZ÷0¬AH÷2¬AN÷n¬~AA÷ARFevNQr¬AD÷1360258200¬AB÷3¬CR÷3¬AC÷3¬CX÷KaDy¬AX÷0¬BX÷-1¬WM÷KAD¬AE÷KaDy¬IE÷IkQ3Q8go¬WU÷kady¬AS÷1¬AZ÷1¬AG÷4¬WN÷FCJ¬AF÷FC Jazz¬IF÷x0DBjsWa¬WV÷fc-jazz¬AH÷1¬AN÷n¬~AA÷ITzHo5Y8¬AD÷1359219600¬AB÷3¬CR÷3¬AC÷3¬CX÷FC Jazz¬AX÷0¬BX÷-1¬WM÷FCJ¬AE÷FC Jazz¬IE÷x0DBjsWa¬WU÷fc-jazz¬BA÷1¬BC÷0¬AG÷1¬WN÷KYL¬AF÷KylVe¬IF÷CS0fh31m¬WV÷kylve¬AS÷2¬AZ÷2¬BB÷3¬BD÷3¬AH÷6¬AN÷n¬~AA÷CWqROsRe¬AD÷1358690400¬AB÷3¬CR÷3¬AC÷3¬CX÷Kaarle¬AX÷0¬BX÷-1¬WM÷KAA¬AE÷Kaarle¬IE÷IeuPVSni¬WU÷kaarle¬AS÷1¬AZ÷1¬AG÷6¬BA÷4¬BC÷2¬WN÷FCJ¬AF÷FC Jazz¬IF÷x0DBjsWa¬WV÷fc-jazz¬AH÷4¬BB÷0¬BD÷4¬AN÷n¬~AA÷drIUnfDo¬AD÷1357999200¬AB÷3¬CR÷3¬AC÷3¬CX÷FC Jazz¬AX÷0¬BX÷-1¬WM÷FCJ¬AE÷FC Jazz¬IE÷x0DBjsWa¬WU÷fc-jazz¬BA÷2¬BC÷0¬AG÷2¬WN÷SIE¬AF÷Sievi¬IF÷YsvU7Pfp¬WV÷sievi¬AS÷2¬AZ÷2¬BB÷2¬BD÷1¬AH÷3¬AN÷n¬~AA÷GO0aXEDb¬AD÷1356786000¬AB÷3¬CR÷3¬AC÷3¬CX÷GFT¬AX÷0¬BX÷-1¬WM÷GFT¬AE÷GFT¬IE÷86e3Wj1B¬WU÷gft¬AS÷1¬AZ÷1¬AG÷12¬WN÷FCJ¬AF÷FC Jazz¬IF÷x0DBjsWa¬WV÷fc-jazz¬AH÷3¬AN÷n¬~AA÷Kd7jZzqn¬AD÷1356181200¬AB÷3¬CR÷3¬AC÷3¬CX÷TPK¬AX÷0¬BX÷-1¬WM÷TPK¬AE÷TPK¬IE÷ULqCUUVN¬WU÷tpk¬AS÷1¬AZ÷1¬BA÷3¬BC÷2¬AG÷5¬WN÷FCJ¬AF÷FC Jazz¬IF÷x0DBjsWa¬WV÷fc-jazz¬BB÷2¬BD÷2¬AH÷4¬AN÷n¬~AA÷2LzQIFb5¬AD÷1355590800¬AB÷3¬CR÷3¬AC÷3¬CX÷FC Jazz¬AX÷0¬BX÷-1¬WM÷FCJ¬AE÷FC Jazz¬IE÷x0DBjsWa¬WU÷fc-jazz¬AG÷3¬BA÷1¬BC÷2¬WN÷TER¬AF÷Tervarit¬IF÷jVp8VAGH¬WV÷tervarit¬AS÷2¬AZ÷2¬AH÷6¬BB÷1¬BD÷5¬AN÷n¬~AA÷pUy72fEO¬AD÷1354986000¬AB÷3¬CR÷3¬AC÷3¬CX÷FC Jazz¬AX÷0¬BX÷-1¬WM÷FCJ¬AE÷FC Jazz¬IE÷x0DBjsWa¬WU÷fc-jazz¬AS÷1¬AZ÷1¬AG÷8¬BA÷3¬BC÷5¬WN÷ESC¬AF÷ESC¬IF÷fijaiNGg¬WV÷esc¬AH÷3¬BB÷1¬BD÷2¬AN÷n¬~AA÷xbon7Iag¬AD÷1354366800¬AB÷3¬CR÷3¬AC÷3¬CX÷Ilves¬AX÷0¬BX÷-1¬WN÷FCJ¬AF÷FC Jazz¬IF÷x0DBjsWa¬WV÷fc-jazz¬AH÷1¬WM÷ILV¬AE÷Ilves¬IE÷8S6VWIdA¬WU÷ilves¬AS÷1¬AZ÷1¬AG÷6¬AN÷n¬~ 11 Question: FC Jazz is a football club in which European country? Answer: {'aliases': ['FinlanD', 'FINLAND', 'Suomen tasavalta', 'Suomen Tasavalta', 'Republiken Finland', 'Finlande', 'Finland', 'Finland during World War II', 'Finnland', "Finland's", 'Republic of Finland', 'Etymology of Finland', 'Fin land', 'Name of Finland', 'Finn Land', 'ISO 3166-1:FI', 'Northern Finland'], 'normalized_aliases': ['etymology of finland', 'finn land', 'suomen tasavalta', 'republiken finland', 'iso 3166 1 fi', 'finlande', 'fin land', 'finnland', 'republic of finland', 'finland', 'finland during world war ii', 'finland s', 'northern finland', 'name of finland'], 'matched_wiki_entity_name': '', 'normalized_matched_wiki_entity_name': '', 'normalized_value': 'finland', 'type': 'WikipediaEntity', 'value': 'Finland'} Passage: Thelonious Monk Thelonious Monk Jazz On The Tube Radio   Subscribe to Jazz on the Tube Navigation: Advertisement Thelonious Monk Thelonious Sphere Monk was born on October 10, 1917 in Rocky Mount, North Carolina and moved with his family to New York City at the age of four. His father wasn�t around the family much but did play a few musical instruments including harmonica and piano which may have influenced Monk�s interest in music at an early age. Thelonious studied trumpet briefly and began on piano at the age of nine. He was a musical prodigy from the beginning and in his early teens would play organ with a local church and won �amateur hour� competitions at the famed Apollo Theater in Harlem. His early influences on the piano included James P Johnson and Willie �The Lion� Smith. Monk dropped out of high school after his sophomore year to take a gig playing piano for a traveling evangelist and faith healer. After a few years he returned to New York and gigged with his own group until 1941, when he was hired by Kenny Clarke to be the house piano player at Minton�s Playhouse in Harlem. It was here bebop began at late night jam sessions with Monk, Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Max Roach, Oscar Pettiford, Bud Powell and others. Thelonious was known as �The High Priest of Bebop� for his role in its creation. Despite this, Monk had a style so unique and ahead of his time that the critics and even many jazz musicians didn�t know what to think about him. In 1944, Coleman Hawkins hired Monk for his first steady gig and first recording. It wasn�t until Monk was thirty years old, a seasoned veteran and great innovator of jazz, that he was signed to his first record deal with Blue Note in 1947. Monk recorded several records on the Blue Note label into the early �50s which at the time did not do very well and are considered classics today. It wasn�t until 1955, after recordings with Miles Davis, Sonny Rollins and Milt Jackson, that Monk finally began to receive the appreciation he deserved. Also helping was the release of �Thelonious Monk play Duke Ellington�, designed to help audiences grasp the brilliance of Monk�s playing. By the 1960s, Monk was touring the world playing with his quartet featuring Charlie Rouse on tenor saxophone, John Ore or Larry Gales on bass, and Frankie Dunlop or Ben Riley on drums. In 1964, Monk became only the third jazz musician ever to be featured on the cover of Time magazine. In �68 Thelonious recorded his last album with the Columbia label, with Oliver Nelson�s orchestra, and due to its lack of success was dropped from the record label. After this, Monk played publically more sparingly and made his last public appearance in 1976. In 1982, Thelonious Monk had a stroke and went into a coma and passed away twelve days later. In 1993 Monk was posthumously awarded the Grammy Lifetime Achievement Award and in �96 a Pulitzer Prize Special Citation. The Thelonious Monk Institute of Jazz was also created in his honor in addition to many television and musical tributes. "I don't know what other people are doing - I just know about me." � Thelonious Monk Please share your favorite JazzontheTube.com videos with your friends and colleagues That's how we grow. Question: US jazz Musician Thelonious Monk played which instrument? Answer: {'aliases': ['Pianos', 'Classical piano', 'Piano Music', 'Pianino', 'Black key', 'Grand piano', 'Pianoforte', 'Piano-forte', 'Piano construction', 'Vertical pianoforte', 'Pianie', 'Keyboard hammer', 'Piano', 'Piano hammers', 'Piano Keys', 'Piano keys', 'Piano hammer', 'Pianofortes', 'Acoustic piano', 'Baby grand piano', 'Hammer (piano)', 'Grand pianoforte', 'Piano technique', 'Parts of a piano', 'Piano music', 'Keyboard hammers', 'Piano performance', 'Upright pianoforte', 'Concert grand', 'Upright piano', 'Vertical piano', 'Piano forte', 'Grand Piano'], 'normalized_aliases': ['pianie', 'classical piano', 'acoustic piano', 'vertical piano', 'black key', 'vertical pianoforte', 'grand pianoforte', 'piano music', 'upright pianoforte', 'pianino', 'upright piano', 'baby grand piano', 'pianoforte', 'pianos', 'piano construction', 'piano', 'piano keys', 'parts of piano', 'piano hammer', 'pianofortes', 'hammer piano', 'grand piano', 'piano forte', 'keyboard hammer', 'piano technique', 'keyboard hammers', 'concert grand', 'piano hammers', 'piano performance'], 'matched_wiki_entity_name': '', 'normalized_matched_wiki_entity_name': '', 'normalized_value': 'piano', 'type': 'WikipediaEntity', 'value': 'Piano'}
{ "task_name": "trivia_qa" }
// Copyright Bastian Eicher // Licensed under the MIT License using System.Runtime.InteropServices; using System.Runtime.Versioning; using System.Security.Principal; using System.Text; namespace NanoByte.Common.Native; /// <summary> /// Provides helper methods and API calls specific to the Windows platform. /// </summary> [SupportedOSPlatform("windows")] public static partial class WindowsUtils { #region Win32 Error Codes /// <summary> /// The <see cref="Win32Exception.NativeErrorCode"/> value indicating that a file was not found. /// </summary> internal const int Win32ErrorFileNotFound = 2; /// <summary> /// The <see cref="Win32Exception.NativeErrorCode"/> value indicating that access to a resource was denied. /// </summary> internal const int Win32ErrorAccessDenied = 5; /// <summary> /// The <see cref="Win32Exception.NativeErrorCode"/> value indicating that write access to a resource failed. /// </summary> internal const int Win32ErrorWriteFault = 29; /// <summary> /// The <see cref="Win32Exception.NativeErrorCode"/> value indicating that an operation timed out. /// </summary> internal const int Win32ErrorSemTimeout = 121; /// <summary> /// The <see cref="Win32Exception.NativeErrorCode"/> value indicating that an element (e.g. a file) already exists. /// </summary> internal const int Win32ErrorAlreadyExists = 183; /// <summary> /// The <see cref="Win32Exception.NativeErrorCode"/> value indicating that more data is available and the query should be repeated with a larger output buffer/array. /// </summary> internal const int Win32ErrorMoreData = 234; /// <summary> /// The <see cref="Win32Exception.NativeErrorCode"/> value indicating that the requested application needs UAC elevation. /// </summary> [SupportedOSPlatformGuard("windows")] internal const int Win32ErrorRequestedOperationRequiresElevation = 740; /// <summary> /// The <see cref="Win32Exception.NativeErrorCode"/> value indicating that an operation was cancelled by the user. /// </summary> [SupportedOSPlatformGuard("windows")] [SuppressMessage("Microsoft.Naming", "CA1726:UsePreferredTerms", MessageId = "Cancelled", Justification = "Naming matches the Win32 docs")] internal const int Win32ErrorCancelled = 1223; /// <summary> /// The file or directory is not a reparse point. /// </summary> internal const int Win32ErrorNotAReparsePoint = 4390; /// <summary> /// Builds a suitable <see cref="Exception"/> for a given <see cref="Win32Exception.NativeErrorCode"/>. /// </summary> internal static Exception BuildException(int error) { var ex = new Win32Exception(error); return error switch { Win32ErrorAlreadyExists => new IOException(ex.Message, ex), Win32ErrorWriteFault => new IOException(ex.Message, ex), Win32ErrorFileNotFound => new FileNotFoundException(ex.Message, ex), Win32ErrorAccessDenied => new UnauthorizedAccessException(ex.Message, ex), Win32ErrorRequestedOperationRequiresElevation => new NotAdminException(ex.Message, ex), Win32ErrorSemTimeout => new TimeoutException(), Win32ErrorCancelled => new OperationCanceledException(), _ => ex }; } #endregion #region OS /// <summary> /// <c>true</c> if the current operating system is Windows (9x- or NT-based); <c>false</c> otherwise. /// </summary> [SupportedOSPlatformGuard("windows")] public static bool IsWindows #if NET => OperatingSystem.IsWindows(); #elif NET20 || NET40 => Environment.OSVersion.Platform is PlatformID.Win32Windows or PlatformID.Win32NT; #else => RuntimeInformation.IsOSPlatform(OSPlatform.Windows); #endif /// <summary> /// <c>true</c> if the current operating system is a modern Windows version (NT-based); <c>false</c> otherwise. /// </summary> [SupportedOSPlatformGuard("windows")] public static bool IsWindowsNT #if NET20 || NET40 => Environment.OSVersion.Platform is PlatformID.Win32NT; #else => IsWindows; #endif [SupportedOSPlatformGuard("windows")] private static bool IsWindowsNTVersion(Version version) #if NET => OperatingSystem.IsWindowsVersionAtLeast(version.Major, version.Minor, version.Build, version.Revision); #else => IsWindowsNT && Environment.OSVersion.Version >= version; #endif /// <summary> /// <c>true</c> if the current operating system is Windows XP or newer; <c>false</c> otherwise. /// </summary> [SupportedOSPlatformGuard("windows5.1")] public static bool IsWindowsXP => IsWindowsNTVersion(new(5, 1)); /// <summary> /// <c>true</c> if the current operating system is Windows Vista or newer; <c>false</c> otherwise. /// </summary> [SupportedOSPlatformGuard("windows6.0")] public static bool IsWindowsVista => IsWindowsNTVersion(new(6, 0)); /// <summary> /// <c>true</c> if the current operating system is Windows 7 or newer; <c>false</c> otherwise. /// </summary> [SupportedOSPlatformGuard("windows6.1")] public static bool IsWindows7 => IsWindowsNTVersion(new(6, 1)); /// <summary> /// <c>true</c> if the current operating system is Windows 8 or newer; <c>false</c> otherwise. /// </summary> [SupportedOSPlatformGuard("windows6.2")] public static bool IsWindows8 => IsWindowsNTVersion(new(6, 2)); /// <summary> /// <c>true</c> if the current operating system is Windows 10 or newer; <c>false</c> otherwise. /// </summary> [SupportedOSPlatformGuard("windows10.0")] public static bool IsWindows10 => IsWindowsNTVersion(new(10, 0)); /// <summary> /// <c>true</c> if the current operating system is Windows 10 Anniversary Update (Redstone 1) or newer; <c>false</c> otherwise. /// </summary> [SupportedOSPlatformGuard("windows10.0.14393")] public static bool IsWindows10Redstone => IsWindowsNTVersion(new(10, 0, 14393)); /// <summary> /// <c>true</c> if the current operating system is Windows 11 or newer; <c>false</c> otherwise. /// </summary> [SupportedOSPlatformGuard("windows10.0.22000")] public static bool IsWindows11 => IsWindowsNTVersion(new(10, 0, 22000)); /// <summary> /// <c>true</c> if the current operating system supports UAC and it is enabled; <c>false</c> otherwise. /// </summary> [SupportedOSPlatformGuard("windows6.0")] public static bool HasUac => IsWindowsVista && RegistryUtils.GetDword(@"HKEY_LOCAL_MACHINE\SOFTWARE\Microsoft\Windows\CurrentVersion\Policies\System", "EnableLUA", defaultValue: 1) == 1; /// <summary> /// Indicates whether the current user is an administrator. Always returns <c>true</c> on non-Windows NT systems. /// </summary> public static bool IsAdministrator { get { if (!IsWindowsNT) return true; try { return new WindowsPrincipal(WindowsIdentity.GetCurrent()).IsInRole(WindowsBuiltInRole.Administrator); } catch { return false; } } } /// <summary> /// Indicates whether the current process is running in a GUI session (rather than, e.g., as a service or in an SSH session). /// Always <c>false</c> on non-Windows systems. /// </summary> [SupportedOSPlatformGuard("windows")] public static bool IsGuiSession { get; } = IsWindows && DetectGuiSession(); private static bool DetectGuiSession() { try { return new WindowsPrincipal(WindowsIdentity.GetCurrent()) .IsInRole(new SecurityIdentifier(WellKnownSidType.InteractiveSid, null)); } catch { return true; } } /// <summary> /// Determines the path of the executable the current process was launched from. /// </summary> public static string CurrentProcessPath { get { var fileName = new StringBuilder(255); SafeNativeMethods.GetModuleFileName(IntPtr.Zero, fileName, fileName.Capacity); return fileName.ToString(); } } #endregion #region .NET Framework /// <summary>The directory version number for .NET Framework 2.0. This release includes the C# 2.0 compiler and the CLR 2.0 runtime.</summary> public const string NetFx20 = "v2.0.50727"; /// <summary>The directory version number for .NET Framework 3.0.</summary> public const string NetFx30 = "v3.0"; /// <summary>The directory version number for .NET Framework 3.5. This release includes the C# 3.0 compiler.</summary> public const string NetFx35 = "v3.5"; /// <summary>The directory version number for .NET Framework 4.x. This release includes a C# 4.0+ compiler and the CLR 4.0 runtime.</summary> public const string NetFx40 = "v4.0.30319"; /// <summary> /// Returns the .NET Framework root directory for a specific version of the .NET Framework. Does not verify the directory actually exists! /// </summary> /// <param name="version">The full .NET version number including the leading "v". Use predefined constants when possible.</param> /// <returns>The path to the .NET Framework root directory.</returns> /// <remarks>Returns 64-bit directories if on 64-bit Windows is <c>true</c>.</remarks> public static string GetNetFxDirectory(string version) { #region Sanity checks if (string.IsNullOrEmpty(version)) throw new ArgumentNullException(nameof(version)); #endregion string microsoftDotNetDir = Path.Combine( Environment.GetEnvironmentVariable("windir") ?? @"C:\Windows", "Microsoft.NET"); string framework32Dir = Path.Combine(microsoftDotNetDir, "Framework"); string framework64Dir = Path.Combine(microsoftDotNetDir, "Framework64"); return Path.Combine( Directory.Exists(framework64Dir) ? framework64Dir : framework32Dir, version); } #endregion #region Command-line /// <summary> /// Tries to split a command-line into individual arguments. /// </summary> /// <param name="commandLine">The command-line to be split.</param> /// <returns> /// An array of individual arguments. /// Will return the entire command-line as one argument when not running on Windows or if splitting failed for some other reason. /// </returns> public static string[] SplitArgs(string? commandLine) { if (string.IsNullOrEmpty(commandLine)) return new string[0]; if (!IsWindows) return new[] {commandLine}; var ptrToSplitArgs = SafeNativeMethods.CommandLineToArgvW(commandLine, out int numberOfArgs); if (ptrToSplitArgs == IntPtr.Zero) return new[] {commandLine}; try { // Copy result to managed array var splitArgs = new string[numberOfArgs]; for (int i = 0; i < numberOfArgs; i++) splitArgs[i] = Marshal.PtrToStringUni(Marshal.ReadIntPtr(ptrToSplitArgs, i * IntPtr.Size))!; return splitArgs; } finally { NativeMethods.LocalFree(ptrToSplitArgs); } } /// <summary> /// Tries to attach to a command-line console owned by the parent process. /// </summary> /// <returns><c>true</c> if the console was successfully attached; <c>false</c> if the parent process did not own a console.</returns> public static bool AttachConsole() => IsWindowsNT && NativeMethods.AttachConsole(uint.MaxValue); #endregion #region Performance counter private static long _performanceFrequency; /// <summary> /// A time index in seconds that continuously increases. /// </summary> /// <remarks>Depending on the operating system this may be the time of the system clock or the time since the system booted.</remarks> public static double AbsoluteTime { get { if (IsWindowsNT) { if (_performanceFrequency == 0) SafeNativeMethods.QueryPerformanceFrequency(out _performanceFrequency); SafeNativeMethods.QueryPerformanceCounter(out long time); return time / (double)_performanceFrequency; } else return Environment.TickCount / 1000f; } } #endregion #region File system /// <summary> /// Reads the entire contents of a file using the Win32 API. /// </summary> /// <param name="path">The path of the file to read.</param> /// <returns>The contents of the file as a byte array; <c>null</c> if there was a problem reading the file.</returns> /// <exception cref="PlatformNotSupportedException">This method is called on a platform other than Windows.</exception> /// <remarks>This method works like <see cref="File.ReadAllBytes"/>, but bypasses .NET's file path validation logic.</remarks> public static byte[]? ReadAllBytes([Localizable(false)] string path) { #region Sanity checks if (string.IsNullOrEmpty(path)) throw new ArgumentNullException(nameof(path)); #endregion if (!IsWindows) throw new PlatformNotSupportedException(Resources.OnlyAvailableOnWindows); using var handle = NativeMethods.CreateFile(path, FileAccess.Read, FileShare.Read, IntPtr.Zero, FileMode.Open, FileAttributes.Normal, IntPtr.Zero); if (handle.IsInvalid) return null; uint size = NativeMethods.GetFileSize(handle, IntPtr.Zero); byte[] buffer = new byte[size]; uint read = uint.MinValue; var lpOverlapped = new NativeOverlapped(); return NativeMethods.ReadFile(handle, buffer, size, ref read, ref lpOverlapped) ? buffer : null; } /// <summary> /// Writes the entire contents of a byte array to a file using the Win32 API. Existing files with the same name are overwritten. /// </summary> /// <param name="path">The path of the file to write to.</param> /// <param name="data">The data to write to the file.</param> /// <exception cref="IOException">There was an IO problem writing the file.</exception> /// <exception cref="UnauthorizedAccessException">Write access to the file was denied.</exception> /// <exception cref="Win32Exception">There was a problem writing the file.</exception> /// <exception cref="PlatformNotSupportedException">This method is called on a platform other than Windows.</exception> /// <remarks>This method works like <see cref="File.WriteAllBytes"/>, but bypasses .NET's file path validation logic.</remarks> public static void WriteAllBytes([Localizable(false)] string path, byte[] data) { #region Sanity checks if (string.IsNullOrEmpty(path)) throw new ArgumentNullException(nameof(path)); if (data == null) throw new ArgumentNullException(nameof(data)); #endregion if (!IsWindows) throw new PlatformNotSupportedException(Resources.OnlyAvailableOnWindows); using var handle = NativeMethods.CreateFile(path, FileAccess.Write, FileShare.Write, IntPtr.Zero, FileMode.Create, 0, IntPtr.Zero); if (handle.IsInvalid) throw BuildException(Marshal.GetLastWin32Error()); uint bytesWritten = 0; var lpOverlapped = new NativeOverlapped(); if (!NativeMethods.WriteFile(handle, data, (uint)data.Length, ref bytesWritten, ref lpOverlapped)) throw BuildException(Marshal.GetLastWin32Error()); } /// <summary> /// Creates a symbolic link for a file or directory. /// </summary> /// <param name="sourcePath">The path of the link to create.</param> /// <param name="targetPath">The path of the existing file or directory to point to (relative to <paramref name="sourcePath"/>).</param> /// <exception cref="IOException">There was an IO problem creating the symlink.</exception> /// <exception cref="UnauthorizedAccessException">You have insufficient rights to create the symbolic link.</exception> /// <exception cref="Win32Exception">The symbolic link creation failed.</exception> /// <exception cref="PlatformNotSupportedException">This method is called on a platform other than Windows NT 6.0 (Vista) or newer.</exception> public static void CreateSymlink([Localizable(false)] string sourcePath, [Localizable(false)] string targetPath) { #region Sanity checks if (string.IsNullOrEmpty(sourcePath)) throw new ArgumentNullException(nameof(sourcePath)); if (string.IsNullOrEmpty(targetPath)) throw new ArgumentNullException(nameof(targetPath)); #endregion if (!IsWindowsVista) throw new PlatformNotSupportedException(Resources.OnlyAvailableOnWindows); var flags = IsWindows10Redstone ? NativeMethods.CreateSymbolicLinkFlags.SYMBOLIC_LINK_FLAG_ALLOW_UNPRIVILEGED_CREATE : NativeMethods.CreateSymbolicLinkFlags.NONE; if (Directory.Exists(Path.Combine(Path.GetDirectoryName(sourcePath) ?? Directory.GetCurrentDirectory(), targetPath))) flags |= NativeMethods.CreateSymbolicLinkFlags.SYMBOLIC_LINK_FLAG_DIRECTORY; if (!NativeMethods.CreateSymbolicLink(sourcePath, targetPath, flags)) throw BuildException(Marshal.GetLastWin32Error()); } /// <summary> /// Checks whether a file is an NTFS symbolic link. /// </summary> /// <param name="path">The path of the file to check.</param> /// <returns><c>true</c> if <paramref name="path"/> points to a symbolic link; <c>false</c> otherwise.</returns> /// <remarks>Will return <c>false</c> for non-existing files.</remarks> /// <exception cref="IOException">There was an IO problem getting link information.</exception> /// <exception cref="UnauthorizedAccessException">You have insufficient rights to get link information.</exception> /// <exception cref="Win32Exception">Getting link information failed.</exception> /// <exception cref="PlatformNotSupportedException">This method is called on a platform other than Windows NT 6.0 (Vista) or newer.</exception> public static bool IsSymlink([Localizable(false)] string path) => IsSymlink(path, out _); /// <summary> /// Checks whether a file is an NTFS symbolic link. /// </summary> /// <param name="path">The path of the file to check.</param> /// <param name="target">Returns the target the symbolic link points to if it exists.</param> /// <returns><c>true</c> if <paramref name="path"/> points to a symbolic link; <c>false</c> otherwise.</returns> /// <exception cref="IOException">There was an IO problem getting link information.</exception> /// <exception cref="UnauthorizedAccessException">You have insufficient rights to get link information.</exception> /// <exception cref="Win32Exception">Getting link information failed.</exception> /// <exception cref="PlatformNotSupportedException">This method is called on a platform other than Windows NT 6.0 (Vista) or newer.</exception> [SupportedOSPlatformGuard("windows6.0")] public static bool IsSymlink( [Localizable(false)] string path, [MaybeNullWhen(false)] out string target) { #region Sanity checks if (string.IsNullOrEmpty(path)) throw new ArgumentNullException(nameof(path)); #endregion if (!IsWindowsVista) throw new PlatformNotSupportedException(Resources.OnlyAvailableOnWindows); using var handle = NativeMethods.CreateFile(Path.GetFullPath(path), 0, 0, IntPtr.Zero, FileMode.Open, NativeMethods.FILE_FLAG_OPEN_REPARSE_POINT | NativeMethods.FILE_FLAG_BACKUP_SEMANTICS, IntPtr.Zero); if (handle.IsInvalid) throw BuildException(Marshal.GetLastWin32Error()); if (!NativeMethods.DeviceIoControl(handle, NativeMethods.FSCTL_GET_REPARSE_POINT, IntPtr.Zero, 0, out var buffer, Marshal.SizeOf(typeof(NativeMethods.REPARSE_DATA_BUFFER)), out _, IntPtr.Zero)) { int error = Marshal.GetLastWin32Error(); if (error == Win32ErrorNotAReparsePoint) { target = null; return false; } else throw BuildException(error); } if (buffer.ReparseTag != NativeMethods.IO_REPARSE_TAG_SYMLINK) { target = null; return false; } target = new string(buffer.PathBuffer, buffer.SubstituteNameOffset / 2, buffer.SubstituteNameLength / 2); return true; } /// <summary> /// Creates a hard link between two files. /// </summary> /// <param name="sourcePath">The path of the link to create.</param> /// <param name="targetPath">The absolute path of the existing file to point to.</param> /// <remarks>Only available on Windows 2000 or newer.</remarks> /// <exception cref="IOException">There was an IO problem creating the hard link.</exception> /// <exception cref="UnauthorizedAccessException">You have insufficient rights to create the hard link.</exception> /// <exception cref="Win32Exception">The hard link creation failed.</exception> /// <exception cref="PlatformNotSupportedException">This method is called on a platform other than Windows NT.</exception> public static void CreateHardlink([Localizable(false)] string sourcePath, [Localizable(false)] string targetPath) { #region Sanity checks if (string.IsNullOrEmpty(sourcePath)) throw new ArgumentNullException(nameof(sourcePath)); if (string.IsNullOrEmpty(targetPath)) throw new ArgumentNullException(nameof(targetPath)); #endregion if (!IsWindowsNT) throw new PlatformNotSupportedException(Resources.OnlyAvailableOnWindows); if (!NativeMethods.CreateHardLink(sourcePath, targetPath, IntPtr.Zero)) throw BuildException(Marshal.GetLastWin32Error()); } /// <summary> /// Returns the file ID of a file. /// </summary> /// <param name="path">The path of the file.</param> /// <exception cref="IOException">There was an IO problem checking the file.</exception> /// <exception cref="UnauthorizedAccessException">You have insufficient rights to check the files.</exception> /// <exception cref="Win32Exception">Checking the file failed.</exception> /// <exception cref="PlatformNotSupportedException">This method is called on a platform other than Windows NT.</exception> public static long GetFileID([Localizable(false)] string path) { #region Sanity checks if (string.IsNullOrEmpty(path)) throw new ArgumentNullException(nameof(path)); #endregion using var handle = NativeMethods.CreateFile( path ?? throw new ArgumentNullException(nameof(path)), FileAccess.Read, FileShare.Read, IntPtr.Zero, FileMode.Open, FileAttributes.Archive, IntPtr.Zero); if (handle.IsInvalid) throw BuildException(Marshal.GetLastWin32Error()); if (!NativeMethods.GetFileInformationByHandle(handle, out var fileInfo)) throw BuildException(Marshal.GetLastWin32Error()); if (fileInfo.FileIndexLow is 0 or uint.MaxValue && fileInfo.FileIndexHigh is 0 or uint.MaxValue) throw new IOException($"The file system cannot provide a unique ID for '{path}'."); unchecked { return fileInfo.FileIndexLow + ((long)fileInfo.FileIndexHigh << 32); } } /// <summary> /// Moves a file on the next reboot of the OS. Replaces existing files. /// </summary> /// <param name="sourcePath">The source path to move the file from.</param> /// <param name="destinationPath">The destination path to move the file to. <c>null</c> to delete the file instead of moving it.</param> /// <remarks>Useful for replacing in-use files.</remarks> public static void MoveFileOnReboot(string sourcePath, string? destinationPath) { #region Sanity checks if (string.IsNullOrEmpty(sourcePath)) throw new ArgumentNullException(nameof(sourcePath)); #endregion if (!NativeMethods.MoveFileEx(sourcePath, destinationPath, NativeMethods.MoveFileFlags.MOVEFILE_REPLACE_EXISTING | NativeMethods.MoveFileFlags.MOVEFILE_DELAY_UNTIL_REBOOT)) throw BuildException(Marshal.GetLastWin32Error()); } #endregion #region Shell /// <summary> /// Sets the current process' explicit application user model ID. /// </summary> /// <param name="appID">The application ID to set.</param> /// <remarks>The application ID is used to group related windows in the taskbar.</remarks> [SupportedOSPlatformGuard("windows6.1")] public static void SetCurrentProcessAppID(string appID) { #region Sanity checks if (string.IsNullOrEmpty(appID)) throw new ArgumentNullException(nameof(appID)); #endregion if (!IsWindows7) return; NativeMethods.SetCurrentProcessExplicitAppUserModelID(appID); } /// <summary> /// Informs the Windows shell that changes were made to the file association data in the registry. /// </summary> /// <remarks>This should be called immediately after the changes in order to trigger a refresh of the Explorer UI.</remarks> [SuppressMessage("ReSharper", "InconsistentNaming")] public static void NotifyAssocChanged() { if (!IsWindows) return; NativeMethods.SHChangeNotify(NativeMethods.SHCNE_ASSOCCHANGED, NativeMethods.SHCNF_IDLIST, IntPtr.Zero, IntPtr.Zero); } /// <summary> /// Informs all GUI applications that changes where made to the environment variables (e.g. PATH) and that they should re-pull them. /// </summary> [SuppressMessage("ReSharper", "InconsistentNaming")] public static void NotifyEnvironmentChanged() { if (!IsWindows) return; NativeMethods.SendMessageTimeout(NativeMethods.HWND_BROADCAST, NativeMethods.WM_SETTINGCHANGE, IntPtr.Zero, "Environment", NativeMethods.SendMessageTimeoutFlags.SMTO_ABORTIFHUNG, 5000, out _); } #endregion #region Window messages /// <summary> /// Registers a new message type that can be sent to windows. /// </summary> /// <param name="message">A unique string used to identify the message type session-wide.</param> /// <returns>A unique ID number used to identify the message type session-wide.</returns> public static int RegisterWindowMessage([Localizable(false)] string message) => IsWindows ? NativeMethods.RegisterWindowMessage(message) : 0; /// <summary> /// Sends a message of a specific type to all windows in the current session. /// </summary> /// <param name="messageID">A unique ID number used to identify the message type session-wide.</param> public static void BroadcastMessage(int messageID) { if (!IsWindows) return; NativeMethods.PostMessage(NativeMethods.HWND_BROADCAST, messageID, IntPtr.Zero, IntPtr.Zero); } #endregion #region Restart Manager /// <summary> /// Registers the current application for automatic restart after updates or crashes. /// </summary> /// <param name="arguments">The command-line arguments to pass to the application on restart. Must not be empty!</param> public static void RegisterApplicationRestart(string arguments) { #region Sanity checks if (string.IsNullOrEmpty(arguments)) throw new ArgumentNullException(nameof(arguments)); #endregion if (!IsWindowsVista) return; int ret = NativeMethods.RegisterApplicationRestart(arguments, NativeMethods.RestartFlags.NONE); if (ret != 0) Log.Warn("Failed to register application for restart with arguments: " + arguments); } /// <summary> /// Unregisters the current application for automatic restart after updates or crashes. /// </summary> public static void UnregisterApplicationRestart() { if (!IsWindowsVista) return; NativeMethods.UnregisterApplicationRestart(); } #endregion }
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
Document: Congress enacted the federal Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organization (RICO) provisions as part of the Organized Crime Control Act of 1970. In spite of its name and origin, RICO is not limited to "mobsters" or members of "organized crime," as those terms are popularly understood. Rather, it covers those activities which Congress felt characterized the conduct of organized crime, no matter who actually engages in them. RICO proscribes no conduct that is not otherwise prohibited. Instead it enlarges the civil and criminal consequences, under some circumstances, of a list of state and federal crimes. In simple terms, RICO condemns (1) any person (2) who (a) invests in, or (b) acquires or maintains an interest in, or (c) conducts or participates in the affairs of, or (d) conspires to invest in, acquire, or conduct the affairs of (3) an enterprise (4) which (a) engages in, or (b) whose activities affect, interstate or foreign commerce (5) through (a) the collection of an unlawful debt, or (b) the patterned commission of various state and federal crimes. Violations are punishable by (a) forfeiture of any property acquired through a RICO violation and of any property interest in the enterprise involved in the violation, and (b) imprisonment for not more than 20 years, or life if one of the predicate offenses carries such a penalty, and/or a fine of not more than the greater of twice of amount of gain or loss associated with the offense or $250,000 for individuals and $500,000 for organizations. RICO violations also subject the offender to civil liability. The courts may award anyone injured by a RICO violation treble damages, costs and attorneys' fees, and may enjoin RICO violations, order divestiture, dissolution or reorganization, or restrict an offender's future professional or investment activities. RICO also makes provision (1) for venue and service of process in RICO criminal and civil cases; (2) for expedited judicial action in certain RICO civil cases brought by the United States; (3) for in camera proceedings in RICO civil cases initiated by the United States; and (4) for the Department of Justice's use of RICO civil investigative demands. RICO cases have been attacked on a host constitutional grounds and generally survived. Any person may violate RICO. The "person" need not be a mobster or even a human being; "any individual or entity capable of holding a legal or beneficial interest in property" will do. Although the "person" and the "enterprise" must be distinct in the case of a subsection 1962(c) violation (conducting an enterprise's activities through racketeering activity), a corporate entity and its sole shareholder are sufficiently distinct to satisfy the enterprise and person elements of a subsection (c) violation. The "person" and "enterprise" need not be distinct for purposes of subsection 1962(a) (investing the racketeering activity proceeds in an enterprise) or subsection 1962(b) (acquiring or maintaining an enterprise through racketeering activity) violations. Even though governmental entities may constitute a corrupted RICO enterprise or in some instances the victims of a RICO offense, they are not considered "persons" capable of a RICO violation. RICO addresses four forms of illicit activity reflected in the four subsections of section 1962: (a) acquiring or operating an enterprise using racketeering proceeds; (b) controlling an enterprise using racketeering activities; (c) conducting the affairs of an enterprise using racketeering activities; and (d) conspiring to so acquire, control, or conduct. The first, 18 U.S.C. 1962(a), was designed as something of a money laundering provision. "The essence of a violation of §1962(a) is not commission of predicate acts but investment of racketeering income." It introduces several features of its own and has been described as the most difficult to prove. Under its provisions, it is unlawful for (1) any person (2) who is liable as a principal (a) in the collection of an unlawful debt or (b) in a pattern of predicate offenses (3) to use or invest (4) the income from such misconduct (5) to acquire, establish or operate (6) an enterprise in or affecting commerce. The "person," the pattern of predicate offenses, and the enterprise elements are common to all of the subsections. For purposes of 1962(a), however, a legal entity that benefits from the offense may be both the "person" and the "enterprise." The person must have committed usury or a pattern of predicate offenses or aided and abetted in their commission, have received income that would not otherwise have been received as a result, and used those proceeds to acquire or operate an enterprise in or whose activities have an impact on interstate or foreign commerce. The second proscription, 18 U.S.C. 1962(b), is much the same, except that it forbids acquisition or control of an enterprise through the predicates themselves rather than through the income derived from the predicates. It makes it unlawful for (1) any person (2) to acquire or maintain an interest in or control of (3) a commercial enterprise (4) through (a) the collection of an unlawful debt or (b) a pattern of predicate offenses. As in the case of subsection 1962(a), the "person" and the "enterprise" may be one and the same. There must be a nexus between the predicate offenses and the acquisition of control. Exactly what constitutes "interest" or "control" is a case-by-case determination. The defendant must be shown to have played some significant role in the management of the enterprise, but a showing of complete control is unnecessary. Subsection 1962(c) makes it unlawful for (1) any person, (2) employed by or associated with, (3) a commercial enterprise (4) to conduct or participate in the conduct of the enterprise's affairs (5) through (a) the collection of an unlawful debt or (b) a pattern of predicate offenses. Subsection 1962(c) is the most common substantive basis for RICO prosecution or civil action. Although on its face subsection 1962(c) might appear to be less demanding than subsections 1962(a) and (b), the courts have not always read it broadly. Thus, in any charge of a breach of its provisions, the "person" and the "enterprise" must ordinarily be distinct. The requirement cannot be avoided by charging a corporate entity as the "person" and the officers and employees through whom it must act as an "association in fact" enterprise. A corporate entity and its sole shareholder, however, are sufficiently distinct for purposes of subsection 1962(c). The Supreme Court has identified an entrepreneurial stripe in the "conduct or participate in the conduct" element of subsection 1962(c) under which only those who direct the operation or management of the enterprise itself satisfy the "conduct" element. Liability, however, is not limited to the "upper management" of an enterprise, but extends as well to those within the enterprise who exercise broad discretion in carrying out the instructions of upper management. Moreover, conviction requires neither an economic predicate offense nor a predicate offense committed with an economic motive. The heart of most RICO violations is a pattern of racketeering activities, that is, the patterned commission of two or more designated state or federal crimes. The list of state and federal crimes upon which a RICO violation may be predicated includes the following: (A) any act or threat involving— dealing in obscene material, or dealing in controlled substances or listed chemicals chargeable under state law and punishable by imprisonment for more than one year; (B) violation of— 18 U.S.C. 201 (bribery of federal officials) 18 U.S.C. 224 (bribery in sporting contests) 18 U.S.C. 471, 472, 473 (counterfeiting) 18 U.S.C. 659 (theft from interstate shipments)(if felonious) 18 U.S.C. 664 (theft from employee benefit plan) 18 U.S.C. 891-894 (loansharking) 18 U.S.C. 1028 (fraudulent identification documents)(if for profit) 18 U.S.C. 1029 (computer fraud) 18 U.S.C. 1084 (transmission of gambling information) 18 U.S.C. 1341 (mail fraud) 18 U.S.C. 1343 (wire fraud) 18 U.S.C. 1344 (bank fraud) 18 U.S.C. 1351 (fraud in foreign labor contracting), 18 U.S.C. 1425 (procuring nationalization unlawfully) 18 U.S.C. 1426 (reproduction of naturalization papers) 18 U.S.C. 1427 (sale of naturalization papers) 18 U.S.C. 1461-1465 (obscene matter) 18 U.S.C. 1503 (obstruction of justice) 18 U.S.C. 1510 (obstruction of criminal investigation) 18 U.S.C. 1511 (obstruction of state law enforcement) 18 U.S.C. 1512 (witness tampering) 18 U.S.C. 1513 (witness retaliation) 18 U.S.C. 1542, 1543, 1544, 1546 (passport or similar document fraud) 18 U.S.C. 1581-1592 (peonage & slavery) 18 U.S.C. 1951 (Hobbs Act (interference with commerce by threat or violence) 18 U.S.C. 1952 (Travel Act (interstate travel in aid of racketeering) 18 U.S.C. 1953 (transportation of gambling paraphernalia) 18 U.S.C. 1954 (bribery to influence employee benefit plan) 18 U.S.C. 1955 (illegal gambling business) 18 U.S.C. 1956, 1957 (money laundering) 18 U.S.C. 1958 (murder for hire) 18 U.S.C. 1960 (illegal money transmitters) 18 U.S.C. 2251, 2251A, 2252, 2260 (sexual exploitation of children) 18 U.S.C. 2312, 2313 (interstate transportation of stolen cars) 18 U.S.C. 2314, 2315 (interstate transportation of stolen property) 18 U.S.C. 2318-2320 (copyright infringement) 18 U.S.C. 2321 (trafficking in certain motor vehicles or motor vehicle parts) 18 U.S.C. 2341-2346 (contraband cigarettes) 18 U.S.C. 2421-2424 (Mann Act) (C) indictable violations of— 29 U.S.C. 186 (payments and loans to labor organizations) 29 U.S.C. 501(c) (embezzlement of union funds) (D) any offense involving— fraud connected with a case under title 11 (bankruptcy) fraud in the sale of securities felonious violations of federal drug law (E) violation of the Currency and Foreign Transactions Reporting Act [31 U.S.C. 5311-5332] (F) violation (for profit) of the Immigration and Nationality Act, section 274 (bringing in and harboring aliens), section 277 (helping aliens enter the U.S. unlawfully), or section 278 (importing aliens for immoral purposes), and (G) violation of [a statute identified as a federal crime of terrorism in 18 U.S.C. 2332b(g)(5)(B)]— 18 U.S.C. 32 (destruction of aircraft or aircraft facilities) 18 U.S.C. 37 (violence at international airports) 18 U.S.C. 81 (arson within special maritime and territorial jurisdiction) 18 U.S.C. 175 or 175b (biological weapons) 18 U.S.C. 175c (variola virus) 18 U.S.C. 229 (chemical weapons) 18 U.S.C. 351(a), (b), (c), or (d) (congressional, cabinet, and Supreme Court assassination and kidnaping) 18 U.S.C. 831 (nuclear materials) 18 U.S.C. 832 (participating in foreign nuclear program) 18 U.S.C. 842(m) or (n) (plastic explosives) 18 U.S.C. 844(f)(2) or (3) (arson and bombing of Government property risking or causing death) 18 U.S.C. 844(i) (arson and bombing of property used in interstate commerce) 18 U.S.C. 930(c) (killing or attempted killing during an attack on a Federal facility with a dangerous weapon) 18 U.S.C. 956(a)(1) (conspiracy to murder, kidnap, or maim persons abroad) 18 U.S.C. 1030(a)(1) (protection of computers) 18 U.S.C. 1030(a)(5)(A)(damage to protected computers under 1030(a)(4)(A)(i)(II) through (VI)) 18 U.S.C. 1114 (killing or attempted killing of officers and employees of the United States) 18 U.S.C. 1116 (murder or manslaughter of foreign officials, official guests, or internationally protected persons) 18 U.S.C. 1203 (hostage taking) 18 U.S.C. 1361 (destruction of government property) 18 U.S.C. 1362 (destruction of communication lines, stations, or systems) 18 U.S.C. 1363 (injury to buildings or property within special maritime and territorial jurisdiction of the United States) 18 U.S.C. 1366(a) (destruction of an energy facility) 18 U.S.C. 1751(a), (b), (c), or (d) (presidential and presidential staff assassination and kidnaping) 18 U.S.C. 1831 (economic espionage) 18 U.S.C. 1832 (theft of trade secrets) 18 U.S.C. 1992 (attacks on trains or mass transit) 18 U.S.C. 2155-2156 (destruction of national defense materials, premises, or utilities) 18 U.S.C. 2280 (violence against maritime navigation) 18 U.S.C. 2281 (violence against maritime fixed platforms) 18 U.S.C. 2332 (homicide and other violence against United States nationals occurring outside of the United States) 18 U.S.C. 2332a (use of weapons of mass destruction) 18 U.S.C. 2332b (acts of terrorism transcending national boundaries) 18 U.S.C. 2332f (bombing public places and facilities) 18 U.S.C. 2332g (anti-aircraft missiles) 18 U.S.C. 2332h (radiological dispersal devices) 18 U.S.C. 2339 (harboring terrorists) 18 U.S.C. 2339A (providing material support to terrorists) 18 U.S.C. 2339B (providing material support to terrorist organizations) 18 U.S.C. 2339C (financing terrorism) 18 U.S.C. 2339D (receipt of training from foreign terrorist organization) 18 U.S.C. 2340A (torture) 21 U.S.C. 960A (narco-terrorism) 42 U.S.C. 2122 (atomic weapons) 42 U.S.C. 2284 (sabotage of nuclear facilities or fuel) 49 U.S.C. 46502 (aircraft piracy) 49 U.S.C. 46504 (2d sentence) (assault on a flight crew with a dangerous weapon) 49 U.S.C. 46505(b)(3) or (c) (explosive or incendiary devices, or endangerment of human life by means of weapons, on aircraft) 49 U.S.C. 46506 (if homicide or attempted homicide is involved, application of certain criminal laws to acts on aircraft) 49 U.S.C. 60123( b) (destruction of interstate gas or hazardous liquid pipeline facility). To constitute "racketeering activity," the predicate offense need only be committed ; there is no requirement that the defendant or anyone else have been convicted of a predicate offense before a RICO prosecution or action may be brought. Conviction of a predicate offense, on the other hand, does not preclude a subsequent RICO prosecution, nor is either conviction or acquittal a bar to a subsequent RICO civil action. The pattern of racketeering activities element of RICO requires (1) the commission of two or more predicate offenses, (2) that the predicate offenses be related and not simply isolated events, and (3) that they are committed under circumstances that suggest either a continuity of criminal activity or the threat of such continuity. i. Predicates : The first element is explicit in section 1961(5): "'Pattern of racketeering activity' requires at least two acts of racketeering activity." The two remaining elements, relationship and continuity, flow from the legislative history of RICO. That history "shows that Congress indeed had a fairly flexible concept of a pattern in mind. A pattern is not formed by sporadic activity.... [A] person cannot be subjected to the sanctions [of RICO] simply for committing two widely separate and isolated criminal offenses. Instead, the term 'pattern' itself requires the showing of a relationship between the predicates and of the threat of continuing activity. It is this factor of continuity plus relationship which combines to produce a pattern." ii. Related predicates : The commission of predicate offenses forms the requisite related pattern if the "criminal acts ... have the same or similar purposes, results, participants, victims, or methods of commission, or otherwise are interrelated by distinguishing characteristics and are not isolated events." iii. Continuity : The law recognizes continuity in two forms, pre-existing ("closed-ended") and anticipated ("open-ended"). The first is characterized by "a series of related predicates, extending over a substantial period of time. Predicate acts extending over a few weeks or months and threatening no future criminal conduct do not satisfy this requirement." The second exists when a series of related predicates has begun and, but for intervention, would be a threat to continue in the future. The Supreme Court has characterized a pattern extending over a period of time but which posed no threat of reoccurrence as a pattern with "closed-ended" continuity; and a pattern marked by a threat of reoccurrence as a pattern with "open-ended continuity." In the case of a "closed-ended" pattern, the lower courts have been reluctant to find predicate activity extending over less than a year sufficient for the "substantial period[s] of time" required to demonstrate continuity. Whether the threat of future predicate activity is sufficient to recognize an "open-ended" pattern of continuity depends upon the nature of the predicate offenses and the nature of the enterprise. "Though the number of related predicates involved may be small and they may occur close together in time, the racketeering acts themselves include a specific threat of repetition extending indefinitely into the future, and thus supply the requisite continuity. In other cases, the threat of continuity may be established by showing that the predicate acts or offenses are part of an ongoing entity's regular way of doing business." Moreover, the threat "is generally presumed when the enterprise's business is primarily or inherently unlawful." Collection of an unlawful debt appears to be the only instance in which the commission of a single predicate offense will support a RICO prosecution or cause of action. No proof of pattern seems to be necessary. The predicate covers only the collection of usurious debts or unlawful gambling debts: "[U]nlawful debt" means a debt (A) incurred or contracted in gambling activity which was in violation of the law of the United States, a State or political subdivision thereof, or which is unenforceable under State or Federal law in whole or in part as to principal or interest because of the laws relating to usury, and (B) which was incurred in connection with the business of gambling in violation of the law of the United States, a State or political subdivision thereof, or the business of lending money or a thing of value at a rate usurious under State or Federal law, where the usurious rate is at least twice the enforceable rate. Although there may be some disagreement among the lower federal courts, the prohibition seems to apply to both lawful and unlawful means of collection as long as the underlying debt is unlawful. The statute defines "enterprise" to include "any individual, partnership, corporation, association, or other legal entity, and any union or group of individuals associated in fact although not a legal entity." The enterprise may be devoted to entirely legitimate ends or to totally corrupt objectives. It may be governmental as well as nongovernmental. As noted earlier, an entity may not serve as both the "person" and the "enterprise" whose activities are conducted through a pattern of racketeering activity for a prosecution under subsection 1962(c). No such distinction is required, however, for a prosecution under either subsection 1962(a)(investing the racketeering activity proceeds in an enterprise) or subsection 1962(b) (acquiring or maintaining an enterprise through racketeering activity) violations. Even under subsection 1962(c), a corporate entity and its sole shareholder are sufficiently distinct to satisfy the "enterprise" and "person" elements of a subsection (c) violation. As for "associated in fact" enterprises, the Supreme Court in Boyle rejected the suggestion that such enterprises must be "business-like" creatures, having discernible hierarchical structures, unique modus operandi, chains of command, internal rules and regulations, regular meetings regarding enterprise activities, or even a separate enterprise name or title. The statute demands only "that an association-in-fact enterprise must have at least three structural features: a purpose, relationships among those associated with the enterprise, and longevity sufficient to permit these associates to pursue the enterprise's purpose." To satisfy RICO's jurisdictional element, the corrupt or corrupted enterprise must either engage in interstate or foreign commerce or engage in activities that affect interstate or foreign commerce. An enterprise that orders supplies and transports its employees and products in interstate commerce is "engaged in interstate commerce" for purposes of RICO. As a general rule, the impact of the enterprise on interstate or foreign commerce need only be minimal to satisfy RICO requirements. Where the predicate offenses associated with an enterprise have an effect on interstate commerce, the enterprise is likely to have an effect on interstate commerce. However, "where the enterprise itself [does] not engage in economic activity, a minimal effect on commerce" may not be enough. Conspiracy under subsection 1962(d) is (1) the agreement of (2) two or more (3) to invest in, acquire, or conduct the affairs of (4) a commercial enterprise (5) in a manner which violates 18 U.S.C. 1962(a), (b), or (c). The heart of the crime lies in the agreement rather than any completed, concerted violation of the other three RICO subsections. In fact, unlike the general conspiracy statute, RICO conspiracy is complete upon the agreement, even if none of the conspirators ever commit an overt act toward the accomplishment of its criminal purpose. Moreover, contrary to the view once held by some of the lower courts, there is no requirement that a defendant commit or agree to commit two or more predicate offenses himself. Nor is it necessary that the government prove the existence of RICO qualified enterprise in some circuits. It is enough that the defendant, in agreement with another, intended to further an endeavor which, if completed, would satisfy all of the elements of a RICO violation. A conspirator is liable not only for the conspiracy but for any foreseeable substantive offenses committed by any of the conspirators in furtherance of the common scheme, until the objectives of the plot are achieved, abandoned, or the conspirator withdraws. "To withdraw from a conspiracy, an individual must take some affirmative action either by reporting to authorities or communicating his intentions to his coconspirators." The individual bears the burden of showing he has done so. The commission of a RICO violation exposes offenders to a wide range of criminal and civil consequences: imprisonment, fines, restitution, forfeiture, treble damages, attorneys' fees, and a wide range of equitable restrictions. RICO violations are punishable by fine or by imprisonment for life in cases where the predicate offense carries a life sentence, or by imprisonment for not more than 20 years in all other cases. Although an offender may be sentenced to either a fine or a term of imprisonment under the strict terms of the statute, the operation of the applicable sentencing guidelines makes it highly likely that offenders will face both fine and imprisonment. The maximum amount of the fine for a RICO violation is the greater of twice the amount of the gain or loss associated with the crime, or $250,000 for an individual, $500,000 for an organization. Offenders sentenced to prison are also sentenced to a term of supervised release of not more than three years to be served following their release from incarceration. Most RICO violations also trigger mandatory federal restitution provisions, that is, one of the RICO predicate offenses will be a crime of violence, drug trafficking, or a crime with respect to which a victim suffers physical injury or pecuniary loss. Finally, property related to a RICO violation is subject to confiscation. Even without a completed RICO violation, committing any crime designated a RICO predicate offense opens the door to additional criminal liability. It is a 20-year felony to launder the proceeds from any predicate offense (including any RICO predicate offense) or to use them to finance further criminal activity. Moreover, the proceeds of any RICO predicate offense are subject to civil forfeiture (confiscation without the necessity of a criminal conviction) by virtue of the RICO predicate's status as a money laundering predicate. RICO violations may result in civil as well as criminal liability. "Any person injured in his business or property by reason" of a RICO violation has a cause of action for treble damages and attorneys' fees. No prior criminal conviction is required, except in the case of certain security fraud based causes of action. Liability begins with a RICO violation under subsections 1962(a), (b), (c), or (d). If the underlying violation involves subsection 1962(a)(use of predicate offense tainted proceeds to acquire an interest in an enterprise), it is the use or investment of the income rather than the predicate offenses that must have caused the injury. If the underlying violation involves subsection 1962(b)(use of predicate offenses to acquire an enterprise), it is the access or control of the RICO enterprise rather than the predicate offenses that must have caused the injury. If the underlying violation involves subsection 1962(c) (use of predicate offenses to conduct the activities of an enterprise), it is the predicate offenses which must have caused the injury. If the underlying violation involves subsection 1962(d) (conspiracy to violate subsections 1962(a), (b), or (c)), the injury must follow from the conspiracy. Moreover, while a criminal conspiracy prosecution under subsection 1962(d) requires no overt act, RICO plaintiffs whose claim is based on a conspiracy under subsection 1962(d) must prove an overt act that is a predicate offense or one of the substantive RICO offenses, since a mere agreement cannot be the direct or proximate cause of an injury. In order to recover, the plaintiff must establish an injury to his or her business or property directly or proximately caused by the defendant's RICO violation. Downstream victims have no RICO cause of action. The presence of an intervening victim or cause of the harm is fatal. The RICO-caused injury must involve a "concrete financial loss," a "mere injury to a valuable intangible property interest" such as a right to pursue employment will not do. The courts agree generally that personal injuries may not form the basis for recovery, since they are not injuries to "business or property," but the courts sometimes disagree on what does constitute a qualified injury. "Fraud in the sale of securities" is a RICO predicate offense. However, the Private Securities Litigation Reform Act amended the civil RICO cause of action to bar suits based on allegations of fraud in the purchase or sale of securities. Although the United States is apparently not a "person" that may sue for treble damages under RICO, the term does include state and local governmental entities. On the other hand, private parties have enjoyed scant success when they have sought to bring a RICO suit for damages against the United States or other governmental entities. Nor in most instances have the courts been receptive to RICO claims based solely on allegations that the defendant aided and abetted commission of the underlying RICO violation. Notwithstanding the inability of the United States to sue for treble damages under RICO, the Attorney General may seek to prevent and restrain RICO violations under the broad equitable powers vested in the courts to order disgorgement, divestiture, restitution, or the creation of receiverships or trusteeships. This authority has been invoked relatively infrequently, primarily to rid various unions of organized crime and other forms of corruption. There is some question whether private plaintiffs, in addition to the Attorney General, may seek injunctive and other forms of equitable relief. On the procedural side, RICO's long-arm jurisdictional provisions authorize nationwide service of process. In addition, the Supreme Court has held that (1) state trial courts of general jurisdiction have concurrent jurisdiction over federal civil RICO claims; (2) under the appropriate circumstances parties may agree to make potential civil RICO claims subject to arbitration; (3) the Clayton Act's four-year period of limitation applies to civil RICO claims as well, and that the period begins when the victim discovers or should have discovered the injury; and (4) in the absence of an impediment to state regulation, the McCarran-Ferguson Act does not bar civil RICO claims based on insurance fraud allegations. Over the years, various aspects of RICO have been challenged on a number of constitutional grounds. Most either attack the RICO scheme generally or its forfeiture component. The general challenges have been based on vagueness, ex post facto, and double jeopardy. Attacks on the constitutionality of RICO forfeiture have been grounded in the right to counsel, excessive fines, cruel and unusual punishment, and forfeiture of estate. While the challenges have been unsuccessful by and large, some have helped to define RICO's outer reaches. The Constitution authorizes Congress to "regulate Commerce with foreign Nations, and among the several States, and with the Indian Tribes," and "to make all Laws which shall be necessary and proper for carrying to Execution" that authority. The powers which the Constitution does not confer upon the federal government, it reserves to the states and the people, U.S. Const. Amend. X. Although RICO deals only with enterprises "engaged in, or the activities of which affect, interstate or foreign commerce," some have suggested that RICO has been applied beyond the scope of Congress's constitutional authority to legislate under the commerce clause. The courts have yet to agree. Even a general description of RICO evokes double jeopardy and ex post facto questions. RICO rests on a foundation of other crimes. At a glance, double jeopardy might appear to block any effort to base a RICO charge on a crime for which the accused had already been tried. By the same token, ex post facto might appear to bar a RICO charge built upon a predicate offense committed before RICO was enacted or before the crime was added to the list of RICO predicates. On closer examination, neither presents insurmountable obstacles in most instances. The Constitution's double jeopardy clause commands that no person "be subject for the same offense to be twice put in jeopardy of life or limb." In general terms, it condemns multiple prosecutions or multiple punishments for the same offense. The bar on multiple punishments is a precautionary presumption. Unless a contrary intent appears, it presumes that Congress does not intend to inflict multiple punishments for the same misconduct. Nevertheless, the courts have concluded that Congress did intend to authorize "consecutive sentences for both predicate acts and the RICO offense," as well as for both the substantive RICO offense and the RICO conspiracy to commit the substantive RICO offense. The bar on multiple prosecutions is more formidable. For it, the Supreme Court has long adhered to the so-called " Blockburger " test under which offenses are considered the same when they have the same elements, that is, unless each requires proof of an element not required of the other. In the RICO context, the courts have held that the Double Jeopardy Clause does not bar successive RICO prosecutions of the same defendants on charges of involving different predicate offenses, enterprises, or patterns. They have been more receptive to double jeopardy concerns in the case of successive prosecutions of the same enterprise. There, they have invoked a totality of the circumstances test which asks: "(1) the time of the various activities charged as parts of [the] separate patterns; (2) the identity of the persons involved in the activities under each charge; (3) the statutory offenses charged as racketeering activities in each charge; (4) the nature and scope of the activity the government seeks to punish under each charge; and (5) the places where the activities took place under each charge." The ex post facto clauses preclude (1) punishment of past conduct which was not a crime when it was committed, (2) increased punishment over that which attended a crime when it was committed, and (3) punishment made possible by elimination of a defense which was available when a crime was committed. Yet because RICO offenses are thought to continue from the beginning of the first predicate offense to the commission of the last, a RICO prosecution survives ex post facto challenge even if grounded on pre-enactment predicate offenses as long as the pattern of predicate offenses straddles the date of legislative action. "[T]he void-for-vagueness doctrine requires that a penal statute define the criminal offense with sufficient definiteness that ordinary people can understand what conduct is prohibited and in a manner that does not encourage arbitrary and discriminatory enforcement." Vagueness became a more common constitutional object to RICO, after Justice Scalia and three other Justices implied its vulnerability to such an attack. Subsequent lower courts appear to have uniformly rejected the suggestion that RICO is unconstitutionally vague either generally or as applied to the facts before them. RICO forfeitures can be severe. The Eighth Amendment supplies the constitutional bounds within which criminal sentences must be drawn. Under its directives, fines may not be excessive nor punishments cruel and unusual. Any more precise definition becomes somewhat uncertain. When presented with the issue in Harmelin , a majority of the Supreme Court appeared to believe that the Eighth Amendment's cruel and unusual punishment clause forbids sentences which are "grossly disproportionate" to the seriousness of the crimes for which they are imposed. Prior to Harmelin , the lower courts felt that at some point RICO forfeitures might be so disproportionate as to constitute cruel and unusual punishment. Perhaps understandably, especially in light of developments under the excessive fines clause, the argument seems to have been rarely pressed since Harmelin . The Eighth Amendment's excessive fines clause is slightly more instructive. Historically, the clause was only infrequently invoked. The Supreme Court changed that when it identified the clause as one of the frontiers of permissible criminal forfeiture. Forfeiture offends the excessive fines clause when it is "grossly disproportionate to the gravity of the offense." Although the gravity of most RICO violations would seem to weigh heavily against most excessive fines clause challenges, at least one circuit holds that the appropriate excessive fines analysis must include consideration of confiscation upon the property owner's livelihood. Forfeiture may raise First Amendment issues. The First Amendment guarantees the right of free speech and freedom of the press. It generally precludes government prior restraint of expression. In contrast to prior restraint, however, it generally permits punishment of the unlawful distribution of obscene material. In the view of a majority of the Justices in Alexander , the application of RICO's provisions to confiscate the inventory of an adult entertainment business as punishment for a RICO conviction based upon obscenity predicates does not offend the First Amendment. In two cases decided under the criminal forfeiture provisions of the federal drug law, the Supreme Court held that a criminally accused's Sixth Amendment right to the assistance of counsel does not invalidate statutory provisions which call for the confiscation of forfeitable property paid as attorneys' fees or which permit the court, upon a probable cause showing of forfeitability, to freeze assets which the accused had intended to use to pay attorneys' fees. The same can be said of the RICO forfeiture provisions. Moreover, neither the Sixth Amendment nor the Fifth Amendment due process clause demands appointment of counsel to assist against government efforts to confiscate substitute assets. The Supreme Court concluded in Libretti that a property owner had no right to have a jury decide factual disputes in a forfeiture case, because forfeiture was a sentencing matter and the Sixth Amendment right to jury trial did not apply to sentencing questions. After Libretti had been decided, the Court's announced view of the role of the jury as a fact finder changed somewhat, first in Apprendi , then in Blakely , and finally in Booker . There the Court redefined the line between sentencing factors that the Constitution allows to be assigned to the court and factors that it insists be found by the jury as a matter of right. Henceforth, "any fact (other than a prior conviction) which is necessary to support a sentence exceeding the maximum authorized by the facts established by a plea of guilty or a jury verdict must be admitted by the defendant or proved to a jury beyond a reasonable doubt." Dicta in Booker might be construed as an indication that property owners are still bound by the holding in Libretti — there is no constitutional right to have a jury decide factual questions in criminal forfeiture. The lower courts appear to agree. The "forfeiture of estate" argument was among the first constitutional challenges raised and dispatched. Article III, in its effort to protect against misuse of the law of treason, empowers Congress to set the punishment for treason but only with the understanding that "no attainder of treason shall work corruption of blood, or forfeiture." Article III speaks only of treason, but due process would likely preclude this type of forfeiture of estate as a penalty for lesser crimes as well. RICO forfeiture, however, is not properly classified as a forfeiture of estate. Forfeiture of estate occurs, when as a consequence of an offense, all of an offender's property is subject to confiscation, regardless of the absence of any nexus between the property and the crime which triggered the forfeiture. RICO forfeiture is, by contrast, a "statutory" forfeiture which turns on the relationship of the property to the crime and consequently is not forbidden by the due process corollary of Article III. Appendix A. Text of RICO Statutory Provisions 18 U.S.C. 1961 Definitions As used in this chapter – (1) "racketeering activity" means (A) any act or threat involving murder, kidnaping, gambling, arson, robbery, bribery, extortion, dealing in obscene matter, or dealing in a controlled substance or listed chemical (as defined in section 102 of the Controlled Substances Act), which is chargeable under State law and punishable by imprisonment for more than one year; (B) any act which is indictable under any of the following provisions of title 18, United States Code: Section 201 (relating to bribery), section 224 (relating to sports bribery), sections 471, 472, and 473 (relating to counterfeiting), section 659 (relating to theft from interstate shipment) if the act indictable under section 659 is felonious, section 664 (relating to embezzlement from pension and welfare funds), sections 891-894 (relating to extortionate credit transactions), section 1028 (relating to fraud and related activity in connection with identification documents), section 1029 (relating to fraud and related activity in connection with access devices), section 1084 (relating to the transmission of gambling information), section 1341 (relating to mail fraud), section 1343 (relating to wire fraud), section 1344 (relating to financial institution fraud), section 1351 (relating to fraud in foreign labor contracting), section 1425 (relating to the procurement of citizenship or nationalization unlawfully), section 1426 (relating to the reproduction of naturalization or citizenship papers), section 1427 (relating to the sale of naturalization or citizenship papers), sections 1461-1465 (relating to obscene matter), section 1503 (relating to obstruction of justice), section 1510 (relating to obstruction of criminal investigations), section 1511 (relating to the obstruction of State or local law enforcement), section 1512 (relating to tampering with a witness, victim, or an informant), section 1513 (relating to retaliating against a witness, victim, or an informant), section 1542 (relating to false statement in application and use of passport), section 1543 (relating to forgery or false use of passport), section 1544 (relating to misuse of passport), section 1546 (relating to fraud and misuse of visas, permits, and other documents), sections 1581-1592 (relating to peonage, slavery, and trafficking in persons), sections 1831 and 1832 (relating to economic espionage and theft of trade secrets), section 1951 (relating to interference with commerce, robbery, or extortion), section 1952 (relating to racketeering), section 1953 (relating to interstate transportation of wagering paraphernalia), section 1954 (relating to unlawful welfare fund payments), section 1955 (relating to the prohibition of illegal gambling businesses), section 1956 (relating to the laundering of monetary instruments), section 1957 (relating to engaging in monetary transactions in property derived from specified unlawful activity), section 1958 (relating to use of interstate commerce facilities in the commission of murder-for-hire), section 1960 (relating to illegal money transmitters), sections 2251, 2251A, 2252, and 2260 (relating to sexual exploitation of children), sections 2312 and 2313 (relating to interstate transportation of stolen motor vehicles), sections 2314 and 2315 (relating to interstate transportation of stolen property), section 2318 (relating to trafficking in counterfeit labels for phonorecords, computer programs or computer program documentation or packaging and copies of motion pictures or other audiovisual works), section 2319 (relating to criminal infringement of a copyright), section 2319A (relating to unauthorized fixation of and trafficking in sound recordings and music videos of live musical performances), section 2320 (relating to trafficking in goods or services bearing counterfeit marks), section 2321 (relating to trafficking in certain motor vehicles or motor vehicle parts), sections 2341-2346 (relating to trafficking in contraband cigarettes), sections 2421-24 (relating to white slave traffic), sections 175-178 (relating to biological weapons) , sections 229-229F (relating to chemical weapons), section 831 (relating to nuclear materials), (C) any act which is indictable under title 29, United States Code, section 186 (dealing with restrictions on payments and loans to labor organizations) or section 501(c) (relating to embezzlement from union funds), (D) any offense involving fraud connected with a case under title 11 (except a case under section 157 of this title), fraud in the sale of securities, or the felonious manufacture, importation, receiving, concealment, buying, selling, or otherwise dealing in a controlled substance or listed chemical (as defined in section 102 of the Controlled Substances Act), punishable under any law of the United States, (E) any act which is indictable under the Currency and Foreign Transactions Reporting Act, (F) any act which is indictable under the Immigration and Nationality Act, section 274 (relating to bringing in and harboring certain aliens), section 277 (relating to aiding or assisting certain aliens to enter the United States), or section 278 (relating to importation of alien for immoral purpose) if the act indictable under such section of such Act was committed for the purpose of financial gain, or (G) any act that is indictable under any provision listed in section 2332b(g)(5)(B); (2) "State" means any State of the United States, the District of Columbia, the Commonwealth of Puerto Rico, any territory or possession of the United States, any political subdivision, or any department, agency, or instrumentality thereof; (3) "person" includes any individual or entity capable of holding a legal or beneficial interest in property; (4) "enterprise" includes any individual, partnership, corporation, association, or other legal entity, and any union or group of individuals associated in fact although not a legal entity; (5) "pattern of racketeering activity" requires at least two acts of racketeering activity, one of which occurred after the effective date of this chapter and the last of which occurred within ten years (excluding any period of imprisonment) after the commission of a prior act of racketeering activity; (6) "unlawful debt" means a debt (A) incurred or contracted in gambling activity which was in violation of the law of the United States, a State or political subdivision thereof, or which is unenforceable under State or Federal law in whole or in part as to principal or interest because of the laws relating to usury, and (B) which was incurred in connection with the business of gambling in violation of the law of the United States, a State or political subdivision thereof, or the business of lending money or a thing of value at a rate usurious under State or Federal law, where the usurious rate is at least twice the enforceable rate; (7) "racketeering investigator" means any attorney or investigator so designated by the Attorney General and charged with the duty of enforcing or carrying into effect this chapter; (8) "racketeering investigation" means any inquiry conducted by any racketeering investigator for the purpose of ascertaining whether any person has been involved in any violation of this chapter or of any final order, judgment, or decree of any court of the United States, duly entered in any case or proceeding arising under this chapter; (9) "documentary material" includes any book, paper, document, record, recording, or other material; and (10) "Attorney General" includes the Attorney General of the United States, the Deputy Attorney General of the United States, the Associate Attorney General of the United States, any Assistant Attorney General of the United States, or any employee of the Department of Justice or any employee of any department or agency of the United States so designated by the Attorney General to carry out the powers conferred on the Attorney General by this chapter. Any department or agency so designated may use in investigations authorized by this chapter either the investigative provisions of this chapter or the investigative power of such department or agency otherwise conferred by law. 18 U.S.C. 1962 Prohibited activities (a) It shall be unlawful for any person who has received any income derived, directly or indirectly, from a pattern of racketeering activity or through collection of an unlawful debt in which such person has participated as a principal within the meaning of section 2, title 18, United States Code, to use or invest, directly or indirectly, any part of such income, or the proceeds of such income, in acquisition of any interest in, or the establishment or operation of, any enterprise which is engaged in, or the activities of which affect, interstate or foreign commerce. A purchase of securities on the open market for purposes of investment, and without the intention of controlling or participating in the control of the issuer, or of assisting another to do so, shall not be unlawful under this subsection if the securities of the issuer held by the purchaser, the members of his immediate family, and his or their accomplices in any pattern or racketeering activity or the collection of an unlawful debt after such purchase do not amount in the aggregate to one percent of the outstanding securities of any one class, and do not confer, either in law or in fact, the power to elect one or more directors of the issuer. (b) It shall be unlawful for any person through a pattern of racketeering activity or through collection of an unlawful debt to acquire or maintain, directly or indirectly, any interest in or control of any enterprise which is engaged in, or the activities of which affect, interstate or foreign commerce. (c) It shall be unlawful for any person employed by or associated with any enterprise engaged in, or the activities of which affect, interstate or foreign commerce, to conduct or participate, directly or indirectly, in the conduct of such enterprise's affairs through a pattern of racketeering activity or collection of unlawful debt. (d) It shall be unlawful for any person to conspire to violate any of the provisions of subsection (a), (b), or (c) of this section. 18 U.S.C. 1963 Criminal penalties (a) Whoever violates any provision of section 1962 of this chapter shall be fined under this title or imprisoned not more than 20 years (or for life if the violation is based on a racketeering activity for which the maximum penalty includes life imprisonment), or both, and shall forfeit to the United States, irrespective of any provision of State law – (1) any interest the person has acquired or maintained in violation of section 1962; (2) any – (A) interest in; (B) security of; (C) claim against; or (D) property or contractual right of any kind affording a source of influence over; any enterprise which the person has established, operated, controlled, conducted, or participated in the conduct of, in violation of section 1962; and (3) any property constituting, or derived from, any proceeds which the person obtained, directly or indirectly, from racketeering activity or unlawful debt collection in violation of section 1962. The court, in imposing sentence on such person shall order, in addition to any other sentence imposed pursuant to this section, that the person forfeit to the United States all property described in this subsection. In lieu of a fine otherwise authorized by this section, a defendant who derives profits or other proceeds from an offense may be fined not more than twice the gross profits or other proceeds. (b) Property subject to criminal forfeiture under this section includes – (1) real property, including things growing on, affixed to, and found in land; and (2) tangible and intangible personal property, including rights, privileges, interests, claims, and securities. (c) All right, title, and interest in property described in subsection (a) vests in the United States upon the commission of the act giving rise to forfeiture under this section. Any such property that is subsequently transferred to a person other than the defendant may be the subject of a special verdict of forfeiture and thereafter shall be ordered forfeited to the United States, unless the transferee establishes in a hearing pursuant to subsection (l) that he is a bona fide purchaser for value of such property who at the time of purchase was reasonably without cause to believe that the property was subject to forfeiture under this section. (d) (1) Upon application of the United States, the court may enter a restraining order or injunction, require the execution of a satisfactory performance bond, or take any other action to preserve the availability of property described in subsection (a) for forfeiture under this section – (A) upon the filing of an indictment or information charging a violation of section 1962 of this chapter and alleging that the property with respect to which the order is sought would, in the event of conviction, be subject to forfeiture under this section; or (B) prior to the filing of such an indictment or information, if, after notice to persons appearing to have an interest in the property and opportunity for a hearing, the court determines that – (i) there is a substantial probability that the United States will prevail on the issue of forfeiture and that failure to enter the order will result in the property being destroyed, removed from the jurisdiction of the court, or otherwise made unavailable for forfeiture; and (ii) the need to preserve the availability of the property through the entry of the requested order outweighs the hardship on any party against whom the order is to be entered: Provided, however, That an order entered pursuant to subparagraph (B) shall be effective for not more than ninety days, unless extended by the court for good cause shown or unless an indictment or information described in subparagraph (A) has been filed. (2) A temporary restraining order under this subsection may be entered upon application of the United States without notice or opportunity for a hearing when an information or indictment has not yet been filed with respect to the property, if the United States demonstrates that there is probable cause to believe that the property with respect to which the order is sought would, in the event of conviction, be subject to forfeiture under this section and that provision of notice will jeopardize the availability of the property for forfeiture. Such a temporary order shall expire not more than ten days after the date on which it is entered, unless extended for good cause shown or unless the party against whom it is entered consents to an extension for a longer period. A hearing requested concerning an order entered under this paragraph shall be held at the earliest possible time, and prior to the expiration of the temporary order. (3) The court may receive and consider, at a hearing held pursuant to this subsection, evidence and information that would be inadmissible under the Federal Rules of Evidence. (e) Upon conviction of a person under this section, the court shall enter a judgment of forfeiture of the property to the United States and shall also authorize the Attorney General to seize all property ordered forfeited upon such terms and conditions as the court shall deem proper. Following the entry of an order declaring the property forfeited, the court may, upon application of the United States, enter such appropriate restraining orders or injunctions, require the execution of satisfactory performance bonds, appoint receivers, conservators, appraisers, accountants, or trustees, or take any other action to protect the interest of the United States in the property ordered forfeited. Any income accruing to, or derived from, an enterprise or an interest in an enterprise which has been ordered forfeited under this section may be used to offset ordinary and necessary expenses to the enterprise which are required by law, or which are necessary to protect the interests of the United States or third parties. (f) Following the seizure of property ordered forfeited under this section, the Attorney General shall direct the disposition of the property by sale or any other commercially feasible means, making due provision for the rights of any innocent persons. Any property right or interest not exercisable by, or transferable for value to, the United States shall expire and shall not revert to the defendant, nor shall the defendant or any person acting in concert with or on behalf of the defendant be eligible to purchase forfeited property at any sale held by the United States. Upon application of a person, other than the defendant or a person acting in concert with or on behalf of the defendant, the court may restrain or stay the sale or disposition of the property pending the conclusion of any appeal of the criminal case giving rise to the forfeiture, if the applicant demonstrates that proceeding with the sale or disposition of the property will result in irreparable injury, harm or loss to him. Notwithstanding 31 U.S.C. 3302(b), the proceeds of any sale or other disposition of property forfeited under this section and any moneys forfeited shall be used to pay all proper expenses for the forfeiture and the sale, including expenses of seizure, maintenance and custody of the property pending its disposition, advertising and court costs. The Attorney General shall deposit in the Treasury any amounts of such proceeds or moneys remaining after the payment of such expenses. (g) With respect to property ordered forfeited under this section, the Attorney General is authorized to – (1) grant petitions for mitigation or remission of forfeiture, restore forfeited property to victims of a violation of this chapter, or take any other action to protect the rights of innocent persons which is in the interest of justice and which is not inconsistent with the provisions of this chapter; (2) compromise claims arising under this section; (3) award compensation to persons providing information resulting in a forfeiture under this section; (4) direct the disposition by the United States of all property ordered forfeited under this section by public sale or any other commercially feasible means, making due provision for the rights of innocent persons; and (5) take appropriate measures necessary to safeguard and maintain property ordered forfeited under this section pending its disposition. (h) The Attorney General may promulgate regulations with respect to – (1) making reasonable efforts to provide notice to persons who may have an interest in property ordered forfeited under this section; (2) granting petitions for remission or mitigation of forfeiture; (3) the restitution of property to victims of an offense petitioning for remission or mitigation of forfeiture under this chapter; (4) the disposition by the United States of forfeited property by public sale or other commercially feasible means; (5) the maintenance and safekeeping of any property forfeited under this section pending its disposition; and (6) the compromise of claims arising under this chapter. Pending the promulgation of such regulations, all provisions of law relating to the disposition of property, or the proceeds from the sale thereof, or the remission or mitigation of forfeitures for violation of the customs laws, and the compromise of claims and the award of compensation to informers in respect of such forfeitures shall apply to forfeitures incurred, or alleged to have been incurred, under the provisions of this section, insofar as applicable and not inconsistent with the provisions hereof. Such duties as are imposed upon the Customs Service or any person with respect to the disposition of property under the customs law shall be performed under this chapter by the Attorney General. (i) Except as provided in subsection (l), no party claiming an interest in property subject to forfeiture under this section may – (1) intervene in a trial or appeal of a criminal case involving the forfeiture of such property under this section; or (2) commence an action at law or equity against the United States concerning the validity of his alleged interest in the property subsequent to the filing of an indictment or information alleging that the property is subject to forfeiture under this section. (j) The district courts of the United States shall have jurisdiction to enter orders as provided in this section without regard to the location of any property which may be subject to forfeiture under this section or which has been ordered forfeited under this section. (k) In order to facilitate the identification or location of property declared forfeited and to facilitate the disposition of petitions for remission or mitigation of forfeiture, after the entry of an order declaring property forfeited to the United States the court may, upon application of the United States, order that the testimony of any witness relating to the property forfeited be taken by deposition and that any designated book, paper, document, record, recording, or other material not privileged be produced at the same time and place, in the same manner as provided for the taking of depositions under Rule 15 of the Federal Rules of Criminal Procedure. (l) (1) Following the entry of an order of forfeiture under this section, the United States shall publish notice of the order and of its intent to dispose of the property in such manner as the Attorney General may direct. The Government may also, to the extent practicable, provide direct written notice to any person known to have alleged an interest in the property that is the subject of the order of forfeiture as a substitute for published notice as to those persons so notified. (2) Any person, other than the defendant, asserting a legal interest in property which has been ordered forfeited to the United States pursuant to this section may, within thirty days of the final publication of notice or his receipt of notice under paragraph (1), whichever is earlier, petition the court for a hearing to adjudicate the validity of his alleged interest in the property. The hearing shall be held before the court alone, without a jury. (3) The petition shall be signed by the petitioner under penalty of perjury and shall set forth the nature and extent of the petitioner's right, title, or interest in the property, the time and circumstances of the petitioner's acquisition of the right, title, or interest in the property, any additional facts supporting the petitioner's claim, and the relief sought. (4) The hearing on the petition shall, to the extent practicable and consistent with the interests of justice, be held within thirty days of the filing of the petition. The court may consolidate the hearing on the petition with a hearing on any other petition filed by a person other than the defendant under this subsection. (5) At the hearing, the petitioner may testify and present evidence and witnesses on his own behalf, and cross-examine witnesses who appear at the hearing. The United States may present evidence and witnesses in rebuttal and in defense of its claim to the property and cross-examine witnesses who appear at the hearing. In addition to testimony and evidence presented at the hearing, the court shall consider the relevant portions of the record of the criminal case which resulted in the order of forfeiture. (6) If, after the hearing, the court determines that the petitioner has established by a preponderance of the evidence that – (A) the petitioner has a legal right, title, or interest in the property, and such right, title, or interest renders the order of forfeiture invalid in whole or in part because the right, title, or interest was vested in the petitioner rather than the defendant or was superior to any right, title, or interest of the defendant at the time of the commission of the acts which gave rise to the forfeiture of the property under this section; or (B) the petitioner is a bona fide purchaser for value of the right, title, or interest in the property and was at the time of purchase reasonably without cause to believe that the property was subject to forfeiture under this section; the court shall amend the order of forfeiture in accordance with its determination. (7) Following the court's disposition of all petitions filed under this subsection, or if no such petitions are filed following the expiration of the period provided in paragraph (2) for the filing of such petitions, the United States shall have clear title to property that is the subject of the order of forfeiture and may warrant good title to any subsequent purchaser or transferee. (m) If any of the property described in subsection (a), as a result of any act or omission of the defendant – (1) cannot be located upon the exercise of due diligence; (2) has been transferred or sold to, or deposited with, a third party; (3) has been placed beyond the jurisdiction of the court; (4) has been substantially diminished in value; or (5) has been commingled with other property which cannot be divided without difficulty; the court shall order the forfeiture of any other property of the defendant up to the value of any property described in paragraphs (1) through (5). 18 U.S.C. 1964 Civil remedies (a) The district courts of the United States shall have jurisdiction to prevent and restrain violations of section 1962 of this chapter by issuing appropriate orders, including, but not limited to: ordering any person to divest himself of any interest, direct or indirect, in any enterprise; imposing reasonable restrictions on the future activities or investments of any person, including, but not limited to, prohibiting any person from engaging in the same type of endeavor as the enterprise engaged in, the activities of which affect interstate or foreign commerce; or ordering dissolution or reorganization of any enterprise, making due provision for the rights of innocent persons. (b) The Attorney General may institute proceedings under this section. Pending final determination thereof, the court may at any time enter such restraining orders or prohibitions, or take such other actions, including the acceptance of satisfactory performance bonds, as it shall deem proper. (c) Any person injured in his business or property by reason of a violation of section 1962 of this chapter may sue therefor in any appropriate United States district court and shall recover threefold the damages he sustains and the cost of the suit, including a reasonable attorney's fee, except that no person may rely upon any conduct that would have been actionable as fraud in the purchase or sale of securities to establish a violation of section 1962. The exception contained in the preceding sentence does not apply to an action against any person that is criminally convicted in connection with the fraud, in which case the statute of limitations shall start to run on the date on which the conviction becomes final. (d) A final judgment or decree rendered in favor of the United States in any criminal proceeding brought by the United States under this chapter shall estop the defendant from denying the essential allegations of the criminal offense in any subsequent civil proceeding brought by the United States. 18 U.S.C. 1965 Venue and process (a) Any civil action or proceeding under this chapter against any person may be instituted in the district court of the United States for any district in which such person resides, is found, has an agent, or transacts his affairs. (b) In any action under section 1964 of this chapter in any district court of the United States in which it is shown that the ends of justice require that other parties residing in any other district be brought before the court, the court may cause such parties to be summoned, and process for that purpose may be served in any judicial district of the United States by the marshal thereof. (c) In any civil or criminal action or proceeding instituted by the United States under this chapter in the district court of the United States for any judicial district, subpenas issued by such court to compel the attendance of witnesses may be served in any other judicial district, except that in any civil action or proceeding no such subpena shall be issued for service upon any individual who resides in another district at a place more than one hundred miles from the place at which such court is held without approval given by a judge of such court upon a showing of good cause. (d) All other process in any action or proceeding under this chapter may be served on any person in any judicial district in which such person resides, is found, has an agent, or transacts his affairs. 18 U.S.C. 1966 Expedition of actions In any civil action instituted under this chapter by the United States in any district court of the United States, the Attorney General may file with the clerk of such court a certificate stating that in his opinion the case is of general public importance. A copy of that certificate shall be furnished immediately by such clerk to the chief judge or in his absence to the presiding district judge of the district in which such action is pending. Upon receipt of such copy, such judge shall designate immediately a judge of that district to hear and determine action. 18 U.S.C. 1967 Evidence In any proceeding ancillary to or in any civil action instituted by the United States under this chapter the proceedings may be open or closed to the public at the discretion of the court after consideration of the rights of affected persons. 18 U.S.C. 1968 Civil investigative demand (a) Whenever the Attorney General has reason to believe that any person or enterprise may be in possession, custody, or control of any documentary materials relevant to a racketeering investigation, he may, prior to the institution of a civil or criminal proceeding thereon, issue in writing, and cause to be served upon such person, a civil investigative demand requiring such person to produce such material for examination. (b) Each such demand shall— (1) state the nature of the conduct constituting the alleged racketeering violation which is under investigation and the provision of law applicable thereto; (2) describe the class or classes of documentary material produced thereunder with such definiteness and certainty as to permit such material to be fairly identified; (3) state that the demand is returnable forthwith or prescribe a return date which will provide a reasonable period of time within which the material so demanded may be assembled and made available for inspection and copying or reproduction; and (4) identify the custodian to whom such material shall be made available. (c) No such demand shall— (1) contain any requirement which would be held to be unreasonable if contained in a subpena duces tecum issued by a court of the United States in aid of a grand jury investigation of such alleged racketeering violation; or (2) require the production of any documentary evidence which would be privileged from disclosure if demanded by a subpena duces tecum issued by a court of the United States in aid of a grand jury investigation of such alleged racketeering violation. (d) Service of any such demand or any petition filed under this section may be made upon a person by— (1) delivering a duly executed copy thereof to any partner, executive officer, managing agent, or general agent thereof, or to any agent thereof authorized by appointment or by law to receive service of process on behalf of such person, or upon any individual person; (2) delivering a duly executed copy thereof to the principal office or place of business of the person to be served; or (3) depositing such copy in the United States mail, by registered or certified mail duly addressed to such person at its principal office or place of business. (e) A verified return by the individual serving any such demand or petition setting forth the manner of such service shall be prima facie proof of such service. In the case of service by registered or certified mail, such return shall be accompanied by the return post office receipt of delivery of such demand. (f) (1) The Attorney General shall designate a racketeering investigator to serve as racketeer document custodian, and such additional racketeering investigators as he shall determine from time to time to be necessary to serve as deputies to such officer. (2) Any person upon whom any demand issued under this section has been duly served shall make such material available for inspection and copying or reproduction to the custodian designated therein at the principal place of business of such person, or at such other place as such custodian and such person thereafter may agree and prescribe in writing or as the court may direct, pursuant to this section on the return date specified in such demand, or on such later date as such custodian may prescribe in writing. Such person may upon written agreement between such person and the custodian substitute for copies of all or any part of such material originals thereof. (3) The custodian to whom any documentary material is so delivered shall take physical possession thereof, and shall be responsible for the use made thereof and for the return thereof pursuant to this chapter. The custodian may cause the preparation of such copies of such documentary material as may be required for official use under regulations which shall be promulgated by the Attorney General. While in the possession of the custodian, no material so produced shall be available for examination, without the consent of the person who produced such material, by any individual other than the Attorney General. Under such reasonable terms and conditions as the Attorney General shall prescribe, documentary material while in the possession of the custodian shall be available for examination by the person who produced such material or any duly authorized representatives of such person. (4) Whenever any attorney has been designated to appear on behalf of the United States before any court or grand jury in any case or proceeding involving any alleged violation of this chapter, the custodian may deliver to such attorney such documentary material in the possession of the custodian as such attorney determines to be required for use in the presentation of such case or proceeding on behalf of the United States. Upon the conclusion of any such case or proceeding, such attorney shall return to the custodian any documentary material so withdrawn which has not passed into the control of such court or grand jury through the introduction thereof into the record of such case or proceeding. (5) Upon the completion of— (i) the racketeering investigation for which any documentary material was produced under this chapter, and (ii) any case or proceeding arising from such investigation, the custodian shall return to the person who produced such material all such material other than copies thereof made by the Attorney General pursuant to this subsection which has not passed into the control of any court or grand jury through the introduction thereof into the record of such case or proceeding. (6) When any documentary material has been produced by any person under this section for use in any racketeering investigation, and no such case or proceeding arising therefrom has been instituted within a reasonable time after completion of the examination and analysis of all evidence assembled in the course of such investigation, such person shall be entitled, upon written demand made upon the Attorney General, to the return of all documentary material other than copies thereof made pursuant to this subsection so produced by such person. (7) In the event of the death, disability, or separation from service of the custodian of any documentary material produced under any demand issued under this section or the official relief of such custodian from responsibility for the custody and control of such material, the Attorney General shall promptly— (i) designate another racketeering investigator to serve as custodian thereof, and (ii) transmit notice in writing to the person who produced such material as to the identity and address of the successor so designated. Any successor so designated shall have with regard to such materials all duties and responsibilities imposed by this section upon his predecessor in office with regard thereto, except that he shall not be held responsible for any default or dereliction which occurred before his designation as custodian. (g) Whenever any person fails to comply with any civil investigative demand duly served upon him under this section or whenever satisfactory copying or reproduction of any such material cannot be done and such person refuses to surrender such material, the Attorney General may file, in the district court of the United States for any judicial district in which such person resides, is found, or transacts business, and serve upon such person a petition for an order of such court for the enforcement of this section, except that if such person transacts business in more than one such district such petition shall be filed in the district in which such person maintains his principal place of business, or in such other district in which such person transacts business as may be agreed upon by the parties to such petition. (h) Within twenty days after the service of any such demand upon any person, or at any time before the return date specified in the demand, whichever period is shorter, such person may file, in the district court of the United States for the judicial district within which such person resides, is found, or transacts business, and serve upon such custodian a petition for an order of such court modifying or setting aside such demand. The time allowed for compliance with the demand in whole or in part as deemed proper and ordered by the court shall not run during the pendency of such petition in the court. Such petition shall specify each ground upon which the petitioner relies in seeking such relief, and may be based upon any failure of such demand to comply with the provisions of this section or upon any constitutional or other legal right or privilege of such person. (i) At any time during which any custodian is in custody or control of any documentary material delivered by any person in compliance with any such demand, such person may file, in the district court of the United States for the judicial district within which the office of such custodian is situated, and serve upon such custodian a petition for an order of such court requiring the performance by such custodian of any duty imposed upon him by this section. (j) Whenever any petition is filed in any district court of the United States under this section, such court shall have jurisdiction to hear and determine the matter so presented, and to enter such order or orders as may be required to carry into effect the provisions of this section. Appendix B. Selected Bibliography Articles and Books Douglas E. Abrams, Crime Legislation and the Public Interest: Lessons From Civil RICO , 50 SMU L. Rev. 33 (1996). Diane Marie Amann, Spotting Money Launderers: A Better Way to Fight Organized Crime? 27 Syracuse J. Int'l L. & Com. 199 (2000). American Law Reports, Federal, Validity, Construction, and Application of Provision of Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act, 18 U.S.C.A. §1961 et seq . , 171 ALR Fed. 1 (2011-2012). Paul A. Batista, Civil RICO Practice Manual (2008). G. Robert Blakey & Michael Gerardi, Eliminating Overlap, or Creating a Gap? Judicial Inte r preta t ion of the Private Securities Litigation Reform Act of 1995 and RICO , 28 Notre Dame J. L. Ethics & Pub. Pol'y 435 (2014). G. Robert Blakey & Brian Gettings, Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations (RICO): Basic Concepts—Criminal and Civil Remedies , 53 Temp. L. Q. 1009 (1980). G. Robert Blakey & Ronald Goldstock, On the Waterfront: RICO and Labor Racketeering , 17 Am. Crim. L. Rev. 341 (1980). G. Robert Blakey & Thomas Perry, An Analysis of the Myths That Bolster Efforts to Rewrite RICO and the Various Proposals for Reform: "Mother of God—Is This the End of RICO?" , 43 Vand. L. Rev. 851 (1990). G. Robert Blakey & Kevin P. Roddy, Reflections on Reves v. Ernst & Young: Its Meaning and Impact on Substantive, Accessory, Aiding Abetting and Conspiracy Liability Under RICO , 33 Am. Crim. L. Rev. 1345 (1996). John E. Floyd, RICO State by State: A Guide to Litigation Under the State Racketeering Statutes (1998). Susan Getzendanner, Judicial "Pruning" of "Garden Variety Fraud": Civil RICO Cases Does Not Work: it's Time for Congress to Act , 43 Vand. L. Rev. 673 (1990). Ronald M. Goldberg, RICO Forfeiture of Sexually Explicit Expressive Materials: Another Weapon in the War on Pornography, or an Impermissible Collateral Attack on Protected Expression? Alexander v. United States, 113 S. Ct. 2766 (1993) , 21 Wm. Mitchell L. Rev. 231 (1995). Michael Goldsmith, RICO and Enterprise Criminality: A Response to Gerald E. Lynch , 88 Colum. L. Rev. 774 (1988). Michael Goldsmith & Penrod W. Keith, Civil RICO Abuse: The Allegations in Context , 1986 BYU L. Rev. 55. ——, Resurrecting RICO: Removing Immunity for White-Collar Crime , 41 Harv. J. Leg. 281 (2004). Michael Goldsmith & Mark Jay Linderman, Civil RICO Reform: The Gatekeeper Concept , 43 Vand. L. Rev. 735 (1990). Rand D. Gordon, Of Gangs and Gaggles: Can a Corporation Be Part of an Association-in-Fact RICO Enterprise? Linguistic, Historical, and Rhetorical Perspectives , 53 U. Penn. J. Bus. L. 973 (2014). James B. Jacobs, Eileen M. Cunningham, & Kimberly Friday, The RICO Trusteeships After Twenty Years: A Progress Report , 19 Lab. Lawyer 419 (2004). John C. Jeffries, Jr. & John Gleeson, The Federalization of Organized Crime: Advantages of Federal Prosecution , 46 Hastings L. J. 1095 (1995). Gerard E. Lynch, A Conceptual, Practical and Political Guide to RICO Reform , 43 Vand. L. Rev. 769 (1990). ——, A Reply to Michael Goldsmith , 88 Colum. L. Rev. 802 (1988). ——, RICO: The Crime of Being a Criminal, Pts. I & II, III & IV , 87 Colum. L. Rev. 661, 920 (1987). John L. McClellan, The Organized Crime Control Act ( S.30 ) or its Critics: Which Threatens Civil Liberties? 46 Notre Dame Lawyer. 55 (1970). Yvette M. Mastin, RICO Conspiracy: Dismantles the Mexican Mafia & Disables Procedural Due Process , 27 Wm. Mitchell L. Rev. 2295 (2001). Jeremy M. Miller, RICO and Conspiracy Construction: The Mischief of the Economic Model , 104 Comm. L. J. 26 (1999). John M. Nonna & Melissa P. Corrado, RICO Reform: "Weeding Out" Garden Variety Disputes Under the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act , 64 St. John's L. Rev. 825 (1990). Herbert R. Northrup & Charles H. Steen, Union "Corporate Campaigns" as Blackmail: The RICO Battle at Bayou Steel , 22 Harv. J. L. & Pub. Pol'y 771 (1999). Pamela Bucy Pierson, RICO Trends: From Gangsters to Class Actions , 65 S.C. L.Rev. 213 (2013). Terrance G. Reed, The Defense Case for RICO Reform , 43 Vand. L. Rev. 691 (1990). Thane Rehn, RICO and the Commerce Clause: A Reconsideration of the Scope of Federal Criminaol Law , 108 Colum. L. Rev. 1991 (2008). Stephan Scallan, Proximate Cause Under RICO , 20 S. Ill. U. L. J. 455 (1996). Brian Slocum , RICO and the Legislative Supremacy Approach to Federal Criminal Lawmaking , 31 Loy. U. Chi. L. J. 639 (2000). David B. Smith & Terrance G. Reed, Civil RICO (2012). Laurence A. Steckman, RICO Section 1962(c) Enterprises and the Present State of the "Distinctness Requirement" in the Second, Third, and Seventh Circuits , 21 Touro L. Rev. 1083 (2006). Yolanda Eleni Stefanou, Concurrent Jurisdiction Over Federal Civil RICO Claims: Is It Workable? An Analysis of Taffin v. Levitt, 64 St. John's L. Rev. 877 (1990). Barry Tarlow, RICO: The New Darling of the Prosecutor's Nursery , 49 Fordham L. Rev. 165 (1980). United States Department of Justice, Criminal Division, Organized Crime and Racketeering Section, Criminal RICO: 18 U.S.C. §§1961-1968 – A Manual for Federal Prosecutors (5 th ed. 2009). United States House of Representatives, Committee on the Judiciary, Subcommittee on Intellectual Property and Judicial Administration, RICO Amendments Act of 1991 , 102d Cong., 1 st Sess. (1991). ——,Subcommittee on Crime, RICO Reform Act of 1989 , 101 st Cong., 1 st Sess. (1989). ——, Subcommittee on Criminal Justice, RICO Reform , 100 th Cong., 1 st & 2d Sess. (1988). ——, RICO Reform, Pts. 1 & 2 , 99 th Cong., 1 st & 2d Sess. (1986). United States Senate, Committee on Governmental Affairs, Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations, Federal Government's Use of Trusteeships Under the RICO Statute , 101 st Cong., 1 st Sess. (1989). ——, Committee on the Judiciary, Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Reform Act , 101 st Cong., 1 st Sess. (1989). ——, Proposed RICO Reform Legislation , 100 th Cong., 1 st Sess. (1987). Michael Vitiello, More Noise from the Tower of Babel: Making 'Sense' Out of Reves v. Ernst & Young , 56 Ohio St. L. J. 1363 (1995). Gregory J. Wallace, Outgunning the Mob , 80 ABA J. 60 (March 1994). Notes and Comments Brian Goodwin, Note . Civil Versus Criminal RICO and the "Eradication" of La Cosa No s tra , 28 New Eng. J. Crim. & Civ. Confinement 279 (2002). Marcus R. Mumford. Note . Completing Klehr v. A.O.Smith Corp., and Resolving the Oddity and Lingering Questions of Civil Statute of Limitations Accrual , 1998 BYU L. Rev. 1273. Ryan Stai. Note. Counteracting Theft and Fraud: The Applicability of RICO to Organized Retail Crime , 88 Minn. L. Rev. 1391 (2004). Christopher L. McCall. Comment. Equity Up in Smoke: Civil RICO, Disgorgement, and United States v. Philip Morris , 74 Fordham L. Rev. 2461 (2006). Jacob Poorman. Comment. Exercising the Passive Virtues of Interpreting Civil RICO "Business or Property," 75 U. Chi. L. Rev. 1773 (2008). Melissa A. Rolland, Note, Forfeiture Law, the Eighth Amendment's Excessive Fines Clause, and United States v. Bajakajian , 74 Notre Dame L. Rev. 1371 (1999). A. Lamidas Sawkar. Note. From the Mafia to Milking Cows: State RICO Act Expansion , 41 Ariz. L. Rev. 1133 (1999). Patrick Wackerly. Comment. Personal Versus Property Harm and Civil RICO Standing , 73 U. Chi. L. Rev.1513 (2006). Amy L. Higgins. Note. Pimpin' Ain't Easy Under the Eleventh Circuit's Broad RICO Enterprise Standard: United States v. Pipkins , 73 U. Cin. L. Rev. 1643 (2005). R. Stephen Stigall. Comment. Preventing Absurd Application of RICO: A Proposed Amendment to Congress' s Definition of ' Racketeering Activity' in the Wake of National Organization of Women, Inc. v. Scheidler , 68 Temp. L. Q. 223 (1995). Brian J. Murray, Note, Protesters, Extortion, and Coercion: Preventing RICO From Chilling First Amendment Freedoms , 75 Notre Dame L. Rev. 691 (1999). Steven T. Ieronimo. Note. RICO: Is It a Panacea or a Bitter Pill for Labor Unions, Union Democracy and Collective Bargaining? 11 Hofstra Lab. L. J. 499 (1994). T hirtieth Annual Survey of White Collar Crime: Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations , 52 Am. Crim. L. Rev.11507 (2015). Appendix C. State RICO Citations Summary: Congress enacted the federal Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organization (RICO) provisions as part of the Organized Crime Control Act of 1970. In spite of its name and origin, RICO is not limited to "mobsters" or members of "organized crime" as those terms are popularly understood. Rather, it covers those activities which Congress felt characterized the conduct of organized crime, no matter who actually engages in them. RICO proscribes no conduct that is not otherwise prohibited. Instead it enlarges the civil and criminal consequences, under some circumstances, of a list of state and federal crimes. In simple terms, RICO condemns (1) any person (2) who (a) invests in, or(b) acquires or maintains an interest in, or(c) conducts or participates in the affairs of, or(d) conspires to invest in, acquire, or conduct the affairs of (3) an enterprise (4) which (a) engages in, or(b) whose activities affect, interstate or foreign commerce (5) through (a) the collection of an unlawful debt, or(b) the patterned commission of various state and federal crimes. Violations are punishable by (a) the forfeiture of any property acquired through a RICO violation and of any property interest in the enterprise involved in the violation, and (b) imprisonment for not more than 20 years, or for life if one of the predicate offenses carries such a penalty, and/or a fine of not more than the greater of twice the amount of gain or loss associated with the offense or $250,000 for individuals and $500,000 for organizations. RICO has generally survived constitutional challenges, although its forfeiture provisions are subject to an excessive fines clause analysis and perhaps to cruel and unusual punishment disproportionality analysis. RICO violations also subject the offender to civil liability. The courts may award anyone injured in their business or property by a RICO violation treble damages, costs and attorneys' fees, and may enjoin RICO violations, order divestiture, dissolution or reorganization, or restrict an offender's future professional or investment activities. Civil RICO has been controversial. At one time commentators urged Congress to amend its provisions. Congress found little consensus on the questions raised by proposed revisions, however, and the issue seems to have been put aside at least for the time being. The text of the RICO sections, citations to state RICO statutes, and a selected bibliography are appended. This report appears in an abridged form, without footnotes, full citations, or appendices, as CRS Report RS20376, RICO: An Abridged Sketch, by [author name scrubbed].
{ "task_name": "govreport_summarization" }
using System; using System.Text; using System.Runtime.InteropServices; using System.Runtime.CompilerServices; using Microsoft.Win32.SafeHandles; public class Tests { public class MyHandle : SafeHandle { public MyHandle () : base (IntPtr.Zero, true) { } public MyHandle (IntPtr x) : base (x, true) { } public override bool IsInvalid { get { return false; } } protected override bool ReleaseHandle () { return true; } } // // No default public constructor here, this is so we can test // that proper exceptions are thrown // public class MyHandleNoCtor : SafeHandle { public MyHandleNoCtor (IntPtr handle) : base (handle, true) { } public override bool IsInvalid { get { return false; } } protected override bool ReleaseHandle () { return true; } } [DllImport ("libtest")] public static extern void mono_safe_handle_ref (ref MyHandle handle); [DllImport ("libtest", EntryPoint="mono_safe_handle_ref")] public static extern void mono_safe_handle_ref2 (ref MyHandleNoCtor handle); public static int test_0_safehandle_ref_noctor () { MyHandleNoCtor m = new MyHandleNoCtor ((IntPtr) 0xdead); try { mono_safe_handle_ref2 (ref m); } catch (MissingMethodException e){ Console.WriteLine ("Good: got exception requried"); return 0; } return 1; } public static int test_0_safehandle_ref () { MyHandle m = new MyHandle ((IntPtr) 0xdead); mono_safe_handle_ref (ref m); if (m.DangerousGetHandle () != (IntPtr) 0x800d){ Console.WriteLine ("test_0_safehandle_ref: fail; Expected 0x800d, got: {0:x}", m.DangerousGetHandle ()); return 1; } Console.WriteLine ("test_0_safehandle_ref: pass"); return 0; } [DllImport ("libtest")] public static extern int mono_xr (SafeHandle sh); public static int test_0_marshal_safehandle_argument () { SafeHandle s = new SafeFileHandle ((IntPtr) 0xeadcafe, true); if (mono_xr (s) != (0xeadcafe + 1234)) return 1; return 0; } public static int test_0_marshal_safehandle_argument_null () { try { mono_xr (null); } catch (ArgumentNullException){ return 0; } return 1; } [StructLayout (LayoutKind.Sequential)] public struct StringOnStruct { public string a; } [StructLayout (LayoutKind.Sequential)] public struct StructTest { public int a; public SafeHandle handle1; public SafeHandle handle2; public int b; } [StructLayout (LayoutKind.Sequential)] public struct StructTest1 { public SafeHandle a; } [DllImport ("libtest")] public static extern int mono_safe_handle_struct_ref (ref StructTest test); [DllImport ("libtest")] public static extern int mono_safe_handle_struct (StructTest test); [DllImport ("libtest")] public static extern int mono_safe_handle_struct_simple (StructTest1 test); [DllImport ("libtest", EntryPoint="mono_safe_handle_return")] public static extern SafeHandle mono_safe_handle_return_1 (); [DllImport ("libtest", EntryPoint="mono_safe_handle_return")] public static extern MyHandle mono_safe_handle_return (); [DllImport ("libtest", EntryPoint="mono_safe_handle_return")] public static extern MyHandleNoCtor mono_safe_handle_return_2 (); static StructTest x = new StructTest (); public static int test_0_safehandle_return_noctor () { try { MyHandleNoCtor m = mono_safe_handle_return_2 (); } catch (MissingMethodException e){ Console.WriteLine ("GOOD: got exception required: " + e); return 0; } Console.WriteLine ("Failed, expected an exception because there is no paramterless ctor"); return 1; } public static int test_0_safehandle_return_exc () { try { SafeHandle x = mono_safe_handle_return_1 (); } catch (MarshalDirectiveException){ Console.WriteLine ("GOOD: got exception required"); return 0; } Console.WriteLine ("Error: should have generated an exception, since SafeHandle is abstract"); return 1; } public static int test_0_safehandle_return () { SafeHandle x = mono_safe_handle_return (); Console.WriteLine ("Got the following handle: {0}", x.DangerousGetHandle ()); return x.DangerousGetHandle () == (IntPtr) 0x1000f00d ? 0 : 1; } public static int test_0_marshal_safehandle_field () { x.a = 1234; x.b = 8743; x.handle1 = new SafeFileHandle ((IntPtr) 0x7080feed, false); x.handle2 = new SafeFileHandle ((IntPtr) 0x1234abcd, false); if (mono_safe_handle_struct (x) != 0xf00f) return 1; return 0; } public static int test_0_marshal_safehandle_field_ref () { x.a = 1234; x.b = 8743; x.handle1 = new SafeFileHandle ((IntPtr) 0x7080feed, false); x.handle2 = new SafeFileHandle ((IntPtr) 0x1234abcd, false); if (mono_safe_handle_struct_ref (ref x) != 0xf00d) return 1; return 0; } public static int test_0_simple () { StructTest1 s = new StructTest1 (); s.a = new SafeFileHandle ((IntPtr)1234, false); return mono_safe_handle_struct_simple (s) == 2468 ? 0 : 1; } public static int test_0_struct_empty () { StructTest1 s = new StructTest1 (); try { mono_safe_handle_struct_simple (s); } catch (ArgumentNullException){ return 0; } return 1; } public static int test_0_sf_dispose () { SafeFileHandle sf = new SafeFileHandle ((IntPtr) 0x0d00d, false); sf.Dispose (); try { mono_xr (sf); } catch (ObjectDisposedException){ return 0; } return 1; } static int Error (string msg) { Console.WriteLine ("Error: " + msg); return 1; } static int Main () { return TestDriver.RunTests (typeof (Tests)); } }
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
Passage 1: Thomas Morse Thomas Morse( born June 30, 1968) is an American composer of film and concert music. Passage 2: Tarcisio Fusco Tarcisio Fusco was an Italian composer of film scores. He was the brother of the composer Giovanni Fusco and the uncle of operatic soprano Cecilia Fusco. Passage 3: Amedeo Escobar Amedeo Escobar( 1888–1973) was an Italian composer of film scores. Passage 4: Bert Grund Bert Grund( 1920–1992) was a German composer of film scores. Passage 5: Tharattu Tharattu is a 1981 Indian Malayalam film, directed by Balachandra Menon and produced by AM Sherif and SM Sheryff. The film stars Srividya, Nedumudi Venu, Balachandra Menon and Shanthi Krishna in the lead roles. The film has musical score by Raveendran. Passage 6: Abe Meyer Abe Meyer( 1901 – 1969) was an American composer of film scores. Passage 7: Raveendran Madhavan Raveendran , (born Kulathupuzha, Kollam, 9 November 1943 – died Chennai, Tamil Nadu, 3 March 2005), fondly known as "Raveendran Master", was a popular South Indian music composer and playback singer from Kerala. He was referred to as the aristocratic music director of Malayalam who had a distinctive style of his own. He composed more than 150 films primarily for the Malayalam and Tamil film industries. He also composed a few albums, including "Vasantha GeethangalPonnonatharangini" and "Rithugeethangal". Raveendran successfully composed melodies based on Hindustani Ragas also. He is also noted for his beautiful orchestration. Passage 8: Walter Ulfig Walter Ulfig was a German composer of film scores. Passage 9: Henri Verdun Henri Verdun( 1895–1977) was a French composer of film scores. Passage 10: Alonso Mudarra Alonso Mudarra( c. 1510 – April 1, 1580) was a Spanish composer of the Renaissance, and also played the vihuela, a guitar- shaped string instrument. He was an innovative composer of instrumental music as well as songs, and was the composer of the earliest surviving music for the guitar. Question: Where was the place of death of the composer of film Tharattu? Answer: Chennai
{ "task_name": "2WikiMultihopQA" }
using UnityEngine; using System; using System.Collections; using System.Collections.Generic; public class GoTweenConfig { private List<AbstractTweenProperty> _tweenProperties = new List<AbstractTweenProperty>( 2 ); public List<AbstractTweenProperty> tweenProperties { get { return _tweenProperties; } } public int id; // id for finding the Tween at a later time. multiple Tweens can have the same id public float delay; // how long should we delay before starting the Tween public int iterations = 1; // number of times to iterate. -1 will loop indefinitely public float timeScale = 1.0f; public GoLoopType loopType = Go.defaultLoopType; public GoEaseType easeType = Go.defaultEaseType; public AnimationCurve easeCurve; public bool isPaused; public GoUpdateType propertyUpdateType = Go.defaultUpdateType; public bool isFrom; public Action<AbstractGoTween> onInitHandler; public Action<AbstractGoTween> onBeginHandler; public Action<AbstractGoTween> onIterationStartHandler; public Action<AbstractGoTween> onUpdateHandler; public Action<AbstractGoTween> onIterationEndHandler; public Action<AbstractGoTween> onCompleteHandler; #region TweenProperty adders /// <summary> /// position tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig position( Vector3 endValue, bool isRelative = false ) { var prop = new PositionTweenProperty( endValue, isRelative ); _tweenProperties.Add( prop ); return this; } /// <summary> /// localPosition tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig localPosition( Vector3 endValue, bool isRelative = false ) { var prop = new PositionTweenProperty( endValue, isRelative, true ); _tweenProperties.Add( prop ); return this; } /// <summary> /// position path tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig positionPath( GoSpline path, bool isRelative = false, GoLookAtType lookAtType = GoLookAtType.None, Transform lookTarget = null ) { var prop = new PositionPathTweenProperty( path, isRelative, false, lookAtType, lookTarget ); _tweenProperties.Add( prop ); return this; } /// <summary> /// uniform scale tween (x, y and z scale to the same value) /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig scale( float endValue, bool isRelative = false ) { return this.scale( new Vector3( endValue, endValue, endValue ), isRelative ); } /// <summary> /// scale tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig scale( Vector3 endValue, bool isRelative = false ) { var prop = new ScaleTweenProperty( endValue, isRelative ); _tweenProperties.Add( prop ); return this; } /// <summary> /// scale through a series of Vector3s /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig scalePath( GoSpline path, bool isRelative = false ) { var prop = new ScalePathTweenProperty( path, isRelative ); _tweenProperties.Add( prop ); return this; } /// <summary> /// eulerAngle tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig eulerAngles( Vector3 endValue, bool isRelative = false ) { var prop = new EulerAnglesTweenProperty( endValue, isRelative ); _tweenProperties.Add( prop ); return this; } /// <summary> /// local eulerAngle tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig localEulerAngles( Vector3 endValue, bool isRelative = false ) { var prop = new EulerAnglesTweenProperty( endValue, isRelative, true ); _tweenProperties.Add( prop ); return this; } /// <summary> /// rotation tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig rotation( Vector3 endValue, bool isRelative = false ) { var prop = new RotationTweenProperty( endValue, isRelative ); _tweenProperties.Add( prop ); return this; } /// <summary> /// localRotation tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig localRotation( Vector3 endValue, bool isRelative = false ) { var prop = new RotationTweenProperty( endValue, isRelative, true ); _tweenProperties.Add( prop ); return this; } /// <summary> /// rotation tween as Quaternion /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig rotation( Quaternion endValue, bool isRelative = false ) { var prop = new RotationQuaternionTweenProperty( endValue, isRelative ); _tweenProperties.Add( prop ); return this; } /// <summary> /// localRotation tween as Quaternion /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig localRotation( Quaternion endValue, bool isRelative = false ) { var prop = new RotationQuaternionTweenProperty( endValue, isRelative, true ); _tweenProperties.Add( prop ); return this; } /// <summary> /// anchoredPosition tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig anchoredPosition( Vector2 endValue, bool isRelative = false ) { var prop = new AnchoredPositionTweenProperty( endValue, isRelative ); _tweenProperties.Add( prop ); return this; } /// <summary> /// anchoredPosition3D tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig anchoredPosition3D( Vector3 endValue, bool isRelative = false ) { var prop = new AnchoredPosition3DTweenProperty( endValue, isRelative ); _tweenProperties.Add( prop ); return this; } /// <summary> /// anchorMax tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig anchorMax( Vector2 endValue, bool isRelative = false ) { var prop = new AnchorMaxTweenProperty( endValue, isRelative ); _tweenProperties.Add( prop ); return this; } /// <summary> /// anchorMin tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig anchorMin( Vector2 endValue, bool isRelative = false ) { var prop = new AnchorMinTweenProperty( endValue, isRelative ); _tweenProperties.Add( prop ); return this; } /// <summary> /// offsetMax tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig offsetMax( Vector2 endValue, bool isRelative = false ) { var prop = new OffsetTweenProperty( endValue, isRelative, true ); _tweenProperties.Add( prop ); return this; } /// <summary> /// offsetMin tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig offsetMin( Vector2 endValue, bool isRelative = false ) { var prop = new OffsetTweenProperty( endValue, isRelative ); _tweenProperties.Add( prop ); return this; } /// <summary> /// pivot tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig pivot( Vector2 endValue, bool isRelative = false ) { var prop = new PivotTweenProperty( endValue, isRelative ); _tweenProperties.Add( prop ); return this; } /// <summary> /// sizeDelta tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig sizeDelta( Vector2 endValue, bool isRelative = false ) { var prop = new SizeDeltaTweenProperty( endValue, isRelative ); _tweenProperties.Add( prop ); return this; } /// <summary> /// material color tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig materialColor( Color endValue, string colorName = "_Color", bool isRelative = false ) { var prop = new MaterialColorTweenProperty( endValue, colorName, isRelative ); _tweenProperties.Add( prop ); return this; } /// <summary> /// material vector tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig materialVector( Vector4 endValue, string propertyName, bool isRelative = false) { var prop = new MaterialVectorTweenProperty(endValue, propertyName, isRelative); _tweenProperties.Add(prop); return this; } /// <summary> /// material float tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig materialFloat( float endValue, string propertyName, bool isRelative = false ) { var prop = new MaterialFloatTweenProperty(endValue, propertyName, isRelative); _tweenProperties.Add(prop); return this; } /// <summary> /// shake tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig shake( Vector3 shakeMagnitude, GoShakeType shakeType = GoShakeType.Position, int frameMod = 1, bool useLocalProperties = false ) { var prop = new ShakeTweenProperty( shakeMagnitude, shakeType, frameMod, useLocalProperties ); _tweenProperties.Add( prop ); return this; } #region generic properties /// <summary> /// generic vector2 tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig vector2Prop( string propertyName, Vector2 endValue, bool isRelative = false ) { var prop = new Vector2TweenProperty( propertyName, endValue, isRelative ); _tweenProperties.Add( prop ); return this; } /// <summary> /// generic vector3 tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig vector3Prop( string propertyName, Vector3 endValue, bool isRelative = false ) { var prop = new Vector3TweenProperty( propertyName, endValue, isRelative ); _tweenProperties.Add( prop ); return this; } /// <summary> /// generic vector4 tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig vector4Prop( string propertyName, Vector4 endValue, bool isRelative = false ) { var prop = new Vector4TweenProperty( propertyName, endValue, isRelative ); _tweenProperties.Add( prop ); return this; } /// <summary> /// generic vector3 path tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig vector3PathProp( string propertyName, GoSpline path, bool isRelative = false ) { var prop = new Vector3PathTweenProperty( propertyName, path, isRelative ); _tweenProperties.Add( prop ); return this; } /// <summary> /// generic vector3.x tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig vector3XProp( string propertyName, float endValue, bool isRelative = false ) { var prop = new Vector3XTweenProperty( propertyName, endValue, isRelative ); _tweenProperties.Add( prop ); return this; } /// <summary> /// generic vector3.y tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig vector3YProp( string propertyName, float endValue, bool isRelative = false ) { var prop = new Vector3YTweenProperty( propertyName, endValue, isRelative ); _tweenProperties.Add( prop ); return this; } /// <summary> /// generic vector3.z tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig vector3ZProp( string propertyName, float endValue, bool isRelative = false ) { var prop = new Vector3ZTweenProperty( propertyName, endValue, isRelative ); _tweenProperties.Add( prop ); return this; } /// <summary> /// generic color tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig colorProp( string propertyName, Color endValue, bool isRelative = false ) { var prop = new ColorTweenProperty( propertyName, endValue, isRelative ); _tweenProperties.Add( prop ); return this; } /// <summary> /// generic integer tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig intProp( string propertyName, int endValue, bool isRelative = false ) { var prop = new IntTweenProperty( propertyName, endValue, isRelative ); _tweenProperties.Add( prop ); return this; } /// <summary> /// generic float tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig floatProp( string propertyName, float endValue, bool isRelative = false ) { var prop = new FloatTweenProperty( propertyName, endValue, isRelative ); _tweenProperties.Add( prop ); return this; } #endregion #endregion /// <summary> /// adds a TweenProperty to the list /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig addTweenProperty( AbstractTweenProperty tweenProp ) { _tweenProperties.Add( tweenProp ); return this; } /// <summary> /// clears out all the TweenProperties /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig clearProperties() { _tweenProperties.Clear(); return this; } /// <summary> /// clears out all the TweenProperties /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig clearEvents() { onInitHandler = null; onBeginHandler = null; onIterationStartHandler = null; onUpdateHandler = null; onIterationEndHandler = null; onCompleteHandler = null; return this; } /// <summary> /// sets the delay for the tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig setDelay( float seconds ) { delay = seconds; return this; } /// <summary> /// sets the number of iterations. setting to -1 will loop infinitely /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig setIterations( int iterations ) { this.iterations = iterations; return this; } /// <summary> /// sets the number of iterations and the loop type. setting to -1 will loop infinitely /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig setIterations( int iterations, GoLoopType loopType ) { this.iterations = iterations; this.loopType = loopType; return this; } /// <summary> /// sets the timeScale to be used by the Tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig setTimeScale( float timeScale ) { this.timeScale = timeScale; return this; } /// <summary> /// sets the ease type for the Tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig setEaseType( GoEaseType easeType ) { this.easeType = easeType; return this; } /// <summary> /// sets the ease curve for the Tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig setEaseCurve( AnimationCurve easeCurve ) { this.easeCurve = easeCurve; this.easeType = GoEaseType.AnimationCurve; return this; } /// <summary> /// sets whether the Tween should start paused /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig startPaused() { isPaused = true; return this; } /// <summary> /// sets the update type for the Tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig setUpdateType( GoUpdateType setUpdateType ) { propertyUpdateType = setUpdateType; return this; } /// <summary> /// sets if this Tween should be a "from" Tween. From Tweens use the current property as the endValue and /// the endValue as the start value /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig setIsFrom() { isFrom = true; return this; } /// <summary> /// sets if this Tween should be a "to" Tween. /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig setIsTo() { isFrom = false; return this; } /// <summary> /// sets the onInit handler for the Tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig onInit( Action<AbstractGoTween> onInit ) { onInitHandler = onInit; return this; } /// <summary> /// sets the onBegin handler for the Tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig onBegin( Action<AbstractGoTween> onBegin ) { onBeginHandler = onBegin; return this; } /// <summary> /// sets the onIterationStart handler for the Tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig onIterationStart( Action<AbstractGoTween> onIterationStart ) { onIterationStartHandler = onIterationStart; return this; } /// <summary> /// sets the onUpdate handler for the Tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig onUpdate( Action<AbstractGoTween> onUpdate ) { onUpdateHandler = onUpdate; return this; } /// <summary> /// sets the onIterationEnd handler for the Tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig onIterationEnd( Action<AbstractGoTween> onIterationEnd ) { onIterationEndHandler = onIterationEnd; return this; } /// <summary> /// sets the onComplete handler for the Tween /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig onComplete( Action<AbstractGoTween> onComplete ) { onCompleteHandler = onComplete; return this; } /// <summary> /// sets the id for the Tween. Multiple Tweens can have the same id and you can retrieve them with the Go class /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig setId( int id ) { this.id = id; return this; } /// <summary> /// clones the instance /// </summary> public GoTweenConfig clone() { var other = this.MemberwiseClone() as GoTweenConfig; other._tweenProperties = new List<AbstractTweenProperty>( 2 ); for( int k = 0; k < this._tweenProperties.Count; ++k ) { AbstractTweenProperty tweenProp = this._tweenProperties[k]; other._tweenProperties.Add(tweenProp); } return other; } }
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
Passage 1: Hook (Once Upon a Time) Captain Killian "Hook" Jones is a fictional character in ABC's television series "Once Upon a Time". He is portrayed by Irish actor/musician Colin O'Donoghue, who became a series regular in the second season after making recurring appearances and has become a fan favorite since his debut. He is based on the character from J. M. Barrie's play, "Peter and Wendy". Passage 2: Homespun (band) Homespun was an English pop/folk band formed in 2003 by Dave Rotheray, ex-songwriter and musician from the 15 million record selling band The Beautiful South. Homespun was originally a side project, designed as an outlet for Rotheray’s solo compositions. Other band members were Sam Brown, Melvin Duffy, Tony Robinson, Clare Mactaggart, Gary Hammond and Alan Jones. Passage 3: Stuart Dunne Stuart Dunne is an Irish actor and artist. He is best known for his dark and violent portrayal of the character Billy Meehan on the Irish soap opera "Fair City". He was nominated at the 2003 Irish Film and Television Awards for Best Actor in a Television Drama for "Fair City". Passage 4: Aidan Gillen Aidan Gillen ( ; born Aidan Murphy; 24 April 1968) is an Irish actor. Passage 5: List of fictional actors Fictional stories sometimes feature a fictional movie or play. In these cases, occasionally, a fictional actor appears. In movies, it is not infrequent that a real, famous actor plays the role of a fictional person who is also an actor. Passage 6: Ted Schmidt Theodore "Ted" Schmidt is a fictional character from the American Showtime television drama series "Queer as Folk", played by Scott Lowell. Fellow show cast member Peter Paige, who plays Emmett Honeycutt originally auditioned for the role. Lowell was cast and he stated that he had an instant connection with the character. "Queer as Folk" is based on the British show of the same name and Ted is loosely based on the character Phil Delaney, played by Jason Merrells. Phil was killed off in that series, whereas show creator Daniel Lipman decided to develop the character into a full-time role for the US version. Passage 7: Vishram Sawant Vishram Shivram Sawant ( विशराम शिवराम सावंत ) is an Indian auteur noted for his realistic portrayal of the criminal underworld. Heavily influenced by Ram Gopal Varma, he made his directorial debut with "D", which is about the meteroic rise of a fictional underworld don, "Deshu" ( played by Randeep Hooda), which appears to be loosely based upon Dawood Ibrahim's career ( though Sawant denies it). His next film was Risk in which the same actor plays an errant police inspector with Vinod Khanna as villain. Passage 8: Stuart Dallas Stuart Alan Dallas (born 19 April 1991) is a Northern Irish professional footballer who plays as a Winger for Championship club Leeds United and the Northern Ireland national team. Passage 9: Stuart Alan Jones Stuart Alan Jones is a fictional character from the Channel 4 drama series "Queer as Folk", portrayed by Aidan Gillen. Working at an advertising agency in Manchester, Stuart spent a significant portion of his time in pubs or the night club Babylon on Canal Street. Enthusiastic at sex and once said he wants to "die shagging." Although he is not a gay activist, Stuart always acts aggressively toward homophobes. Passage 10: Stuart Brock Stuart Alan Brock (born 26 September 1976) is an English footballer who made 135 appearances in the Football League playing as a goalkeeper for Kidderminster Harriers. He currently plays for Hednesford Town in the Northern Premier League . Brock joined the club in the summer of 2008 from Southern League Willenhall Town, following former manager Dean Edwards to Keys Park. Question: Which Irish actor plays the fictional character Stuart Alan Jones from Queer as Folk? Answer: Aidan Gillen
{ "task_name": "hotpotqa" }
Passage 1: Ian Barry (director) Ian Barry is an Australian director of film and TV. Passage 2: Bill Smith (footballer, born 1897) William Thomas Smith( born 9 April 1897, date of death unknown) was an English professional footballer. Passage 3: Theodred II (Bishop of Elmham) Theodred II was a medieval Bishop of Elmham. The date of Theodred's consecration unknown, but the date of his death was sometime between 995 and 997. Passage 4: Thomas Scott (diver) Thomas Scott( 1907- date of death unknown) was an English diver. Passage 5: Peter Levin Peter Levin is an American director of film, television and theatre. Passage 6: Harry Wainwright (footballer) Harry Wainwright( born 1899; date of death unknown) was an English footballer. Passage 7: Albert Thompson (footballer, born 1912) Albert Thompson( born 1912, date of death unknown) was a Welsh footballer. Passage 8: George Pollock (director) George Pollock (March 27, 1907 – December 22, 1979) was a British film director, best known for bringing Agatha Christie's famous detective Miss Marple to the big screen for the first time, starring Margaret Rutherford. Passage 9: Murder Ahoy! Murder Ahoy! is the last of four Miss Marple films made by Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer that starred Margaret Rutherford. As in the previous three, the actress plays Agatha Christie's amateur sleuth Miss Jane Marple, with Charles 'Bud' Tingwell as (Chief) Inspector Craddock and Stringer Davis (Rutherford's real-life husband) playing Mr Stringer. The film was made in 1964 and directed by George Pollock, with David Pursall and Jack Seddon credited with the script. The music was by Ron Goodwin. Location shots included Denham Village and St Mawes, Cornwall. Unlike the previous three films that were adapted from Christie novels – "The 4.50 from PaddingtonMurder, She Said" – the only Miss Marple novel used), "After the Funeral" (a Poirot mystery, adapted for Miss Marple with the title "Murder at the Gallop") and "Mrs. McGinty's Dead" (another Poirot novel, adapted as "Murder Most Foul") – this film used an original screenplay that was not based on any of Christie's stories. It does, however, employ elements of the Miss Marple story "They Do It With Mirrors". Specifically, the "Battledore" is a training ship for teenage boys with criminal tendencies, who are supposedly being set on the straight and narrow path – when, in fact, one of the members of the crew is training them for careers in housebreaking. Likewise, in "They Do It With Mirrors", Lewis Serrocold is running his wife's mansion, Stonygates, as a boarding school for delinquent youths, to straighten out their lives – but, in fact, he is training selected students to hone their criminal skills, not to give them up. That is the only element borrowed into the film from a Christie story. There is also an entirely tongue-in-cheek reference to "The Mousetrap", the Christie play that has been running continuously on the West End since 1952. Audiences who see "The Mousetrap" are asked to keep the ending a secret, so it is amusing when Rutherford's Miss Marple says that she's reading a "rattling-good detective yarn" and "I hope I won't be giving "too" much away if I say the answer is a mousetrap!" She then notes that she'll "say no more – otherwise, I'll spoil it for you!" Passage 10: Etan Boritzer Etan Boritzer( born 1950) is an American writer of children ’s literature who is best known for his book" What is God?" first published in 1989. His best selling" What is?" illustrated children's book series on character education and difficult subjects for children is a popular teaching guide for parents, teachers and child- life professionals. Boritzer gained national critical acclaim after" What is God?" was published in 1989 although the book has caused controversy from religious fundamentalists for its universalist views. The other current books in the" What is?" series include What is Love?, What is Death?, What is Beautiful?, What is Funny?, What is Right?, What is Peace?, What is Money?, What is Dreaming?, What is a Friend?, What is True?, What is a Family?, What is a Feeling?" The series is now also translated into 15 languages. Boritzer was first published in 1963 at the age of 13 when he wrote an essay in his English class at Wade Junior High School in the Bronx, New York on the assassination of John F. Kennedy. His essay was included in a special anthology by New York City public school children compiled and published by the New York City Department of Education. Boritzer now lives in Venice, California and maintains his publishing office there also. He has helped numerous other authors to get published through" How to Get Your Book Published!" programs. Boritzer is also a yoga teacher who teaches regular classes locally and guest- teaches nationally. He is also recognized nationally as an erudite speaker on" The Teachings of the Buddha." Question: What is the date of death of the director of film Murder Ahoy!? Answer: December 22, 1979
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Document: H.R. 3962 , Affordable Health Care for America Act, was passed by the House of Representatives on November 7, 2009. H.R. 3962 is based on H.R. 3200 , America's Affordable Health Choices Act of 2009, which was originally introduced on July 14, 2009, and was reported separately on October 14, 2009, by three House Committees—Education and Labor, Energy and Commerce, and Ways and Means. On November 6, the Congressional Budget Office (CBO) released an estimate of the direct spending and revenue effects of H.R. 3962 that includes the manager's amendment proposed on November 3 and reflects the enactment of H.R. 3548 , the Worker, Homeownership, and Business Assistance Act of 2009. CBO projects the bill would reduce federal deficits by $109 billion over the 10-year period of 2010-2019 and, by 2019, would insure 96% of the non-elderly, legally present U.S. population. The gross 10-year cost of the Exchange subsidies ($610 billion), increased federal Medicaid expenditures ($425 billion), and tax credits for small employers ($25 billion) would total $1.052 trillion. Taking into account employer and individual tax penalties and other issues pertaining to coverage, the net cost of the coverage provisions, according to the CBO analysis, would be $891 billion over 10 years. "Over the 2010–2019 period, the net cost of the coverage expansions would be more than offset by the combination of other spending changes, which CBO estimates would save $427 billion, and receipts resulting from the income tax surcharge on high-income individuals and other provisions, which JCT [the Joint Committee on Taxation] and CBO estimate would increase federal revenues by $574 billion over that period." This report summarizes the key provisions affecting private health insurance in the Affordable Health Care for America Act, as passed by the House of Representatives on November 7, 2009. The bill focuses on reducing the number of uninsured, restructuring the private health insurance market, setting minimum standards for health benefits, providing financial assistance to certain individuals, and, in some cases, small employers. The bill also includes provisions to raise revenues. In general, H.R. 3962 would include the following: Individuals would be required to maintain health insurance, and employers would be required to either provide insurance or pay a payroll assessment, with some exceptions. Several market reforms would be made, such as modified community rating and guaranteed issue and renewal. Both the individual and employer mandates would be linked to acceptable health insurance coverage, which would meet required minimum standards and incorporate the market reforms included in the bill. Acceptable coverage would include coverage under a qualified health benefits plan (QHBP), which could be offered either through the newly created Exchange or outside the Exchange through new employer plans; grandfathered employment based plans; grandfathered nongroup plans; and other coverage, such as Medicare and Medicaid. The Exchange would be established under a new independent federal agency (the Health Choices Administration), headed by a Commissioner. The Exchange would offer private plans alongside a public option. Certain individuals with incomes below 400% of the federal poverty level could qualify for subsidies toward their premium costs and cost-sharing; these subsidies would be available only through the Exchange. In the individual market (the nongroup market), a plan could be grandfathered indefinitely, but only if no changes were made to the terms and conditions of the plan, including benefits and cost-sharing, and premiums were only increased as allowed by statute. The bill would also establish a Consumer Operated and Oriented Plan (CO-OP) program under which grants and loans would be provided to encourage the creation of not-for-profit, member-run health insurance cooperatives that would operate in the Exchange. This bill would not affect plans covering specific services, such as dental or vision care. Most of these provisions would be effective beginning in 2013. Revenues would be raised by limiting employer deductions for certain health insurance plans and modifying tax-advantaged accounts currently used for health care spending and coverage, among other provisions. This report begins by providing background information on key aspects of the private insurance market as it exists currently. This information is useful in setting the stage for understanding how and where H.R. 3962 would reform health insurance. The report summarizes key provisions affecting private health insurance in Division A of H.R. 3962 , passed by the House of Representatives on November 7, 2009. Although most of the provisions would be effective beginning in 2013, the table in the Appendix shows the timeline for implementing provisions effective prior to 2013. Although the description that follows segments the private health insurance provisions into various categories, these provisions are interrelated and interdependent. For example, H.R. 3962 includes a number of provisions to alter how current private health insurance markets function, primarily for individuals who purchase coverage directly from an insurer or through a small employer. H.R. 3962 would require that insurers not exclude potential enrollees or charge them premiums based on pre-existing health conditions. In a system where individuals voluntarily choose whether to obtain health insurance, however, individuals may choose to enroll only when they become sick, known as "adverse selection," which can lead to higher premiums and greater uninsurance. When permitted, insurers often guard against adverse selection by adopting policies such as excluding preexisting conditions. If reform eliminates many of the tools insurers use to guard against adverse selection then, instead, America's Health Insurance Plans (AHIP), the association that represents health insurers, has stated that individuals must be required to purchase coverage, so that not just the sick enroll. Furthermore, some individuals currently forgo health insurance because they cannot afford the premiums. If individuals are required to obtain health insurance, one could argue that adequate premium subsidies must be provided by the government and/or employers to make practical the individual mandate to obtain health insurance, which is in turn arguably necessary to make the market reforms possible. In addition, premium subsidies without cost-sharing subsidies may provide individuals with health insurance that they cannot afford to use. So, while the descriptions below discuss various provisions separately, the removal of one from the bill could be deleterious to the implementation of the others. The private health insurance provisions are presented under the following topics within Division A of H.R. 3962 : Individual and employer mandates: the requirement on individuals to maintain health insurance and on employers to either provide health insurance or pay into the Exchange, with penalties and taxes for noncompliance. Private health insurance market reforms. Immediate Reforms. Health Insurance Exchange, through which the following can only be offered: Public health insurance option. Premium and cost-sharing subsidies. CO-OP Program. Selected revenue provisions related to health insurance. Other Provisions Abortion. Medical malpractice. End-of-life care. Americans obtain health insurance in different settings and through a variety of methods. People may get health coverage in the private sector or through a publicly funded program, such as Medicare or Medicaid. In 2008, 60% of the U.S. population had employment-based health insurance. Employers choosing to offer health coverage may either purchase insurance or choose to self-fund health benefits for their employees. Other individuals obtained coverage on their own in the nongroup market. However, there is no federal law that either requires individuals to have health insurance or requires employers to offer health insurance. Approximately 46 million Americans were estimated to be uninsured in 2008. Individuals and employers choosing to purchase health insurance in the private market fit into one of the three segments of the market, depending on their situation—the large group (large employer) market, the small group market, and the nongroup market. More than 95% of large employers offer coverage. Large employers are generally able to obtain lower premiums for a given health insurance package than small employers and individuals seeking nongroup coverage. This is partly because larger employers enjoy economies of scale and a larger "risk pool" of enrollees, which makes the expected costs of care more predictable. Employers generally offer large subsidies toward health insurance, thus making it more attractive for both the healthier and the sicker workers to enter the pool. So, not only is the risk pool larger in size, but it is more diverse. States have experimented with ways to create a single site where individuals and small employers could compare different insurance plans, obtain coverage, and sometimes pool risk. Although most of these past experiments failed (e.g., California's PacAdvantage ), other states have learned from these experiences and have fashioned potentially more sustainable models (e.g., Massachusetts' Connector ). There are private-sector companies that also serve the role of making various health insurance plans easier to compare for individuals and small groups (e.g., eHealthInsurance), available in most, but not all, states because of variation in states' regulations. Less than half of all small employers (less than 50 employees) offer health insurance coverage; such employers cite cost as the primary reason for not offering health benefits. One of the main reasons is a small group's limited ability to spread risk across a small pool. Insurers generally consider small firms to be less stable than larger pools, as one or two employees moving in or out of the pool (or developing an illness) would have a greater impact on the risk pool than they would in large firms. Other factors that affect a small employer's ability to provide health insurance include certain disadvantages small firms have in comparison with their larger counterparts: small groups are more likely to be medically underwritten, have relatively little market power to negotiate benefits and rates with insurance carriers, and generally lack economies of scale. Allowing these firms to purchase insurance through a larger pool, such as an Association, Gateway or an Exchange, could lower premiums for those with high-cost employees. Depending on the applicable state laws, individuals who purchase health insurance in the nongroup market may be rejected or face premiums based on their health status, which can make premiums lower for the healthy but higher for the sick. Even when these individuals obtain coverage, there may be exclusions for certain conditions. Reforms affecting premiums ratings would likely increase premiums for some, while lowering premiums for others, depending on their age, health, behaviors, and other factors. States are the primary regulators of the private health insurance market, though some federal regulation applies, mostly affecting employer-sponsored health insurance (ESI). The Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act (HIPAA) requires that coverage sold to small groups (2-50 employees) must be sold on a guaranteed issue basis. That is, the issuer must accept every small employer that applies for coverage. All states require issuers to offer policies to firms with 2-50 workers on a guaranteed issue basis, in compliance with HIPAA. As of January 2009 in the small group market, 13 states also require issuers to offer policies on a guaranteed issue basis to the self-employed "groups of one." And as of December 2008 in the individual market, 15 states require issuers to offer some or all of their insurance products on a guaranteed issue basis to non-HIPAA eligible individuals. Most states currently impose premium rating rules on insurance carriers in the small group and individual markets. The spectrum of existing state rating limitations ranges from pure community rating to adjusted (or modified) community rating, to rate bands, to no restrictions. Under pure community rating, all enrollees in a plan pay the same premium, regardless of their health, age, or any other factor. Only two states (New Jersey and New York) use pure community rating in their nongroup markets, and only New York imposes pure community rating rules in the small group market. Adjusted community rating prohibits issuers from pricing health insurance policies based on health factors, but allows it for other key factors such as age or gender. Rate bands allow premium variation based on health, but such variation is limited according to a range specified by the state. Rate bands are typically expressed as a percentage above and below the index rate (i.e., the rate that would be charged to a standard population if the plan is prohibited from rating based on health factors). Federal law requires that group health plans and health insurance issuers offering group health coverage must limit the period of time when coverage for preexisting health conditions may be excluded. As of January 2009, in the small group market, 21 states had preexisting condition exclusion rules that provided consumer protection above the federal standard. And as of December 2008, in the individual market, 42 states limit the period of time when coverage for preexisting health conditions may be excluded for certain enrollees in that market. In fact, while there are a handful of federal benefit mandates for health insurance that apply to group coverage, there are more than 2,000 benefit mandates imposed by the states. One issue receiving congressional attention is whether a publicly sponsored health insurance plan should be offered as part of the insurance market reform. Some proponents of a public option see it as potentially less expensive than private alternatives, as it would not need to generate profits or pay brokers to enroll individuals and might have lower administrative costs. Some proponents argue that offering a public plan could provide additional choice and may increase competition, since the public plan might require lower provider payments and thus charge lower premiums. Some opponents question whether these advantages would make the plan a fair competitor, or rather provide the government with an unfair advantage in setting prices, in authorizing legislation, or in future amendments. Ultimately, they fear that these advantages might drive private plans from the market. The relative performance of health insurance organization by profit status has received some attention. Health insurance is provided by organizations that are either for-profit or non-profit in terms of their tax status. Some studies have suggested that non-profits perform better in key areas such as quality. For example, a study published in the Journal of the American Medical Association (JAMA) in 1999 found that non-profit health maintenance organizations (HMOs) scored higher on all 14 Healthplan Employer Data and Information Set (HEDIS) quality measures studied. These results were generally replicated in a study published in 2006 of 272 health plans conducted by researchers at the University of California at Berkeley and the National Committee for Quality Assurance (NCQA). Health insurance co-operatives, a subset of non-profit plans, have performed particularly well as detailed in recent case studies of Group Health Cooperative of Seattle (GHC) and HealthPartners of Minnesota. As of 2008, 47% of the enrollment in private health plans was in non-profit health insurance organizations. However, there are relatively few health insurance co-operative organizations in the United States. Some congressional attention has been focused on options to incentivize the creation of new health insurance co-operatives. Advocates of this position argue that co-operatives invest retained earnings back into the plan or to enrollees in the form of lower premiums, lower cost-sharing, expanded benefits, and innovations such as wellness programs, chronic disease management, and integrated care. Opponents of the proposal assert that co-operatives have not been successful in most of the country and that evidence is lacking that co-operatives would make health insurance more affordable. Several provisions of the bill would take effect prior to the full implementation on January 1, 2013. Many of these requirements would be administrative in nature and are necessary steps leading up to full implementation. These provisions are not discussed here. See the Appendix for these items. However, some of the provisions that would take effect prior to January 1, 2013, are more substantive and include the following: Postretirement reductions in retiree health benefits would be prohibited. Individuals would be allowed to keep their COBRA coverage until the Exchange is up and running. The Secretary would establish a temporary national high-risk pool program to provide health benefits to eligible individuals during the period beginning on January 1, 2010, and ending when the Health Insurance Exchange is established. Each health insurance issuer that offers health insurance coverage in the small or large group market would provide a rebate if the coverage has a medical loss ratio below a level specified by the Secretary (but not less than 85%). The provision sunsets once plans are offered via the Exchange. This provision would also apply to the individual market unless the Secretary determines that the application of this policy may destabilize the existing individual market. Health insurance issuers would have to submit a justification to the Secretary and the states for any premium increases prior to implementation of the increase. The bill would allow individuals through age 26 who were not otherwise covered to remain on their parents' group or individual plans, at their parents' discretion. In both the group and individual markets (prior to the complete prohibition in 2013), the bill would reduce the window that plans can look back for pre-existing conditions from 6 months to 30 days and shorten the period that plans may exclude coverage of certain benefits. The bill would prohibit acts of domestic violence from being treated as a pre-existing condition. For both the group and individual markets, plans would have to cover benefits for a dependent child's congenital or developmental deformity or disorder. For both the group and individual markets, the bill would prohibit aggregate dollar lifetime limits on benefits. The Secretary would issue guidance implementing the prohibition on rescission in the group and individual markets. This guidance would limit the situations in which an insurer may rescind, or cancel, a person's health insurance policy. The Secretary would establish a temporary reinsurance program to assist participating employment-based plans with the cost of providing health benefits to retirees and to eligible spouses, surviving spouses and dependents of such retirees. H.R. 3962 includes a mandate for most individuals to have health insurance, with penalties for noncompliance. Individuals would be required to maintain acceptable coverage, defined as coverage under a qualified health benefits plan (QHBP), an employment-based plan, a grandfathered nongroup plan, part A of Medicare, Medicaid, military coverage (including Tricare), veteran's health care program, services for members of Indian tribes (through the Indian Health Service, a tribal organization or an urban Indian organization), and coverage as determined by the Secretary in coordination with the Commissioner. Individuals who did not maintain acceptable health insurance coverage for themselves and their children could be required to pay an additional tax, prorated for the time the individual (or family) does not have coverage, equal to the lesser of (1) 2.5% of the taxpayer's modified adjusted gross income (MAGI) over the amount of income required to file a tax return, or (2) the national average premium for applicable single or family coverage. Some individuals would be provided with subsidies to help pay for the costs of their premiums and cost-sharing. (A complete description of who is eligible and the amount of subsidies is found in the section on premium and cost-sharing credits). Others would be exempt from the individual mandate, including nonresident aliens, individuals residing outside of the United States, individuals residing in possessions of the United States, those with qualified religious exemptions, those allowed to be a dependent for tax-filing purposes, and others granted an exemption by the Secretary. H.R. 3962 would require employers either to offer individual and family coverage under a QHBP (or current employment-based plan) to their employees or to pay a set amount into the Exchange, with some exceptions. Employers would include private-sector employers, churches, and federal, state, local and tribal governments. For those employers that chose to offer health insurance, the following rules would apply: Employers could offer employment-based coverage or, for certain small businesses, they could offer coverage through an Exchange plan (see section on rules for employer eligibility for Exchange plans). Current employment-based health plans would be grandfathered for five years, at which time any plan offered by an employer would have to meet (and could exceed) the requirements of the essential benefits package. Employers would have to contribute at least 72.5% of the lowest-cost QHBP or current employment-based plan they offered (65% for those electing family coverage) —prorated for part-time employees. Salary reductions used to offset required employer contributions would not count as amounts paid by the employer. Employers would automatically enroll their employees into the plan for individual coverage with the lowest associated employee premium, unless the employee selected a different plan or opted out of employer coverage. Employers would be required to provide written notice detailing the employee's rights and obligations relating to auto enrollment. Employers would be required to provide certain information to show compliance with health participation requirements, including (1) certification as to whether the employer offered its full-time employees (and dependents) enrollment in a QHBP or current employment-based plan; (2) monthly premiums for the lowest cost plan; (3) name, address, and other information of each full-time employee enrolled in a plan; and (4) other information as required. The Secretary of HHS, in coordination with the Commissioner, could terminate an employer's election to provide health insurance if the employer was in substantial noncompliance with the health coverage participation requirements. As shown in Table 1 , employers with aggregate wages over $750,000 that chose not to offer coverage would be subject to an excise tax equal to 8% of the average wages paid by the employer. The table shows the required level of payroll assessments for smaller employers. Even if an employer offered employment-based coverage, employees could decline or disenroll from this insurance and instead enroll in a plan through the Exchange (although such individual may be responsible for all of the premium). Beginning in 2014, with respect to an employee who declines the employers qualifying coverage, employers with aggregate wages above $750,000 would be assessed 8% of average wages, with similar adjustments for small employers, as those described above. (This payroll assessment would not be required for an employee who was not the primary insured individual but was covered as a spouse or dependent in an Exchange plan.) The employer's payroll assessment for this group of individuals would go into the Exchange but would not apply toward the individual's premium. In addition, as discussed below, full-time employees who are offered their employer's qualifying coverage would generally not be eligible for any premium or cost-sharing credits (absent the limited instances ). Thus, in general, a full-time employee who opted for Exchange coverage rather than the employer's qualifying coverage would be responsible for 100% of the premium in the Exchange. Certain small businesses would be eligible for a 50% credit toward their share of the cost of qualified employee health coverage for no more than two taxable years. This credit would be phased out as average employee compensation increased from $20,000 to $40,000 and as the number of employees increased from 10 to 25. Employees would be counted if they received at least $5,000 in compensation, but the credit would not apply toward insurance for employees whose compensation exceeded $80,000 (highly compensated employees). Adjustments for inflation would be applied to the average employee compensation and to the limit on highly compensated employees, beginning after tax year 2013. This credit would be treated as part of the general business credit and would not be refundable; it would be available only to a business with a tax liability. A non-profit organization, for example, would be ineligible for the small business credit. H.R. 3962 would establish new federal health insurance standards applicable to new, generally available health plans specified in the bill—qualified health benefits plans (QHBPs). Some of these reforms would continue the application of the immediate reforms. Among the market reforms applicable to QHBPs (including the public health insurance option) are provisions that would do the following: Prohibit coverage exclusions of pre-existing health conditions, or limitations on coverage based on health status, medical condition, claims experience, receipt of health care, medical history, genetic information, evidence of insurability, disability, or source of injury (including conditions arising out of acts of domestic violence) or similar factors. (A "pre-existing health condition" is a medical condition that was present before the date of enrollment for health coverage, whether or not any medical advice, diagnosis, care, or treatment was recommended or received before such date.) Require coverage to be offered on both a guaranteed issue and guaranteed renewal basis. ("Guaranteed issue" in health insurance is the requirement that an issuer accept every applicant for health coverage. "Guaranteed renewal" in health insurance is the requirement on an issuer to renew group coverage at the option of the plan sponsor [e.g., employer] or nongroup coverage at the option of the enrollee. Guaranteed issue and renewal alone would not guarantee that the insurance offered was affordable; this would be addressed in the rating rules.) (This provision not only applies to QHBPs but also to all individual and group health plans whether offered in or out of the Exchange.) Require premiums to be determined using adjusted community rating rules. ("Adjusted, or modified, community rating" prohibits issuers from pricing health insurance policies based on health factors, but allows it for other key characteristics such as age or gender.) Under H.R. 3962 , premiums would be allowed to vary based only on age (by no more than a 2:1 ratio based on age categories specified by the Commissioner), premium rating area (as permitted by states or the Commissioner), and family enrollment (so long as the ratio of family premium to individual premium is uniform, as specified under state law and consistent with Commissioner rules). Impose new non-discrimination standards building on existing non-discrimination rules, and adequacy standards for insurers' networks of providers, such as doctors, and apply existing mental health parity rules. Require coverage to provide to the policyholder the option of keeping qualified dependent children on the family's policy, so long as the child is under 27 years of age and is not enrolled in any other health plan. Require notification to plan enrollees of any decrease in coverage or increase in cost-sharing at least 90 days prior to the effective date of such changes. H.R. 3962 would also require QHBPs to cover certain broad categories of benefits, prohibit cost-sharing on preventive services, limit annual out-of-pocket spending, prohibit annual and lifetime benefit limits on covered health care items and services, comply with network adequacy standards, meet the standards for the "essential benefits package," and be equivalent in its scope of benefits to the average employer health plan. New individual policies issued in 2013 or after could be offered only as an Exchange plan. Existing group plans would have to transition to QHBP standards by 2018. Existing nongroup insurance policies would be grandfathered as long as there are no changes to the terms or conditions of the coverage (except as required by law), including benefits and cost-sharing. Such policies would be required to meet other conditions, including increasing premiums only according to statute. H.R. 3962 would allow states to form Health Care Choice Compacts for the purpose of facilitating the sale and purchase of individual health insurance plans across state lines. The Secretary would request the National Association of Insurance Commissioners (NAIC) to develop model guidelines for the creation of such compacts, which would subject coverage sold in multiple states under the compact to the laws and regulations of one primary state, but preserve the authority of each secondary state to enforce specific rules (e.g., consumer protection standards). The Secretary would make grants available to states for activities related to regulating health insurance coverage sold in secondary states. QHBPs would be required to cover at least the "essential benefits package" but could offer additional benefits. The essential benefits package would cover specified items and services, prohibit cost-sharing on preventive services, limit annual out-of-pocket spending, prohibit annual and lifetime benefit limits on covered health care items and services, comply with network adequacy standards, and be equivalent in its scope of benefits to the average employer health plan in 2013 (as certified by the Office of the Actuary of the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services). The essential benefits package would be required to cover the following items and services: hospitalization; outpatient hospital and clinic services, including emergency department services; services of physicians and other health professionals; services, equipment, and supplies incident to the services of a physician or health professional in clinically appropriate settings; prescription drugs; rehabilitative and "habilitative" services (i.e., services to maintain the physical, intellectual, emotional, and social functioning of developmentally delayed individuals); mental health and substance use disorder services; certain preventive services (no cost-sharing permitted) and vaccines; maternity care; well baby and well child care and oral health, vision, and hearing services, equipment, and supplies for those under age 21; and durable medical equipment, prosthetics, orthotics, and related supplies. The annual out-of-pocket limit in 2013 would be no more than $5,000 for an individual and $10,000 for a family, adjusted annually for inflation. To the extent possible, the Secretary would establish cost-sharing levels using copayments (a flat dollar fee) and not coinsurance (a percentage fee). Cost-sharing under the essential benefits package would be specified by the Health Benefits Advisory Committee and the HHS Secretary (see discussion in the next section) so that the essential benefits package would cover an average of 70% of covered health care claims. As discussed in greater detail below, plans offered through the Exchange could have less cost-sharing or richer benefit packages than the essential benefits package (Basic plan), but only as Enhanced, Premium, and/or Premium-Plus plans. Employer plans (excluding grandfathered plans or those obtained through the Exchange) would have the flexibility to offer plans with employee cost-sharing that was less than (but not more than) the levels specified by the Secretary for the essential benefits package. The Health Benefits Advisory Committee (HBAC) would be established to make recommendations to the Secretary regarding the essential benefits package and for coverage offered through the Health Insurance Exchange, including covered benefits, specific cost-sharing levels, and updates to the essential benefits package. The Committee would develop cost-sharing structures to be consistent with actuarial values specified for different cost-sharing plan tiers (i.e., essential/Basic, Enhanced, and Premium plans) offered in the Exchange. In developing its recommendations, the Committee would incorporate innovation in health care, consider how the benefits package would reduce health disparities, and allow for public input as part of developing its recommendations. Within 45 days of receiving HBAC's recommendations, the Secretary would be required either to adopt the benefit standards as written or not adopt the benefit standards, notify HBAC of the reasons for this decision, and provide an opportunity for HBAC to revise and resubmit its recommendations. The Secretary would be required to adopt an initial set of benefit standards within 18 months of enactment either by adopting the HBAC recommendations (and any revisions) or, absent that, by proposing an initial set of benefit standards. In addition to federalizing private health insurance standards, H.R. 3962 would also create a "Health Insurance Exchange," similar in many respects to existing entities like the Massachusetts Connector and eHealthInsurance, to facilitate the purchase of QHBPs by certain individuals and small businesses. The Exchange would not be an insurer; it would provide eligible individuals and small businesses with access to insurers' plans in a comparable way (in the same way, for example, that Travelocity or Expedia are not airlines but provide access to available flights and fares in a comparable way). The Exchange would have additional responsibilities as well, such as negotiating with plans, overseeing and enforcing requirements on plans (in coordination with state insurance regulators), and determining eligibility for and administering premium and cost-sharing credits. Under H.R. 3962 , the Exchange would be established under a new independent federal agency (the Health Choices Administration), headed by a Commissioner. The federal Exchange's startup and operating costs, along with payments for premium and cost-sharing credits discussed below, would be paid for out of a new Health Insurance Exchange Trust Fund, funded by (1) taxes on certain individuals who did not obtain acceptable coverage, (2) penalties for employers whose coverage failed to meet the requirements for coverage, (3) payroll assessments by employers who opted not to provide insurance coverage, (4) payroll assessments by employers (beginning in 2014) whose employees opt for Exchange coverage instead of employment-based coverage, and (5) such additional sums as necessary to be appropriated for the Exchange. Only one Exchange could operate in a state. The Commissioner would be required to approve a state-based Exchange that met specified criteria. (A group of states could also operate a multi-state Exchange.) State-based Exchanges would be funded through a federal matching grant to states. If a state was operating an "Exchange" prior to January 1, 2010, and sought to operate a state-based Exchange under this section, the Commissioner would presume the Exchange meets the required standards. The Commissioner would be required to establish a process to work with such a state, but could determine, after working with the state, that the state does not comply with such standards. Beginning in 2013, excluding grandfathered plans, new nongroup coverage could only be obtained through the Exchange. The public health insurance option and the income-based premium and cost-sharing credits for certain individuals (described below) would be available only through the Exchange. As described below, certain small employers could offer and contribute toward coverage through the Exchange. CBO estimated that by 2019, 30 million people would obtain Exchange coverage (9 million of whom would get it through a qualified employer). Of those, about 6 million are projected to enroll in the public health insurance option. Beginning in 2013, individuals would be eligible for Exchange coverage unless they were enrolled in any of the following: a group plan through a full-time employee (including a self-employed person with at least one employee) for which the employer makes an adequate contribution (described in the section on employer mandates), Medicare, and Medicaid. Individuals would generally lose eligibility for Exchange coverage once they become eligible for Medicare Part A, Medicaid, and other circumstances as the Commissioner provides. Besides those cases, once individuals enroll in an Exchange plan, they would continue to be eligible until they are no longer enrolled. An open-enrollment period would be offered annually, sometime during September to November, lasting at least 30 days. There would also be special enrollment periods for certain circumstances (e.g., loss of acceptable coverage, change in marital or dependent status). Exchange-eligible employers could meet the requirements of the employer mandate by offering and contributing adequately toward employees' enrollment through the Exchange. Those employees would be able to choose any of the available Exchange plans. Once employers are Exchange eligible and enroll their employees through the Exchange, they would continue to be Exchange eligible, unless they decided to then offer their own QHBPs. In 2013, employers with 25 or fewer employees would be Exchange-eligible. In 2014, employers with 50 or fewer employees would be Exchange-eligible. In 2015, employers with 100 or fewer employees would be Exchange-eligible. Beginning in 2015, the Commissioner could permit larger employers to participate in the Exchange; these additional employers could be phased in or made eligible based on the number of full-time employees or other considerations the Commissioner deems appropriate. Exchange plans would have to meet not only the new federal requirements of all private health insurance plans (i.e., be QHBPs), but would also have their cost-sharing options somewhat standardized into the following four cost-sharing/benefit tiers: An Exchange-participating "entity" (insurer) must offer only one Basic plan in the service area. The Basic plan would be equivalent to the minimum requirements of the essential benefits package (e.g., actuarial value of approximately 70%). If the entity offers a Basic plan in a service area, it may offer one Enhanced plan in the service area, which would have a lower level of cost-sharing for benefits in the essential benefits package (i.e., actuarial value of approximately 85%). If the entity offers an Enhanced plan in a service area, it may offer one Premium plan in the service area, which would have a lower level of cost-sharing for benefits in the essential benefits package (i.e., actuarial value of approximately 95%). If the entity offers a Premium plan in a service area, it may offer one or more Premium-Plus plans in the service area. A Premium-Plus plan is a Premium plan that also provides additional benefits, such as adult oral health and vision care. Plans would use the cost-sharing levels specified by the Secretary for each benefit category in the essential benefits package, for each cost-sharing tier (Basic, Enhanced and Premium)—although plans would be permitted to vary the cost-sharing from the specified levels by up to 10%. If a state requires health insurers to offer benefits beyond the essential benefits package, such requirements would continue to apply to Exchange plans, but only if the state has entered into an arrangement satisfactory to the Commissioner to reimburse the Commissioner for the amount of any resulting net increase in premium credits. Under H.R. 3962 , the Secretary of HHS would establish a public health insurance option through the Exchange. Any individual eligible to purchase insurance through the Exchange would be eligible to enroll in the public option, and may also be eligible for income-based premium and cost-sharing credits. The public option would have to meet the requirements that apply to all Exchange-participating plans, including those related to benefits, provider networks, consumer protections, and cost-sharing. The public option would be required to offer Basic, Enhanced, and Premium plans, and could offer Premium-Plus plans. The Secretary would be required to establish geographically adjusted premiums that comply with the premium rules established by the Commissioner and at a level sufficient to cover expected costs (including claims, administration, and a contingency margin). Limited start-up funding would be available, but would be repaid within 10 years. The public option would be prohibited from receiving federal funds if it became insolvent. Under H.R. 3962 , the Secretary would be required to negotiate payment rates for health care providers, and items and services (including prescription drugs), subject to limits. Specifically, the payment rates in aggregate would not be allowed to be lower than rates under Medicare, and not higher than average rates paid by other qualified health benefit offering entities. Medicare-participating providers would also be providers for the public option, unless they chose to opt out in a process established by the Secretary through a rule making process that included a public notice and comment period. Physicians would be able to participate in the public option as preferred or non-preferred providers; preferred physicians would be prohibited from balance-billing (that is, billing for amounts above the established rates), while non-preferred physicians could balance-bill up to 115% of a reduced payment rate. Non-physician providers would be prohibited from balance-billing. The Secretary would have the authority to use innovative payment methods (including bundling of services, performance-based payments, and utilization-based payments) under the public option. The Secretary would be required to implement payment and delivery system reforms under the public option that had been determined successful under other parts of this Act. The Secretary would be allowed to enter into no-risk contracts for the administration of the public option, in the same way the Secretary enters into contracts for the administration of the Medicare program. The administrative functions would include, subject to restrictions, determination of payment amounts, making payments, beneficiary education and assistance, provider consultative services, communication with providers, and provider education and technical assistance. The Secretary would be required to enter into a memorandum of understanding with the Secretary of Veterans Affairs for the collection of costs associated with nonservice-connected care provided in VA facilities to public health insurance enrollees. Enrollment in the public option would be voluntary. In general, any employee, including a Member of Congress, could forgo employment-based health insurance and choose instead to enroll in health insurance through any Exchange plan, including both public and private plans. As discussed in the section on employer mandates, individuals, including Members of Congress, who reject employer sponsored insurance and instead choose an Exchange plan would generally be responsible for 100% of the premium in the Exchange. The bill would also require the Commissioner to establish, in consultation with the Secretary of the Treasury, a Consumer Operated and Oriented Plan (CO-OP) program under which the Commissioner would make grants and loans for the establishment of not-for-profit, member-run health insurance cooperatives in the Exchange. The bill would authorize the appropriation of $5 billion for the period of fiscal years 2010 through 2014 for the program. Loans and grants would be used for start up costs and for solvency requirements. Grants and loans would only be made if the following conditions were met: The cooperative is a not-for-profit, member organization under the law of each state in which it offers, or intends to offer, insurance coverage made up entirely of beneficiaries of the insurance coverage offered by such cooperative. The cooperative did not offer insurance on or before July 16, 2009, and the cooperative is not an affiliate or successor to an insurance company offering insurance on or before such date. The governing documents of the cooperative incorporate ethical and conflict of interest standards designed to protect against insurance industry involvement and interference in the governance of the cooperative. The cooperative is not sponsored by a state government. Substantially all of the activities of the cooperative consist of the issuance of QHBPs through the Health Insurance Exchange or a state-based health insurance exchange. The cooperative is licensed to offer insurance in each state in which it offers insurance. The governance of the cooperative must be subject to a majority vote of its members. As provided in guidance issued by the Secretary of Health and Human Services, the cooperative operates with a strong consumer focus, including timeliness, responsiveness, and accountability to members. Any profits made by the cooperative are used to lower premiums, improve benefits, or to otherwise improve the quality of health care delivered to members. In making grants and loans, the Commissioner would give priority to cooperatives that operate on a statewide basis, use an integrated delivery system, or have a significant level of financial support from nongovernmental sources. If a cooperative were to violate the terms of the CO–OP program and failed to correct the violation within a reasonable period of time, as determined by the Commissioner, the cooperative would be required to repay the total amount of any loan or grant received plus interest. Cooperatives would be permitted to integrate across state lines. Some individuals would be eligible for premium credits (i.e., subsidies) toward their required purchase of health insurance, based on income. However, even when individuals have health insurance, they may be unable to afford the cost-sharing (deductible and copayments) required to obtain health care. Thus subsidies may also be necessary to lower the cost-sharing. Under H.R. 3962 , those eligible for premium credits would also be eligible for cost-sharing credits (i.e., subsidies). In 2103 and 2014, these subsidies would only be available for Basic plans sold through the Exchange, including both the private plans and public option. Beginning in 2015, individuals eligible for credits could obtain an Enhanced or Premium plan, but would be responsible for any additional premiums and would not be eligible for cost-sharing credits. Under H.R. 3962 , Exchange-eligible individuals could receive a credit in the Exchange if they are lawfully present in a state in the United States, with some exclusions; are not enrolled under an Exchange plan as an employee or their dependent (through an employer who purchases coverage for its employees through the Exchange and satisfies the minimum employer contribution amounts); have modified adjusted gross income (MAGI) of less than 400% of the federal poverty level (FPL); are not eligible for Medicaid; are not enrolled in an employer's QHBP, a grandfathered plan (group or nongroup), Medicare, Medicaid, military or veterans' coverage, or other coverage recognized by the Commissioner; and are not a full-time employee in a firm where the employer offers health insurance and makes the required contribution toward that coverage. The premium credit is based on what is considered an "affordable premium amount" for individuals to pay. The affordable premium amount is a percentage of individuals' income (MAGI) relative to the poverty level, as specified in Table 2 for 2013. For more details on the premium credits than provided here, see CRS Report R40878, Health Insurance Premium Credits Under H.R. 3962 . Beginning in 2014, the Commissioner would adjust the percentages in the table generally so that the percentage of premiums paid by the government versus enrollees in each income tier remains the same as in 2013. The premium against which credits would be calculated—the "reference premium"—would be the three Basic plans with the lowest premiums in the area (although the Commissioner could exclude plans with extremely limited enrollment). The "affordability premium credit" would be the lesser of (1) how much the enrollee's premium exceeds the affordable premium amount, or (2) how much the reference premium exceeds the affordable premium amount. The Commissioner would establish premium percentage limits so that for individuals whose family income is between the income tiers specified in the table above, the percentage limits would increase on a linear sliding scale. The affordable premium credit amount would be calculated on a monthly basis. In addition, those who qualified for premium credits in 2013 would also be eligible for assistance in paying any required cost-sharing for their health services. The Commissioner would specify reductions in cost-sharing amounts and the annual limitation (out-of-pocket maximum) on cost-sharing under a Basic plan so that the average percentage of covered benefits paid by the plan (as estimated by the Commissioner) is equal to the percentages (actuarial values) in the Table 3 for each income tier. In addition, Table 3 also shows the annual out-of-pocket maximum individuals would have to pay toward cost-sharing (e.g., deductibles, copayments—excluding premiums), with the Commissioner given the flexibility to alter the amounts in order to the meet the actuarial values. The out-of-pocket limits in the table would be doubled for family coverage. The out-of-pocket limits in each tier would be increased in future years based on the percentage growth in premiums for Basic plans. The Commissioner would pay insurers additional amounts to cover the reduced cost-sharing provided to credit-eligible individuals. The House bill includes a number of provisions to raise revenues to pay for expanded health insurance coverage. Some of these provisions are directly related to current health insurance coverage. These provisions limit employer deductions for certain health insurance plans and modify tax-advantaged accounts currently used for health care spending and coverage. They are discussed in greater detail in this section. Table 4 identifies these provisions, their effective date, and recent estimates by the Joint Committee on Taxation (JCT) of the how much revenue each raise over a 10-year period. Those provisions not directly relating to health insurance will not be discussed in this section. Under current law, employers providing prescription drug coverage to retirees that meet federal standards are eligible for subsidy payments from the federal government. These qualified retiree prescription drug plan subsidies are excludible from the employer's gross income for the purposes of regular income tax and alternative minimum tax calculations. The employer is also allowed to claim a business deduction for retiree prescription drug expenses even though they also receive the federal subsidy to cover a portion of those expenses. H.R. 3962 would require employers to coordinate the subsidy and the deduction for retiree prescription drug coverage. In this provision, the amount allowable as a deduction for retiree prescription drug coverage would be reduced by the amount of the federal subsidy received. According to the JCT, this provision would raise $2.2 billion over a 10-year period (see Table 4 ). There are a number of tax-advantaged accounts and tax deductions for health care spending and coverage that will be affected by the revenue provisions in H.R. 3962 . Under current law, flexible spending accounts (FSAs), health spending accounts (HSAs), health reimbursement accounts (HRAs) and Medical Saving Accounts (MSAs) all allow workers under varying circumstances to exclude a certain portion of qualified medical expenses from income taxes. Health FSAs are employer-established benefit plans that reimburse employees on a pre-tax basis for specified health care expenses (e.g. deductibles, co-payments, and non-covered expenses). About one-third of workers in 2007 had access to an FSA. FSAs are generally funded through the employee's election amount for salary reduction. Under current law, it is at the discretion of each employer to set limits on FSA contributions. In 2008, the average FSA contribution was $1,350. H.R. 3962 would limit the amount of annual FSA contributions to $2,500 per person beginning in 2013. This threshold would be indexed to inflation in subsequent years. According to the JCT, this provision would raise $13.3 billion over 10 years (see Table 4 ). HSAs are also tax-advantaged accounts that allow individuals to fund unreimbursed medical expenses on a pre-tax basis. Eligible individuals can establish and fund accounts when they have a qualifying high deductible health plan and no other health plan (with some exceptions). Unlike FSAs, HSAs may be rolled over and the funds accumulated over time. Distributions from an HSA that are used for qualified medical expenses are not included in taxable income. Distributions taken by individuals from an HSA that are not used for qualified medical expenses are taxable as ordinary income and, for those under age 65, are subject to an additional 10% penalty tax. H.R. 3962 increases the penalty on non-qualified distributions to 20% of the disbursed amount. According to the JCT, this provision would raise $1.3 billion over 10 years (see Table 4 ). In addition to the specific provisions in H.R. 3962 that directly modify these tax-advantaged plans, the House proposal would also modify the definition of qualified medical expenses, which affects all of the tax-advantaged accounts. Under current law qualified medical expenses for FSAs, HSAs, and HRAs can include over-the-counter medications. H.R. 3962 would not allow over-the counter prescriptions to be covered by these tax-advantaged account unless they are prescribed by a physician. According to the JCT, this provision would increase revenues by $5.0 billion over 10 years (see Table 4 ). Under H.R. 3962 , state laws regarding the prohibition or requirement of coverage or funding for abortions, and state laws involving abortion-related procedural requirements, would not be preempted. Federal conscience protection and abortion-related antidiscrimination laws, as well as Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, would also not be affected by the measure. H.R. 3962 would prohibit a federal agency or program, or state or local government that receives federal financial assistance under the measure, from subjecting any individual or institutional health care entity to discrimination on the basis that the health care entity does not provide, pay for, provide coverage of, or refer for abortions, or requiring any health plan created or regulated under the bill to subject any individual or institutional health care entity to discrimination on the basis that the health care entity does not provide, pay for, provide coverage of, or refer for abortions. H.R. 3962 would restrict the recommendation and adoption of standards related to abortion as part of the essential benefits package. A QHBP would not be prohibited, however, from providing coverage for either elective abortions or abortions for which federal funds appropriated for HHS are permitted. Currently, such funds may be used to pay for abortions if a pregnancy is the result of an act of rape or incest, or where a woman suffers from a physical disorder, physical injury, or physical illness that would place the woman in danger of death unless an abortion is performed. The Stupak Amendment, adopted by a vote of 240-194, added additional restrictions on the use of funds authorized or appropriated by H.R. 3962 . Under the Stupak Amendment, such funds could not be used to pay for an abortion or to cover any part of the costs of any health plan that includes coverage of abortion, except where a woman suffers from a physical disorder, physical injury, or physical illness that would place the woman in danger of death unless an abortion is performed, or if a pregnancy is the result of an act of rape or incest. The Stupak Amendment would permit nonfederal entities, including individuals and state or local governments, to purchase separate supplemental coverage for elective abortions or a plan that includes coverage of such abortions, but would require that the supplemental coverage or the plan be paid for entirely with funds not authorized or appropriated by H.R. 3962 . In addition, the supplemental coverage or plan could not be purchased with either premium payments toward which an affordability credit is applied or nonfederal funds that are required to receive an affordability credit. The Stupak Amendment would not restrict nonfederal QHBP offering entities from offering separate supplemental coverage for elective abortions or a plan that covers such abortions. However, premiums for that coverage or plan would have to be paid for entirely with funds not authorized or appropriated by H.R. 3962 , and the administrative costs and all services offered through the supplemental coverage or plan would have to be paid for using only premiums collected for such coverage or plan. In addition, a nonfederal QHBP offering entity that offers an Exchange-participating health benefits plan that includes coverage for elective abortions would have to offer an identical plan that did not cover such abortions. Finally, Exchange plans would be prohibited from discriminating against any individual health care provider or health care facility because of its unwillingness to provide, pay for, provide coverage of, or refer for abortions. H.R. 3962 would permit a state to receive an incentive payment if it enacted and implemented an alternative medical liability law that complied with the bill. An alternative medical liability law would be in compliance if the Secretary is satisfied that (1) the state enacted the law after the date of enactment of the bill and is implementing the law, (2) the law is "effective," and (3) the law met certain requirements. To determine the effectiveness of a law, the Secretary would consider whether it made the medical liability system more reliable through the prevention of or prompt and fair resolution of disputes, it encouraged the disclosure of health care errors, and it maintained access to affordable liability insurance. The state law would be required to provide for either, or both, an "early offer" system, a "certificate of merit" program, and the law must not limit attorneys' fees or impose caps on damages. Generally, an early offer system would permit a defendant to offer to a claimant within 180 days after a claim is filed, periodic payment of the claimant's net economic losses plus reasonable legal fees. Economic losses under an early offer system would cover medical expenses, including rehabilitation, plus lost wages, to the extent that all such costs are not already covered by insurance or other third party sources. If an early offer is not made, the injured party can proceed with a tort claim for both economic and noneconomic damages. However, if an early offer is made and the claimant declines the offer and proceeds with litigation, both the standard of misconduct and standard of proof are raised. A certificate of merit program requires claimants, when a medical malpractice suit is first filed, to include testimony from a qualified medical expert that establishes that there is merit to the claim. A state that received an incentive payment would have to use it to improve health care in the state. The bill would authorize appropriation of such sums as may be necessary for the incentive payments, but would not actually provide funds for such payments. The bill would clarify that nothing in the Act or amendments to the Act would modify or impair state law governing legal standards or procedures used in medical malpractice cases. QHBPs would be required to provide for the dissemination of information related to end-of-life planning to individuals who seek enrollment in Exchange-participating plans. QHBPs would also be required to present individuals with the option to establish advance directives and physician's orders for life sustaining treatment, according to state laws, as well as present information related to other planning tools. However, the QHBP would be prohibited from promoting suicide, assisted suicide, or the active hastening of death. Summary: This report summarizes key provisions affecting private health insurance, including provisions to raise revenues, in Division A of H.R. 3962, the Affordable Health Care for America Act, as passed by the House of Representatives on November 7, 2009. H.R. 3962 is based on H.R. 3200, America's Affordable Health Choices Act of 2009, which was originally introduced on July 14, 2009, and was reported separately on October 14, 2009, by three House Committees—Education and Labor, Energy and Commerce, and Ways and Means. Division A of H.R. 3962 focuses on reducing the number of uninsured, restructuring the private health insurance market, setting minimum standards for health benefits, and providing financial assistance to certain individuals and, in some cases, small employers. In general, H.R. 3962 would require individuals to maintain health insurance and employers to either provide insurance or pay a payroll assessment, with some exceptions. Several insurance market reforms would be made, such as modified community rating and guaranteed issue and renewal. Both the individual and employer mandates would be linked to acceptable health insurance coverage, which would meet required minimum standards and incorporate the market reforms included in the bill. Acceptable coverage would include (1) coverage under a qualified health benefits plan (QHBP), which could be offered either through the newly created Health Insurance Exchange (the Exchange) or outside the Exchange through new employer plans; (2) grandfathered employment based plans; (3) grandfathered nongroup plans; and (4) other coverage, such as Medicare and Medicaid. The Exchange would offer private plans alongside a public option. Based on income, certain individuals could qualify for subsidies toward their premium costs and cost-sharing (deductibles and copayments); these subsidies would be available only through the Exchange. In the individual market (the nongroup market), a plan could be grandfathered indefinitely, but only if no changes were made to the terms and conditions of that plan, including benefits and cost-sharing, and premiums were only increased as allowed by statute. Most of these provisions would be effective beginning in 2013. The Exchange would not be an insurer; it would provide eligible individuals and small businesses with access to insurers' plans in a comparable way. The Exchange would consist of a selection of private plans as well as a public option. Individuals wanting to purchase the public option or a private health insurance not through an employer or a grandfathered nongroup plan could only obtain such coverage through the Exchange. They would only be eligible to enroll in an Exchange plan if they were not enrolled in Medicare, Medicaid, and acceptable employer coverage as a full-time employee. The public option would be established by the Secretary of Health and Human Services (HHS), would offer three different cost-sharing options, and would vary premiums geographically. The Secretary would negotiate payment rates for medical providers, and items and services. The bill would also require that the Health Choices Commissioner to establish a Consumer Operated and Oriented Plan (CO-OP) program under which the Commissioner would make grants and loans for the establishment of not-for-profit, member-run health insurance cooperatives. These co-operatives would provide insurance through the Exchange. Only within the Exchange, credits would be available to limit the amount of money certain individuals would pay for premiums and for cost-sharing (deductibles and copayments). (Although Medicaid is beyond the scope of this report, H.R. 3962 would extend Medicaid coverage for most individuals under 150% of poverty; individuals would be ineligible for Exchange coverage if they were eligible for Medicaid.)
{ "task_name": "govreport_summarization" }
/* * Copyright 2001-2004 The Apache Software Foundation. * * Licensed under the Apache License, Version 2.0 (the "License"); * you may not use this file except in compliance with the License. * You may obtain a copy of the License at * * http://www.apache.org/licenses/LICENSE-2.0 * * Unless required by applicable law or agreed to in writing, software * distributed under the License is distributed on an "AS IS" BASIS, * WITHOUT WARRANTIES OR CONDITIONS OF ANY KIND, either express or implied. * See the License for the specific language governing permissions and * limitations under the License. */ package org.apache.axis.configuration; import java.io.BufferedWriter; import java.io.File; import java.io.FileInputStream; import java.io.FileOutputStream; import java.io.InputStream; import java.io.OutputStreamWriter; import java.io.PrintWriter; import java.io.Writer; import java.util.Hashtable; import java.util.Iterator; import java.util.List; import javax.xml.namespace.QName; import org.apache.axis.AxisEngine; import org.apache.axis.ConfigurationException; import org.apache.axis.Handler; import org.apache.axis.WSDDEngineConfiguration; import org.apache.axis.components.logger.LogFactory; import org.apache.axis.deployment.wsdd.WSDDDeployment; import org.apache.axis.deployment.wsdd.WSDDDocument; import org.apache.axis.deployment.wsdd.WSDDGlobalConfiguration; import org.apache.axis.encoding.TypeMappingRegistry; import org.apache.axis.handlers.soap.SOAPService; import org.apache.axis.utils.Admin; import org.apache.axis.utils.ClassUtils; import org.apache.axis.utils.Messages; import org.apache.axis.utils.XMLUtils; import org.apache.commons.logging.Log; import org.w3c.dom.Document; /** * A simple ConfigurationProvider that uses the Admin class to read + * write XML files. * * @author Glen Daniels ([email protected]) * @author Glyn Normington ([email protected]) */ public class FileProvider implements WSDDEngineConfiguration { protected static Log log = LogFactory.getLog(FileProvider.class.getName()); private WSDDDeployment deployment = null; private String filename; private File configFile = null; private InputStream myInputStream = null; private boolean readOnly = true; // Should we search the classpath for the file if we don't find it in // the specified location? private boolean searchClasspath = true; /** * Constructor which accesses a file in the current directory of the * engine or at an absolute path. */ public FileProvider(String filename) { this.filename = filename; configFile = new File(filename); check(); } /** * Constructor which accesses a file relative to a specific base * path. */ public FileProvider(String basepath, String filename) throws ConfigurationException { this.filename = filename; File dir = new File(basepath); /* * If the basepath is not a readable directory, throw an internal * exception to make it easier to debug setup problems. */ if (!dir.exists() || !dir.isDirectory() || !dir.canRead()) { throw new ConfigurationException(Messages.getMessage ("invalidConfigFilePath", basepath)); } configFile = new File(basepath, filename); check(); } /** * Check the configuration file attributes and remember whether * or not the file is read-only. */ private void check() { try { readOnly = configFile.canRead() & !configFile.canWrite(); } catch (SecurityException se){ readOnly = true; } /* * If file is read-only, log informational message * as configuration changes will not persist. */ if (readOnly) { log.info(Messages.getMessage("readOnlyConfigFile")); } } /** * Constructor which takes an input stream directly. * Note: The configuration will be read-only in this case! */ public FileProvider(InputStream is) { setInputStream(is); } public void setInputStream(InputStream is) { myInputStream = is; } private InputStream getInputStream() { return myInputStream; } public WSDDDeployment getDeployment() { return deployment; } public void setDeployment(WSDDDeployment deployment) { this.deployment = deployment; } /** * Determine whether or not we will look for a "*-config.wsdd" file * on the classpath if we don't find it in the specified location. * * @param searchClasspath true if we should search the classpath */ public void setSearchClasspath(boolean searchClasspath) { this.searchClasspath = searchClasspath; } public void configureEngine(AxisEngine engine) throws ConfigurationException { try { if (getInputStream() == null) { try { setInputStream(new FileInputStream(configFile)); } catch (Exception e) { if (searchClasspath) setInputStream(ClassUtils.getResourceAsStream(engine.getClass(), filename, true)); } } if (getInputStream() == null) { throw new ConfigurationException( Messages.getMessage("noConfigFile")); } WSDDDocument doc = new WSDDDocument(XMLUtils. newDocument(getInputStream())); deployment = doc.getDeployment(); deployment.configureEngine(engine); engine.refreshGlobalOptions(); setInputStream(null); } catch (Exception e) { throw new ConfigurationException(e); } } /** * Save the engine configuration. In case there's a problem, we * write it to a string before saving it out to the actual file so * we don't screw up the file. */ public void writeEngineConfig(AxisEngine engine) throws ConfigurationException { if (!readOnly) { try { Document doc = Admin.listConfig(engine); Writer osWriter = new OutputStreamWriter( new FileOutputStream(configFile),XMLUtils.getEncoding()); PrintWriter writer = new PrintWriter(new BufferedWriter(osWriter)); XMLUtils.DocumentToWriter(doc, writer); writer.println(); writer.close(); } catch (Exception e) { throw new ConfigurationException(e); } } } /** * retrieve an instance of the named handler * @param qname XXX * @return XXX * @throws ConfigurationException XXX */ public Handler getHandler(QName qname) throws ConfigurationException { return deployment.getHandler(qname); } /** * retrieve an instance of the named service * @param qname XXX * @return XXX * @throws ConfigurationException XXX */ public SOAPService getService(QName qname) throws ConfigurationException { SOAPService service = deployment.getService(qname); if (service == null) { throw new ConfigurationException(Messages.getMessage("noService10", qname.toString())); } return service; } /** * Get a service which has been mapped to a particular namespace * * @param namespace a namespace URI * @return an instance of the appropriate Service, or null */ public SOAPService getServiceByNamespaceURI(String namespace) throws ConfigurationException { return deployment.getServiceByNamespaceURI(namespace); } /** * retrieve an instance of the named transport * @param qname XXX * @return XXX * @throws ConfigurationException XXX */ public Handler getTransport(QName qname) throws ConfigurationException { return deployment.getTransport(qname); } public TypeMappingRegistry getTypeMappingRegistry() throws ConfigurationException { return deployment.getTypeMappingRegistry(); } /** * Returns a global request handler. */ public Handler getGlobalRequest() throws ConfigurationException { return deployment.getGlobalRequest(); } /** * Returns a global response handler. */ public Handler getGlobalResponse() throws ConfigurationException { return deployment.getGlobalResponse(); } /** * Returns the global configuration options. */ public Hashtable getGlobalOptions() throws ConfigurationException { WSDDGlobalConfiguration globalConfig = deployment.getGlobalConfiguration(); if (globalConfig != null) return globalConfig.getParametersTable(); return null; } /** * Get an enumeration of the services deployed to this engine */ public Iterator getDeployedServices() throws ConfigurationException { return deployment.getDeployedServices(); } /** * Get a list of roles that this engine plays globally. Services * within the engine configuration may also add additional roles. * * @return a <code>List</code> of the roles for this engine */ public List getRoles() { return deployment.getRoles(); } }
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
Passage 1: Whisper A'Daire Whisper A'Daire is a fictional character in DC Comics. She is an operative of the League of Assassins headed by Ra's al Ghul, who is primarily one of the archenemies of the superhero Batman. Passage 2: Batman Begins Batman Begins is a 2005 superhero film based on the DC Comics character Batman, co-written and directed by Christopher Nolan and starring Christian Bale, Michael Caine, Liam Neeson, Katie Holmes, Gary Oldman, Cillian Murphy, Tom Wilkinson, Rutger Hauer, Ken Watanabe and Morgan Freeman. The film reboots the "Batman" film series, telling the origin story of Bruce Wayne from his initial fear of bats and the death of his parents to his journey to become Batman and his fight to stop Ra's al Ghul and the Scarecrow from plunging Gotham City into chaos. Comic book storylines such as "The Man Who Falls", "" and "" served as inspiration. Passage 3: The Resurrection of Ra's al Ghul "The Resurrection of Ra's al Ghul" is the name of an eight issue comic book crossover story arc published by DC Comics in 2007 and 2008. It involves the return of notable Batman villain Ra's al Ghul, and is his first appearance since his apparent death in "Batman: Death and the Maidens" in 2003. It also connects back to the "Batman and Son" storyline, which introduced Damian as the son of Batman and Talia al Ghul. Passage 4: Leviathan (DC Comics) Leviathan is a fictional criminal organization in DC Comics, later revealed to be a schism of the League of Assassins under Ra's al Ghul's daughter Talia's leadership. Passage 5: Nyssa Raatko Nyssa Raatko (Arabic: نيسا رعتكو‎ ‎ ) is a fictional character, a supervillainess in DC Comics. Nyssa Raatko was created by Greg Rucka and Klaus Janson for the Batman series of comic books. She is an enemy of Batman. She is the daughter of Ra's al Ghul and the half-sister of Talia al Ghul. Passage 6: Talia al Ghul Talia al Ghul (Arabic: تاليا الغول) is a fictional character appearing in American comic books published by DC Comics, commonly in association with Batman. The character was created by writer Dennis O'Neil and artist Bob Brown, and first appeared in "Detective Comics" #411 (May 1971). Talia is the daughter of the supervillain Ra's al Ghul, the half-sister of Nyssa Raatko, on-and-off romantic interest of the superhero Batman, and the mother of Damian Wayne (the fifth Robin). She has alternately been depicted as an anti-hero. Passage 7: Henri Ducard Henri Ducard is a fictional comic book character appearing in books published by DC Comics, usually as a supporting character in stories featuring Batman. Created by writer Sam Hamm, Henri Ducard's first appearance was in "Detective Comics" #599 (April 1989), as part of the "Blind Justice" story arc that Hamm, the screenwriter of the 1989 "Batman" film, was asked to guest-write by editor Denny O'Neil. The character (amalgamated with Ra's al Ghul) appeared in the film "Batman Begins" portrayed by Liam Neeson. Passage 8: Ra's al Ghul Ra's al Ghul (Arabic: رأس الغول‎ ‎ "Raʾs al-Ġūl"; "Ghoul's Head" or "Demon's Head") is a fictional supervillain appearing in American comic books published by DC Comics, commonly as an adversary of the superhero Batman. Created by editor Julius Schwartz, writer Dennis O'Neil and artist Neal Adams, the character first appeared in "Batman" #232's "Daughter of the Demon" (June 1971). The character is one of Batman's most enduring enemies and belongs to the collective of adversaries that make up Batman's rogues gallery, though given his high status as a supervillain, he has also come into conflict with Superman and other superheroes in the DC Universe. Passage 9: League of Assassins The League of Assassins (renamed the League of Shadows or Society of Shadows in adapted works) is a group of fictional villains appearing in American comic books published by DC Comics. It is a group of assassins that work for Ra's al Ghul, an enemy of the superhero Batman. Passage 10: Damian Wayne Damian Wayne or Damian al Ghul (Arabic: داميان الغول) is a fictional superhero and at times antihero appearing in American comic books published by DC Comics, commonly in association with Batman. He is the son of Batman and Talia al Ghul (Arabic: تاليا الغول), and thus, the grandson of Batman villain Ra's al Ghul. The character originally appeared as an unnamed infant in the 1987 story "", which at that time was not considered canon. Following this, various alternate universe stories dealt with the character's life, giving him various names. In 2006, the character was reinterpreted as Damian Wayne by Grant Morrison, and introduced into the main continuity in "Batman" #655, the first issue of the "Batman and Son" story arc. Damian Wayne is the fifth character to assume the role of Robin, Batman's vigilante partner. Question: Talia al Ghul, a fictional character, is the mother of a character who was reinterpreted in 2006 by whom? Answer: Grant Morrison
{ "task_name": "hotpotqa" }
Passage 1: Ledda Bay Ledda Bay () is a shallow embayment or bight, long, in the north side of Grant Island, off the coast of Marie Byrd Land, Antarctica. It was discovered and first charted from the (Captain Edwin A. McDonald) on February 4, 1962, and was named for R.J. Ledda, quartermaster aboard the "Glacier" on the cruise in which the bay was discovered. Passage 2: Tiff City, Missouri Tiff City is an unincorporated community in McDonald County, Missouri, United States. It is located on Route 76, bordering the Oklahoma state line. The community is part of the Fayetteville–Springdale–Rogers, AR-MO Metropolitan Statistical Area. Passage 3: History of McDonald's 1971: The first Australian McDonald's opens in the Sydney suburb of Yagoona in December. The restaurant becomes known locally as ``Maccas ''. Passage 4: History of McDonald's 1974: On November 13, the first McDonald's in the United Kingdom opens in Woolwich, southeast London. It is the company's 3000th restaurant. Passage 5: Hotel Galvez The Hotel Galvez is a historic hotel located in Galveston, Texas, United States that opened in 1911. The building was named the Galvez, honoring Bernardo de Gálvez, 1st Viscount of Galveston, for whom the city was named. The building was added to the National Register of Historic Places on April 4, 1979. Passage 6: Southwest City, Missouri Southwest City is a city in McDonald County, Missouri, United States. The population was 937 at the 2010 census, at which time it was a town. It is part of the Fayetteville–Springdale–Rogers, AR-MO Metropolitan Statistical Area and is located in the southwestern corner of the state of Missouri. Passage 7: Machine Gun in the Clown's Hand Machine Gun in the Clown's Hand is the eighth spoken word album by Jello Biafra. Topics covered in the album include the War on Terrorism, California's energy crisis, and voting problems in Florida. Biafra originally titled the album "Osama McDonald" (a combination of the names of Osama bin Laden and Ronald McDonald), a name which he was later credited by on the album "Never Breathe What You Can't See", which was recorded with The Melvins. Passage 8: Tropicana Evansville Tropicana Evansville is a casino in downtown Evansville, Indiana, owned and operated by Tropicana Entertainment. Originally named Casino Aztar, it was opened by Aztar Corporation in 1995 as the state's first casino. Passage 9: McDonald's McDonald's is an American fast food company, founded in 1940 as a restaurant operated by Richard and Maurice McDonald, in San Bernardino, California, United States. They rechristened their business as a hamburger stand. The first time a McDonald's franchise used the Golden Arches logo was in 1953 at a location in Phoenix, Arizona. In 1955, Ray Kroc, a businessman, joined the company as a franchise agent and proceeded to purchase the chain from the McDonald brothers. McDonald's had its original headquarters in Oak Brook, Illinois, but moved its global headquarters to Chicago in early 2018. Passage 10: 992 Swasey 992 Swasey is an asteroid, a minor planet orbiting the Sun. It was discovered by Otto Struve in 1922 at the Yerkes Observatory in Williams Bay, Wisconsin, United States. It is named after Ambrose Swasey of the Warner & Swasey Company, which built the 82-inch telescope named after Struve at McDonald Observatory. Passage 11: McWorld McWorld is a term referring to the spreading of McDonald's restaurants throughout the world as the result of globalization, and more generally to the effects of international 'McDonaldization' of services and commercialization of goods as an element of globalization as a whole. The name also refers to a 1990s advertising campaign for McDonald's, and to a children's website launched by the firm in 2008. Passage 12: Otto's Pub & Brewery Otto's Pub & Brewery is a brewpub in State College, Pennsylvania, USA. It first opened in 2002 and has been at its current location since 2010. It is located approximately three miles from the main campus of the Pennsylvania State University. Passage 13: Lednikov Bay Lednikov Bay () is a small bay just west of McDonald Bay on the coast of Antarctica. The bay was mapped in 1955 from aerial photos taken by U.S. Navy Operation Highjump, 1946–47. It was remapped by the Soviet expedition of 1956 and named "Bukhta Lednikovaya" (glacier bay), probably because of its location at the terminus of a small glacier. Passage 14: Billingley Billingley is a village and civil parish in the Metropolitan Borough of Barnsley, in South Yorkshire, England, east of Barnsley. At the 2001 census it had a population of 177, increasing to 210 at the 2011 Census. Passage 15: History of McDonald's In late 1953, with only a rendering of Meston's design in hand, the brothers began seeking franchisees. Their first franchisee was Neil Fox, a distributor for General Petroleum Corporation. Fox's stand, the first with Meston's golden arches design, opened in May 1953 at 4050 North Central Avenue at Indian School Road in Phoenix, Arizona. Their second franchisee was the team of Fox's brother - in - law Roger Williams and Burdette ``Bud ''Landon, both of whom also worked for General Petroleum. Williams and Landon opened their stand on 18 August 1953 at 10207 Lakewood Boulevard in Downey, California. The Downey stand has the distinction of being the oldest surviving McDonald's restaurant. The Downey stand was never required to comply with the McDonald's Corporation's remodeling and updating requests over the years because it was franchised not by the McDonald's Corporation, but by the McDonald brothers themselves to Williams and Landon. Passage 16: History of McDonald's 1972: The first McDonald's in France opens, in Créteil, even though the company officially recognizes the first outlet in Strasbourg in 1979. Passage 17: History of McDonald's Believing the McDonald's formula was a ticket to success, Kroc suggested they franchise their restaurants throughout the country. The brothers were skeptical, however, that the self - service approach could succeed in colder, rainier climates; furthermore, their thriving business in San Bernardino, and franchises already operating or planned, made them reluctant to risk a national venture. Kroc offered to take the major responsibility for setting up the new franchises elsewhere. He returned to his home outside of Chicago with rights to set up McDonald's restaurants throughout the country, except in a handful of territories in California and Arizona already licensed by the McDonald brothers. The brothers were to receive one - half of one percent of gross sales. Kroc's first McDonald's restaurant opened on April 15, 1955, at 400 North Lee Street in Des Plaines, Illinois, near Chicago. The Des Plaines interior and exterior was painted by master painter Eugene Wright, who owned Wright's Decorating Service. Eugene was asked to come up with a color scheme and he chose yellow and white, with dark brown and red being secondary trim colors. Those colors would go on to become the colors of all McDonald's franchises. (Recognizing its historic and nostalgic value, in 1990 the McDonald's Corporation acquired the stand and rehabilitated it to a modern but nearly original condition, and then built an adjacent museum and gift shop to commemorate the site.) Passage 18: McDonald Observatory The McDonald Observatory is an astronomical observatory located near the unincorporated community of Fort Davis in Jeff Davis County, Texas, United States. The facility is located on Mount Locke in the Davis Mountains of West Texas, with additional facilities on Mount Fowlkes, approximately to the northeast. The observatory is part of the University of Texas at Austin. It is an organized research unit of the College of Natural Sciences. Passage 19: Fast food restaurant Some historians concur that A&W, which opened in 1919 and began franchising in 1921, was the first fast food restaurant (E. Tavares). Thus, the American company White Castle is generally credited with opening the second fast - food outlet in Wichita, Kansas in 1921, selling hamburgers for five cents apiece from its inception and spawning numerous competitors and emulators. What is certain, however, is that White Castle made the first significant effort to standardize the food production in, look of, and operation of fast - food hamburger restaurants. William Ingram's and Walter Anderson's White Castle System created the first fast food supply chain to provide meat, buns, paper goods, and other supplies to their restaurants, pioneered the concept of the multi-state hamburger restaurant chain, standardized the look and construction of the restaurants themselves, and even developed a construction division that manufactured and built the chain's prefabricated restaurant buildings. The McDonald's Speedee Service System and, much later, Ray Kroc's McDonald's outlets and Hamburger University all built on principles, systems and practices that White Castle had already established between 1923 and 1932. Passage 20: McDonald's Canada The company was founded by Chicago - born George Cohon. The first store opened in 1967 as the Western Canadian franchisee and operated with the U.S. operations. Cohon was the Eastern Canadian franchise and opened his store in 1968 on Oxford Street West in London, Ontario. In 1971, Cohon merged the two operations to one national operation. Cohon was responsible for developing the eastern Canadian franchises. The first McDonald's restaurant in Canada was opened in 1967 in Richmond, British Columbia, by western franchise owners. It was also the first McDonald's restaurant outside of the United States. As of 2014, McDonald's Canada had 1,400 stores (including Walmart Canada locations) in Canada, and more than 85,000 Canadian employees. Question: When did the first establishment that McDonaldization is named after open in the country Billingley is located? Answer: 1974
{ "task_name": "MuSiQue" }
Passage 1: Jilted (film) Jilted is a 1987 film directed by Bill Bennett. Passage 2: Iron Warrior Iron Warrior is 1987 film directed by Alfonso Brescia. Passage 3: Heart (1987 film) Heart is a 1987 film directed by James Lemmo. Passage 4: Claude Chabrol Claude Henri Jean Chabrol( 24 June 1930 – 12 September 2010) was a French film director and a member of the French New Wave(" nouvelle vague") group of filmmakers who first came to prominence at the end of the 1950s. Like his colleagues and contemporaries Jean- Luc Godard, François Truffaut, Éric Rohmer and Jacques Rivette, Chabrol was a critic for the influential film magazine" Cahiers du cinéma" before beginning his career as a film maker. Chabrol's career began with" Le Beau Serge"( 1958), inspired by Hitchcock's" Shadow of a Doubt"( 1943). Thrillers became something of a trademark for Chabrol, with an approach characterized by a distanced objectivity. This is especially apparent in" Les Biches"( 1968)," La Femme infidèle"( 1969), and" Le Boucher"( 1970) – all featuring Stéphane Audran, who was his wife at the time. Sometimes characterized as a" mainstream" New Wave director, Chabrol remained prolific and popular throughout his half- century career. In 1978, he cast Isabelle Huppert as the lead in" Violette Nozière". On the strength of that effort, the pair went on to others including the successful" Madame Bovary"( 1991) and" La Cérémonie"( 1996). Film critic John Russell Taylor has stated that" there are few directors whose films are more difficult to explain or evoke on paper, if only because so much of the overall effect turns on Chabrol's sheer hedonistic relish for the medium ... Some of his films become almost private jokes, made to amuse himself." James Monaco has called Chabrol" the craftsman par excellence of the New Wave, and his variations upon a theme give us an understanding of the explicitness and precision of the language of the film that we do n't get from the more varied experiments in genre of Truffaut or Godard." Passage 5: Garry Marshall Garry Kent Marshall (November 13, 1934 – July 19, 2016) was an American film director, film producer, screenwriter, and actor who is best known for creating "Happy Days" and its various spin-offs, developing Neil Simon's 1965 play "The Odd Couple" for television, and directing "Pretty WomanBeachesRunaway BrideValentine's DayNew Year's EveMother's DayThe Princess Diaries", and . Passage 6: On the Line (1984 film) On the Line is a 1987 film starring David Carradine. It was also known as Rio Abajo. Passage 7: Blindside (film) Blindside is a 1987 film directed by Paul Lynch and starring Harvey Keitel. Passage 8: Masks (1987 film) Masks is a 1987 French mystery thriller film directed by Claude Chabrol. It was entered into the 37th Berlin International Film Festival. Passage 9: Overboard (1987 film) Overboard is a 1987 American romantic comedy film directed by Garry Marshall, written by Leslie Dixon, starring Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell, and produced by Roddy McDowall, who also co-stars. The film's soundtrack was composed by Alan Silvestri. Although it opened to mixed reviews and was a box office disappointment," Overboard" has grown into a cult status over the years and has been remade twice. In 2006, it was adapted into the South Korean television series" Couple or Trouble", and in 2018 it was remade with Anna Faris and Eugenio Derbez. Passage 10: Attention bandits! Attention bandits! is a 1987 film directed by Claude Lelouch. Question: Are the directors of films Overboard (1987 film) and Masks (1987 film) both from the same country? Answer: no
{ "task_name": "2WikiMultihopQA" }
<html> <head><title>Hostage Script at IMSDb.</title> <meta name="description" content="Hostage script at the Internet Movie Script Database."> <meta name="keywords" content="Hostage script, Hostage movie script, Hostage film script"> <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1" /> <meta name="HandheldFriendly" content="true"> <meta http-equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> <meta http-equiv="Content-Language" content="EN"> <meta name=objecttype CONTENT=Document> <meta name=ROBOTS CONTENT="INDEX, FOLLOW"> <meta name=Subject CONTENT="Movie scripts, Film scripts"> <meta name=rating CONTENT=General> <meta name=distribution content=Global> <meta name=revisit-after CONTENT="2 days"> <link href="/style.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"> <script type="text/javascript"> var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 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A HYPERBLUE LOS ANGELES SKY -- DAY </b> The sky is overlaid with the slow whup-whup-whup of an LAPD helicopter flashing through the frame, here and gone. LAPD radio transmissions crackle like static electricity around a dirty clapboard bungalow that looks like the puckered asshole of Eagle Rock. A man's terrified voice screams invisibly from the house -- <b> MALIK'S VOICE </b> I'm gonna kill this dog! You make my wife talk to me or I'm gonna shoot this fuckin' dog! A five-member SWAT tactical team appears out of nowhere--full black assault gear, M5s, gloved and masked--hustling into position on either side of the front door. Only now do we get the full picture: Helicopters overhead, radio cars surrounding the house, an army of cops itching the pull the trigger -- When the tac team is good to go, the team leader gives a thumbs-up to -- <b>SERGEANT JEFF TALLEY AND LT. MURRAY LEIFITZ </b> Talley and Leifitz are hunkered behind the LAPD Command and Control van. Leifitz is the Crisis Response Team SWAT commander; Talley, the primary negotiator. It's so hot out here that Talley has stripped down to a tee-shirt and vest. <b> LEIFITZ </b> They're good to go, Talley. Your word, and we're in the house. <b> TALLEY </b> No one's going anywhere, L-T. We can talk this guy down. Talley lifts a dedicated crisis phone that's been hardlined into the house, his tone reasonable and friendly -- <b> TALLEY (CONT'D) </b> (into the phone) Hey, George? George, don't kill the dog, okay? We don't want to hear a gun go off in there. A phone crashes through the window and lands in the front yard -- <b> MALIK'S VOICE </b> (screaming from the house) Fuck you! <b> LEIFITZ </b> I don't think he wants to talk. Frustrated, Talley slumps back against the van as the SWAT Intelligence Officer, Lloyd Keith, scuttles up to them -- <b> TALLEY </b> Where's the guy's wife? <b> KEITH </b> She didn't take the kid to her sister's. The neighbors were wrong. <b> TALLEY </b> Goddamnit, you said we had her. I told him we had her! <b> KEITH </b> We got bad information, Talley. I can't pull her out of my ass! Up at the house, George Edward Malik steps into the window. Malik is a forty-year-old freaked-out loser who has turned the corner on insanity -- <b> MALIK </b> (shouting at Talley) You said my wife was gonna talk to me, you lying fuck! I'm gonna kill her dog, then shoot myself! I mean it! Talley stares at Malik, thinking, then abruptly grabs Keith by the collar -- <b> TALLEY </b> (to Keith) Pull the dog's name out of your ass. Get the dog's name. Talley steps out from behind the command van so that Malik can see him. <b> LEIFITZ </b> (alarmed by Talley's move) Talley! You're in the line of fire! Talley ignores Leifitz; he is totally focused on Malik and on defusing the situation -- <b> TALLEY </b> I didn't lie to you, George. You scared your wife pretty good last night. We're having a hard time finding her. <b> MALIK </b> She better talk to me! I'm gonna kill her goddamned dog! <b> TALLEY </b> You and I have been talking for, what, sixteen hours? Keep talking. Is that your dog, too? Malik steps away from the window -- <b> MALIK'S VOICE </b> I don't know whose dog it is. She lied about everything else, so she probably lied about the dog. <b> TALLEY </b> I know you're hurting. You lose your job, you find out your wife's fucking another guy . . . but don't give up. We'll have her talk to you. <b> MALIK'S VOICE </b> Then why won't she open her mouth?! Why doesn't the bitch say something??? Something about Malik's statement bothers Talley. The wording is odd, suspicious -- <b> TALLEY </b> George? Come back to the window. <b> MALIK'S VOICE </b><b> STOP LOOKING AT ME!!! </b> Talley grows even more concerned. Was Malik talking to him? <b> TALLEY </b> George? Leave the dog alone and come to the window. Talley sees Keith rejoin Leifitz -- <b> TALLEY (CONT'D) </b> (to Leifitz) What's the dog's name? <b> LEIFITZ </b> The neighbors say he doesn't have a dog. The pieces fall into place for Talley: The wife that no one can find, the dog that doesn't exist.... <b> MALIK'S VOICE </b><b> OPEN YOUR GODDAMNED MOUTH OR I'M GONNA </b><b> SHOOT THIS DOG! </b> In a single terrible moment, Talley realizes that Malik is not talking to him; he's talking to his wife -- <b> TALLEY </b> Murray!! They're in the house! His wife's in the house! Even as Talley screams, a gunshot echoes from the house, freezing the moment. A second shot follows the first as the tactical team breaches the front door -- Talley sprints forward, running as hard as he can in nightmare slow motion -- <b>INT. MALIK'S HOUSE -- DAY </b> Talley shoulders inside on the heels of the tactical team through drifting gun smoke and lancing sunlight. SWAT cops are cuffing Malik even though he's already dead of a self- inflicted gunshot wound; Malik's wife is sprawled on the couch where she has been dead for fourteen hours; two tac officers are trying to stop the geyser of arterial blood that sprays from the neck of Malik's nine-year-old son even as one of them screams for the paramedics -- Talley is numb; it's all too much, too heavy, too horrible. He kneels between to the tactical cops and takes the boy's hand. He stares into the boy's eyes, and the boy stares back. The child's face grows pale as he drains of blood. We hear his heart beating. We hear it slow. We hear it stop. Talley stares at the dead boy. The dead boy's lifeless eyes stare at nothing. <b>TITLES </b> Another hyperblue sky, but now we're in an upscale bedroom community in the sun-scorched high desert north of LA -- A legend appears: One Year Later. <b>EXT. KIM'S MINIMARKET AND GAS STATION -- DAY </b> A rotted-out Toyota pickup lurches to a stop alongside the minimart, white-boy hip-hop booming on the radio which dies with the engine -- Dennis Rooney is driving; twenty-three years old, working- class desert trash with a high opinion of his own brooding good looks. In the middle: Kevin Rooney, nineteen, scared shitless at what they're about to do. Riding shotgun: Mars Krupchek, twenty-four, a large pasty guy with a shaved head and faraway eyes. <b> KEVIN </b> C'mon, Dennis, this is stupid. I thought we were gonna go to the movies. <b> DENNIS </b> (grins past Kevin to Mars) Mars?! Whattaya think, dude? Out here on the edge, no one around, it's perfect, right? <b> MARS </b> I'll check it out. Mars slides out of the truck. He has a tattoo on the back of his tattoo that says: BURN IT. As soon as Mars is gone, Dennis frowns at Kevin -- <b> DENNIS </b> Try to act cool, okay? He's gonna think you're a dick. <b> KEVIN </b> Robbing this place is gonna put you back in prison. <b> DENNIS </b> Not if they don't catch us, Kevin. <b> KEVIN </b> We got jobs, man; we're working. Why even take the chance? <b> DENNIS </b> Because if you don't take the chance, you're already dead. Dennis pulls a pistol from his pants to check the magazine. <b> DENNIS (CONT'D) </b> Thirty seconds, we'll be down the road. Thirty seconds. Then we'll go to the movies. Mars returns and nods his approval -- <b> MARS </b> It's perfect. That's all it takes. <b>INT. KIM'S MINIMART -- DAY </b> Junior Kim, Jr., is short, squat, and forty-two years old. He's reading a magazine behind the counter when Dennis and Mars enter; Dennis trying to disarm him with a smile -- As Dennis reaches the counter, he lifts his tee-shirt to reveal the butt of his pistol -- <b> DENNIS </b> A pack of Marlboros for my friend and all your cash, you gook motherfucker! But Junior Kim is ready. He lurches to his feet, bringing up a pistol of his own -- <b> MARS </b> He's got a gun! Dennis lunges across the counter, grabbing Kim's gun, and the two men are suddenly locked in a ferocious death-struggle for possession of the weapon -- <b> DENNIS </b> Mars, help me -- Dennis and Kim bounce from the counter to the Slurpy machine, the Glock locked between them, pointing first one way, then the other, their eyes meeting as -- BAM -- the gun goes off. Junior Kim's eyes widen. Dennis and Junior both look down at the red blossom that grows on Junior Kim's chest -- <b> KEVIN </b> (screaming in the background) Dennis! Dennis, someone's coming! Kim falls into the Slurpy machine, then slides to the floor. Dennis scrambles over the counter and sprints for the door. But Mars hesitates. Instead of running, he picks up Kim's gun, then leans over the counter to look at Kim's body. We cannot see his face -- <b>EXT. THE MINIMART -- DAY </b> A forty-something soccer mom named Margaret Hammond is about to enter the minimart when Dennis and Kevin burst out, knocking her on her ass. Mars follows a moment later -- Margaret watches their red pickup lurch away, then rushes into the store -- <b>INT. THE TRUCK -- DAY </b> Dennis power-shifts into gear, clashing tortured metal as he pushes the Toyota as hard as it will go. No one is talking; they're screaming -- <b> KEVIN </b> There's fuckin' blood all over you! <b> DENNIS </b> I didn't know he would have a gun! It just went off! Dennis sees himself in the rearview mirror. His face is splattered with red dew, the sight of it freaking him out -- <b> DENNIS (CONT'D) </b> Jesus! Fuckin' Jesus, it's on my face! The trunk careens crazily off the road. Mars calmly runs a hand over Dennis's face -- <b> MARS </b> Relax. It's only blood. Dennis upshifts hard again, the truck lurching as the tranny howls -- <b> DENNIS </b> FUCK you, Mars! I got it all over me! -- whereupon the tortured transmission gives with a loud BANG and the truck loses power -- <b> DENNIS (CONT'D) </b> MotherFUCKING piece of SHIT!!! <b>EXT. FLANDERS ROAD -- DAY </b> Flanders Road is lined with trees, hedges, and the exclusive housing developments that dot the countryside around Bristo Camino. The Toyota jerks to a stop well off the road, and Dennis, Mars, and Kevin pile out, stuffing pistols and bullets into their pockets -- <b> KEVIN </b> That woman's gonna call the cops. <b> DENNIS </b> Shut up, goddamnit! Just calm down! <b> KEVIN </b> What if he's dead? What if you killed him? Dennis grabs him by the throat; Mars steps between them -- <b> MARS </b> People are looking. Dennis sees that Mars is right; people in passing cars are looking. He releases his brother -- <b> DENNIS </b> That's why we gotta keep going. I'm not gonna go in for murder. <b> KEVIN </b> We're on foot. We can't get away. <b> DENNIS </b> We're surrounded by houses, dumbass. Every house has a car in the garage. All we have to do is take one. Dennis and Mars take off for the wall, Kevin reluctantly following -- <b>EXT. WALTER SMITH'S HOME -- THE CUL-DE-SAC -- DAY </b> The camera reveals a two-story California Mediterranean home in the exclusive housing development known as York Estates. You can't get in the door for less than one-point-five, and this house costs more: Eight thousand square feet of used brick and custom tile set on a lushly landscaped acre -- <b> WALTER SMITH'S VOICE </b> You can pick them up whenever you want. <b>INT. WALTER SMITH'S OFFICE -- DAY </b> Walter Smith is at his computer behind his desk. He's forty and fit, casually dressed with thinning hair and glasses, currently leaning back as he talks on his phone -- <b> WALTER </b> (into the phone) I have his corporate and personal on two disks, labeled Marlon and Al. As Smith talks, he ejects a Zip disk from his computer, attaches a label reading Al, then places it in a palm-sized case beside the first disk, Marlon -- <b> WALTER (CONT'D) </b> What, you don't have a sense of humor? He's going to love it. Walter's ten-year-old son, Thomas, suddenly charges around the desk and pulls at his father's arm -- <b> THOMAS </b> My stomach is eating me! <b> WALTER </b> (into the phone) Yeah, that's Thomas, the human piranha. I have to feed the animals while Pam's in Florida with her sister. <b> THOMAS </b> My stomach has teeth! It's eating my guts! <b> WALTER </b> (still with the phone) Listen, is Glen on his way? Great. The paper's bagged and ready to go. Bye. (hangs up; then) All right, all right, all right--it's feeding time! Walter allows his son to pull him around the desk to -- <b>EXT. THE SMITHS' BACK YARD -- THE POOL -- DAY </b> A boom box blasts the latest teendiva megahit as Walter's sixteen-year-old daughter, Jennifer, stretches out in cutoff shorts and a bikini top, working on her tan. Walter and Thomas appear in the French doors that open from the back of the house -- <b> WALTER </b> (calling) Jen! Come feed your brother! He's wasting away! <b> JENNIFER </b> Can't we send him to Florida? <b> WALTER </b> Jen, c'mon, chop-chop! I've got to finish my work! Jennifer rolls her eyes, rises from the chaise longue, and pads to the house. As she clears the frame, the camera swings toward the overgrown wall at the edge of the property. Dennis silenty drops into the bushes -- <b>EXT. BRISTO CAMINO PATROL CAR -- DAY </b> A sky blue Bristo Camino patrol car cruises along Flanders Road -- <b>INT. THE CRUISER -- OFFICER MIKE WELCH -- DRIVING </b> Welch is a young officer with an innocence to his eyes that you don't find in urban cops. He keeps a photo of his wife and toddler son taped to the dash. <b> RADIO </b> Four, base. You there, Mike? Welch picks up the radio microphone -- <b> WELCH </b> Four. I'm gonna hit the Krispy-Kreme. You want a dozen? <b> RADIO </b> Armed robbery, Kim's Minimart on Flanders Road, shots fired with a man down. This is so unexpected that Welch waits for the punchline -- <b> WELCH </b> Are you kidding me? <b> RADIO </b> Ah, suspects are three white males driving a red pickup last seen eastbound on Flanders. Welch turns on his lights just as he sees the red Toyota pickup abandoned on the side of the road and stands on his brakes -- <b>INT. THE SMITHS' KITCHEN -- A FEW MINUTES LATER </b> The Smiths' home sports an open floor plan with the kitchen centrally located between a large family room, a hall that leads to the front of the house, and the French doors that open onto the pool area. Jennifer is putting the finishing touches on three tuna sandwiches as she calls to her brother -- <b> JENNIFER </b> Tell Daddy that lunch is ready. (no answer) Thomas, don't be a turd. Tell --! She turns to find herself face-to-face with Dennis, who clamps a hand over her mouth -- <b> DENNIS </b> (quietly) I'm not going to hurt you. Mars is holding Thomas. Kevin is by the French doors -- <b> DENNIS (CONT'D) </b> Stop fighting. Relax, and I'll let go. Jennifer struggles until she sees that Mars is holding a pistol to Thomas's head -- <b> DENNIS (CONT'D) </b> That's better. Be cool and we'll be outta here in five minutes. Understand? Jennifer nods, and Dennis removes his hand. He has her pinned to the counter, his body pressed into her's; she is suddenly very aware that she is almost naked -- <b> DENNIS (CONT'D) </b> Who else is here? <b> JENNIFER </b> My father. Dennis grabs her hair and pulls her away -- <b>INT. SMITHS' OFFICE -- DAY </b> It happens fast: Dennis shoves Jennifer into the room, and Mars and Kevin follow with Thomas -- Walter is feeding a computer print-out into a paper shredder as they burst through the door -- <b> DENNIS </b> Get your ass in the chair! Sit down! Dennis shoves Jennifer to the floor and stalks directly across the room, his gun trained on Walter. Walter freezes, hands motionless, letting the paper feed into the shredder. Strangely, he has little outward reaction -- <b> WALTER </b> (quietly) Jen? Are you all right? <b> DENNIS </b> She'll be dead if you don't put your ass in that chair! Walter carefully sits. He is amazingly calm in the face of this invasion. <b> DENNIS (CONT'D) </b> Kevin! Don't stand there, asshole, close the windows! Mars, keep him covered, dude! Mars pushes Thomas down beside Jennifer, then aims his gun at Walter. Kevin closes the shutters as Dennis rips the electric cord from a lamp -- <b> WALTER </b> Who sent you? <b> DENNIS </b> Don't go Rambo and you'll tell'm about this on the back nine. I'm gonna tie you up, then we're gonna take your car. Walter glances toward the shredder; the final page of paper emerges as spaghetti and then the shredder stops -- <b> WALTER </b> The car. All you want is the car? <b> DENNIS </b> Am I talkin' raghead?! I want your car! Gimme the goddamned keys! A strange smile flickers at the corner of Walter's mouth as if there's a joke within all this, then -- <b> WALTER </b> The keys are on the wall by the garage. Take it. The tank's almost full. <b> KEVIN </b> Dennis! The cops! Dennis rushes to the window -- <b>EXT. THE SMITHS' HOUSE -- CUL DE SAC -- DAY </b> Mike Welch climbs out of the patrol car and keys his shoulder mike as he appraises the house -- <b> WELCH </b> (into his radio mike) They had to go through the yard at 455 Castle Way. I'm going to approach. Welch slowly moves up the walk toward the front door -- <b>INT. THE ENTRY -- DAY </b> Dennis shoves Jennifer to the door -- <b> DENNIS </b> Open it! You remember I'm right here! <b>EXT. THE HOUSE -- WITH WELCH </b> Welch is halfway up the walk when the door opens and Jennifer, clearly terrified, peers out. Welch hesitates -- <b> WELCH </b> (into his mike) Teenage female opened the front door. (to Jennifer) Miss, I found an abandoned vehicle on the other side of your wall. Did three young men run through the area? Jennifer doesn't answer. Her eyes fill until two huge tears roll down her cheeks. Welch grows uneasy. Something is wrong, but he doesn't know what. He stays where he is -- <b> WELCH (CONT'D) </b> Miss? <b> JENNIFER </b> I didn't . . . see anyone. Welch stares into Jennifer's eyes, pointedly shifting his gaze to ask the silent question: Are they here? <b>INT. WALTER'S OFFICE -- MARS AND KEVIN </b> are peering out the shutters when -- Mars suddenly shouts -- <b> MARS </b> He's going for his gun! Mars opens fire, shooting through the window as -- <b>DENNIS </b> kicks the door closed and fires through the door, Jennifer screaming, as -- <b>EXT. THE HOUSE -- DAY -- MIKE WELCH </b> tumbles backward, struggling weakly to pull his gun as blood bubbles in his mouth. He tries to rise, but can't -- <b> WELCH </b> (into his radio) Officer down. Jesus, I've been shot. <b> RADIO VOICE </b> Mike? Mike, what did you say?! Mike Welch blinks at the sky, but cannot answer -- <b>INT. BRISTO CAMINO POLICE DEPARTMENT -- DAY </b> It's the kind of small-town police facility you might expect: A general room with desks and computers, a coffee machine, and a desk officer who thinks that crime is two teenagers egging a house. The camera establishes the low-key atmosphere, during which it finds a glass door labeled J. Talley, chief of police -- <b>INT. TALLEY'S OFFICE -- DAY </b> Jeff Talley is behind the desk, his voice muted because he is locked in a painful phone conversation -- <b> TALLEY </b> (into phone) It's really hard, Jane. This isn't the way I want it. <b>INT. JANE'S KITCHEN -- DAY </b> Jane Talley is an attractive woman in her mid-thirties. She has the efficient manner of a registered nurse, which she is, and right now she's using all of her professional detachment to keep herself together -- <b> JANE </b> (into phone) No? Then whose idea was it for you take a job in the middle of nowhere? Intercut Talley, who considers the photographs that decorate his wall: Shots of Talley in happier times with Jane and their teenaged daughter, Amanda; Talley as a young SWAT officer; the framed headline from the Bristo Weekly Standard proclaiming: EX-SWAT COP NEW BRISTO CHIEF! <b> TALLEY </b> I need to work out some stuff. <b> JANE </b> You're hiding, Jeffrey. You're hiding from the job and you're hiding from me. <b> TALLEY </b> I still see that boy's eyes. Jane softens; she knows that a part of him is in terrible pain. But she's in pain, too -- <b> JANE </b> That happened a year ago. You've been gone for almost six months. How long do you have to punish yourself for something that wasn't your fault? Talley studies the picture of his wife and daughter. He focuses on Amanda -- <b> TALLEY </b> Is Amanda there? Jane cups the phone and calls to her daughter. Amanda enters and goes to the refrigerator. She's fifteen and carrying the weight of a seriously bad attitude -- <b> JANE </b> (to Amanda) It's Dad. He wants to speak with you. <b> AMANDA </b> (doesn't even glance over) I'm gonna see him later. <b> JANE </b> (back to Talley) She has to go to the bathroom. Jane turns away and lowers her voice, not wanting Amanda to hear -- <b> JANE (CONT'D) </b> You're not only punishing yourself, Jeff. Amanda and I are in this, too. Talley knows, and he hurts like hell because of it -- <b> TALLEY </b> Can we talk some more when you get here? <b> JANE </b> We'll see you in a couple of hours. Jane hangs up without waiting for a response, then closes her eyes, trying hard to keep herself together. <b> AMANDA </b> I don't wanna go up there. I want to stay here with my friends. <b> JANE </b> Pack your things. You're going. Jane stalks away without a glance back, and Amanda angrily flips off her mother -- <b>WITH TALLEY </b> He is clearly shaken by the call, but his thoughts are interrupted when his assistant, an older woman named Louise Vance, bursts in -- <b> LOUISE </b> Mike's been shot! Someone shot Junior Kim, too -- Talley comes around his desk -- <b> TALLEY </b> What are you talking about, shot? What happened? <b> LOUISE </b> Three white males shot Junior. Mike followed them to York Estates -- <b> TALLEY </b> Where are they? <b> LOUISE </b> York Estates. Four-five-five Castle Way. Anders and Jorgenson are on the way. Talley charges out -- <b>EXT. YORK ESTATES -- CASTLE WAY -- DAY </b> Talley wheels into a wide, spacious cul-de-sac lined with expensive estate homes, and pulls up behind another radio car. Anders and Jorgenson are crouched in the street -- Bullets snap into Talley's windshield, starring the glass -- <b> TALLEY </b> Sonofabitch. Talley scrambles out of his car -- <b>EXT. THE SMITHS' HOUSE -- TALLEY'S CAR -- DAY </b> Talley takes cover behind his front wheel. Anders and Jorgenson are young guys; they've never worked a high-crime area; they've never made a felony arrest; and right now they're scared shitless. Mike Welch lies on the Smiths' front lawn, forty feet away -- <b> ANDERS </b> Welch is down! They shot him! <b> JORGENSON </b> We think it's the three guys who robbed Kim's. <b> TALLEY </b> Are civilians inside? <b> JORGENSON </b> He said something about a girl -- <b> TALLEY </b> Holster your guns! Another shot cracks from the house as we hear the faint wail of approaching sirens. Talley edges around his car, trying to see Welch -- <b> TALLEY (CONT'D) </b> (calling) Mike! Mike, can you hear me? <b> ANDERS </b> I think he's dead! <b> TALLEY </b> Don't shout, Larry. I'm three feet away. Talley considers the situation and comes up with a plan -- <b> TALLEY (CONT'D) </b> We have to cordon off the streets, then evacuate these houses. <b> JORGENSON </b> What are we going to do about Mike? <b> TALLEY </b> Keep your head down. Talley scrambles back into his car. He backs up, then powers the car up the drive and onto the front lawn -- <b>WITH WELCH </b> Talley roars to a stop between Welch and the house, using the car as a shield. More shots ping off his car as Talley climbs out -- <b> TALLEY </b> How you doing, buddy? You still alive? Welch moans. His shirt is soaked with blood where the bullets caught him beneath his vest. Talley can't waste time. The siren is closer now -- <b> TALLEY (CONT'D) </b> Jesus. You hang on. Talley hoists Welch into the backseat, then dives behind the wheel. He fishtails off the lawn and up the street -- <b>EXT. THE CUL-DE-SAC INTERSECTION -- DAY </b> The ambulance waits as Talley powers to a stop -- <b> TALLEY </b> He's in the backseat! Paramedics pull Mike Welch from the car as Talley gets out. He can see into the cul-de-sac from here, where Anders and Jorgenson still hunker behind their car. Talley keys his radio -- <b> TALLEY (CONT'D) </b> This is Talley. Who's on? His radio crackles with overlapping voices -- <b> TALLEY (CONT'D) </b> One at a time! Clear the air! (as they settle) Louise? Talk to me. What do we have? <b> LOUISE'S VOICE </b> Junior Kim was DOA at the hospital. Frantic voices once more overlap -- <b> COP VOICES </b> What about Mike? Is Welch alive? What happened? <b> TALLEY </b> (forcefully) Quiet! I want radio discipline. (as they quiet) Mike's hanging in. Larry, Jorgy? Listen up. <b> JORGENSON'S VOICE </b> Go, Chief. <b> TALLEY </b> Find out who lives at four-five-five. We gotta know who's in there. <b> LOUISE'S VOICE </b> Chief? Mike said a young girl answered the door. <b> TALLEY </b> Did he say if she was shooting at him? <b> LOUISE'S VOICE </b> (hesitant) He didn't say. <b> TALLEY </b> Then we don't know if she's part of this or not. Mickey, you up? <b> MIKKELSON'S VOICE </b> We're out two minutes, me and Dreyer. <b> TALLEY </b> Mike found a red pickup abandoned on Flanders. You see it? <b> MIKKELSON'S VOICE </b> It's right in front of us. <b> TALLEY </b> Run a DMV on the plate for the owner's name. <b> LOUISE'S VOICE </b> I pulled Mickey and Dreyer off the minimart. <b> TALLEY </b> Jesus Christ, Louise, we can't leave a crime scene like that. Put a unit out there. <b> LOUISE'S VOICE </b> We only have eight officers on duty, Chief. More sirens are approaching, but their help seems too little, too late. Talley stares up the cul-de-sac at the Smiths' house as if this was a terrible nightmare -- <b> TALLEY </b> (to himself) That's not enough. <b> LOUISE </b> What's that, Chief? Say again. <b> TALLEY </b> Get everyone out here. Then call the Sheriffs. Tell them we have a possible hostage situation. <b>INT. WALTER SMITH'S OFFICE -- DAY </b> Gunsmoke fills the air. Kevin is freaking. He throws a magazine at Mars -- <b> KEVIN </b> We could've gone out the back! You didn't have to shoot! <b> DENNIS </b> Stop it! They found the truck, Kev! They're already behind us! <b> KEVIN </b> We should give up. All we're doing is making it worse. <b> JENNIFER </b> Get out of our house! Her voice cuts through the din. Jennifer and Thomas are huddled with their father on the floor, Jennifer's arms crossed to cover herself -- <b> WALTER </b> (softly) Quiet, Jen. <b> JENNIFER </b> Why don't they go?! Why don't they leave us alone and go?! Dennis charges up to her, screaming and waving his gun -- <b> DENNIS </b> Shut up! Shut the fuck up! Walter Smith slowly stands -- <b> WALTER </b> None of you will get out of this. Dennis spins toward Walter, leveling his gun -- <b> DENNIS </b> Stay down! Stay down, goddamnit! <b> WALTER </b> I'm going to my desk. <b> DENNIS </b> You're not goin' anywhere! Get on the fuckin' floor! Dennis raises the gun to Walter's face. Walter is in complete command of himself and nowhere near scared, but Jennifer grabs his legs -- <b> JENNIFER </b> Daddy, don't! <b> WALTER </b> (casually; to Dennis) Take it easy, son. I'm only going to my desk. Walter eases past Dennis, who doesn't know what to do -- <b> DENNIS </b> Get on the floor! <b> WALTER </b> I have contacts in Los Angeles. Lawyers and judges who can help you. Walter slips open the center drawer. Dennis thinks that Walter might go for a gun. He screams louder and aims between Walter's eyes -- <b> DENNIS </b> I'll fuckin' kill you! <b> JENNIFER AND THOMAS </b> Daddy! Please! Walter checks that the computer disks are in the disk case. We can see their names clearly: MARLON and AL. He drops the case into the drawer, then lifts out a thick booklet -- <b> WALTER </b> This is every criminal lawyer in California. If you give up now, right now, I'll buy you the best lawyer in the state. Dennis slaps the book aside, even more angry -- <b> DENNIS </b> We just killed a cop! We killed a fat chinaman! We'll get the death penalty! Dennis suddenly screams at Mars and Kevin -- <b> DENNIS (CONT'D) </b> Mars, watch the cops! Kevin! Watch the back of the house! <b> WALTER </b> You won't die if you let me help. <b> DENNIS </b> Bullshit! <b> WALTER </b> But if you stay in this house, I can promise you this -- <b> DENNIS </b> (shouting over him) Shut up! Shut up and get on the floor! <b> WALTER </b> You can't imagine the fucking you're going to get. Dennis snaps. He swings the gun hard and smashes Walter on the temple. Walter drops like a rock. <b> JENNIFER </b> Leave him alone!! Jennifer rushes to her father's side, but Walter's out cold -- <b>EXT. TALLEY'S CAR -- THE INTERSECTION -- A FEW MINUTES LATER </b> Talley is at his car with Anders and two other officers, Leigh Metzger, a woman in her early thirties, and Cliff Campbell, a slender guy who looks like a retired security cop. Talley is getting information reports both in person and over the radio -- <b> ANDERS </b> (referring to notes) The house belongs to Walter and Pamela Smith. They've got two kids, a girl about fifteen and a boy younger, Jennifer and Thomas. <b> TALLEY </b> That would be the girl who opened the door. Are the others inside? <b> ANDERS </b> The mother is in Florida visiting her sister. The father works at home, so he's probably inside. Talley keys his mike -- <b> TALLEY </b> (into his mike) Louise? <b> LOUISE'S VOICE </b> Go, Chief. <b> TALLEY </b> Get a phone number for the Smiths. <b> MIKKELSON'S VOICE </b> (from the radio) Chief, Mikkelson. <b> TALLEY </b> Go, Mickey. <b> MIKKELSON'S VOICE </b> The truck is registered to Dennis James Rooney, white male, twenty-two. He has an Agua Dulce address. <b> TALLEY </b> Contact the landlord. I want to know employment, friends, family, anything we can find out about this guy. A news helicopter swoops overhead in a tight turn. The cops look up -- <b> CAMPBELL </b> What in hell is that? <b> TALLEY </b> (grimly) News hawks. There'll be more. They monitor our frequencies. Talley realizes that his officers are staring at the helicopter as if they've never seen one; these people have never dealt with a crime this large, and have probably never even seen a felon. Talley keys the mike again -- <b> TALLEY (CONT'D) </b> Everyone be cool. That's our job right now--stabilize the situation and don't let things get out of hand. All we have to do is hang on until the Sheriffs take over. That's all we have to do. No one looks particularly convinced -- <b> METZGER </b> How do we do that? <b> TALLEY </b> That's my job, Metzger. That's why I get the big bucks. Talley puts away his mike -- <b>INT. WALTER'S OFFICE -- DAY </b> Jennifer and Thomas are bent over their father, wanting to help but not knowing how. Walter's eyes flicker as if he's dreaming, and the lump on his head is bleeding -- <b> JENNIFER </b> He's not waking up. He should be awake. Jennifer abruptly stands and faces Dennis -- <b> JENNIFER (CONT'D) </b> He needs a doctor. <b> DENNIS </b> Shut up and sit down. You think someone's gonna make a house call? Jennifer is scared--really, really scared--but she doesn't sit down. Both Dennis and Mars are staring at her. She feels naked and vulnerable. She crosses her arms again -- <b> JENNIFER </b> At least let me get some ice for his head. Dennis finally relents and shrugs at Mars -- <b> DENNIS </b> Make sure Kevin isn't fucking off back there. Jennifer hurries out as Mars follows -- <b>INT. THE KITCHEN -- DAY </b> Jennifer goes to the counter. Kevin is at the French doors, nervous and scared; Mars is a dark shadow behind her -- She kneels to a low cabinet when Mars kicks it shut -- <b> MARS </b> I thought you wanted ice. Mars towers over her, his groin inches from her face -- <b> JENNIFER </b> I'm getting a wash cloth for the ice. Mars gazes down at her, enjoying his size and power. He steps closer, bringing his groin closer to his face. Jennifer stands, holding her arms across her breasts -- <b> JENNIFER (CONT'D) </b> Please get away from me. <b> KEVIN </b> (from the background) Mars? What are you doing? Kevin's intrusion shatters the moment. Jennifer quickly snatches a wash cloth from the cabinet, then takes an ice tray from the freezer and brings it back to the counter -- As Jennifer puts ice in the wash cloth, she sees the paring knife that she used for the sandwiches partially hidden by paper towels -- She glances at Kevin, but cannot see Mars; he's at the refrigerator behind her. Jennifer slowly reaches for the knife -- <b> MARS </b> Hey. Jennifer freezes, terrified. She pushes the knife behind the Cuisinart to hide it, then turns. Mars is offering her a beer. <b> MARS (CONT'D) </b> Want one? <b> JENNIFER </b> I don't drink beer. <b> MARS </b> Mommy won't know. You can do anything you want right now. Mommy won't know. <b> JENNIFER </b> What I want is to help my father. Jennifer hurries past him and disappears down the hall. Even as she leaves the phone starts ringing -- <b>INT. WALTER'S OFFICE -- DAY </b> The phone seems to ring louder here. Dennis stands over it, watching the phone as if it's alive. The phone rings again and again. Finally, he answers -- <b> DENNIS </b> Hello? <b>EXT. TALLEY'S CAR -- IN THE CUL-DE-SAC -- DAY </b> Talley is once more behind his car. He's on his cell phone, with Jorgenson nearby -- <b> TALLEY </b> (into his phone) My name is Jeff Talley. Is this Dennis Rooney? Intercut Dennis on the phone in Walter's office -- <b> DENNIS </b> You with the cops? <b> TALLEY </b> The Bristo Police Department. Look out the window. You see the car? Dennis peers through the shutters -- <b> DENNIS </b> Yeah. I'm Rooney. <b> TALLEY </b> We had an awful lot of shooting. You need a doctor in there? Dennis shoots a guilty glance at Walter, then lies -- <b> DENNIS </b> We're cool. <b> TALLEY </b> Let me speak to Mr. Smith. I want to hear it from him. <b> DENNIS </b> Fuck you. I'm running this shit. You talk to me. <b> TALLEY </b> How about your two friends? You don't have a man dying in there, do you? <b> DENNIS </b> They're fine. Talley cups the phone to tell Jorgenson -- <b> TALLEY </b> All three subjects are confirmed inside. Call off the house-to-house. (back to the phone) Okay, Dennis, I want to explain your situation -- <b> DENNIS </b> (interrupting) You don't have to explain shit! That Chinaman pulled a gun. We wrestled for it. That Chinaman shot himself. <b> TALLEY </b> Mr. Kim didn't make it, Dennis. He died. <b> DENNIS </b> How about the cop? <b> TALLEY </b> Dennis? I want you to release those people. <b> DENNIS </b> Fuck that. They're the only thing stopping you from blowing us away. <b> TALLEY </b> We're not coming in there by force, okay? No one wants to hurt you. <b> DENNIS </b> I got these people! You try to come get me, I'll kill every fuckin' one of them! The phone clicks in Talley's ear as Dennis slams down the phone -- <b>INT. WALTER'S OFFICE -- AT THAT MOMENT </b> Dennis is livid with fear and rage. He paces through the office like a trapped cat -- <b> DENNIS </b> That fuckin' Chinaman is dead! That's murder-one, dude. That's the needle! Kevin appears in the entry, drawn by Dennis's raving -- <b> DENNIS (CONT'D) </b> Get back where you belong, asshole! Mars, keep and eye on the cops; I gotta find a way out of here -- Dennis shoves Kevin out of the office and stalks after him -- <b>INT. DOWNSTAIRS HALL -- DAY </b> Kevin dogs along beside Dennis, speaking softly so that Mars doesn't overhear -- <b> KEVIN </b> I have to tell you something -- <b> DENNIS </b> We gotta find a way outta here is what we gotta do! <b> KEVIN </b> It's about Mars -- They reach the master bedroom suite, a huge room with sliding glass doors that overlook the pool -- <b> KEVIN (CONT'D) </b> That cop didn't pull his gun. Mars lied. He just started shooting! <b> DENNIS </b> Bullshit. Why would Mars do that? <b> KEVIN </b> I was there, Dennis! I saw! It's like he wanted to shoot that cop. <b> DENNIS </b> You're being stupid. Check out the bathroom. Maybe we can sneak out a window -- Dennis shoves Kevin toward the bathroom, then steps into -- <b>INT. THE SECURITY CLOSET -- DAY </b> One side is filled with racks of clothes, but the opposite side is an industrial bank of video monitors showing a dozen views of the house, both inside and out -- Dennis sees this stuff and stops in his tracks, awed -- <b> DENNIS </b> Kev. Kevin steps in beside him. <b> KEVIN </b> Jesus. What is this? <b> DENNIS </b> Are you totally stupid? What does it look like? One monitor shows Mars and the Smiths in the office, another the kitchen, another Jennifer's room, another the front of the house, the rear, the sides--every room and most of the exterior can be seen -- <b> DENNIS (CONT'D) </b> Look, that's the master bedroom out here. Dennis goes out into the master, looking for the camera, and appears on the bedroom monitor -- <b> KEVIN </b> I can see you! Dennis steps back into the closet, and this time he examines the door. He closes it enough to reveal thick throw-bolts -- <b> DENNIS </b> Dude, this is solid steel. They gotta be hiding something. Dennis glances over to his brother, and finds Kevin on his knees with two black travel bags beneath the clothes -- <b> KEVIN </b> Dennis -- Kevin pushes the clothes aside to reveal an open bag. It's filled with hundred dollar bills. Dennis kneels beside his brother and opens the second bag. It's filled with hundred dollar bills, too -- <b> DENNIS </b> Go get Mars. <b>INT. MRS. PENA'S FAMILY ROOM -- DAY -- ON A TELEVISION </b> We're watching a grainy black and white security tape of Junior Kim's robbery/homicide. It shows Kim behind the counter as Dennis and Mars enter -- <b> MIKKELSON </b> One in front is Dennis James Rooney. Talley, Mikkelson, Dreyer, and Anders are watching the tape, which is currently being played in the home of Mrs. Estelle Pena, who lives two blocks from the Smiths. Mikkelson is a tall, strong woman; Dreyer is her opposite, a short, dumpy man -- <b> MIKKELSON (CONT'D) </b> Dennis has a younger brother, Kevin Paul-- that's him entering now, the third guy. <b> TALLEY </b> Has Dennis done time? <b> MIKKELSON </b> Just pulled thirty days for misdemeanor burglary. He shows car theft, shoplifting, and DUI. Talley steps closer to the television, and taps Mars -- <b> TALLEY </b> Who's this? <b> DREYER </b> We don't know. <b> TALLEY </b> Have still prints made from the tape. Show the landlord. Maybe we can get a fast ID. Talley looks closer. With the way Mars is positioned, we can see part of the tattoo on his head -- <b> TALLEY (CONT'D) </b> Here on his head. Is that a tattoo? <b> MIKKELSON </b> I can't make it out. <b> TALLEY </b> Says...burn it. On the tape, Kim slumps to the floor. Dennis vaults across the counter and runs to the door. Mars, however, calmly picks up Kim's gun and leans across the counter. We couldn't see this before, but now we see a strange smile play over his face -- <b> DREYER </b> What's he doing? <b> TALLEY </b> He's watching Kim die. Talley watches Mars, and knows that this guy is seriously disturbed. He is still watching the tape when Leigh Metzger calls from the door -- <b> METZGER </b> Chief? Talley turns. Metzger is with Amanda and Jane -- <b>EXT. MRS. PENA'S HOUSE -- DAY </b> Talley, Jane, and Amanda are walking to the street. Amanda is excited; she thinks this is cool -- <b> AMANDA </b> Are men with guns really barricaded in a house? <b> TALLEY </b> Just around the corner and up that street. See the helicopters? Five news choppers now hover high over the house. The crime scene is only two blocks away. Close. <b> JANE </b> Wait by the car, Mandy. Give me a minute with Dad. They wait until Amanda is gone, then -- <b> TALLEY </b> (apologizing) I should've called. This thing broke right after we spoke, then everything happened so fast -- <b> JANE </b> Don't worry about it. How are you doing? <b> TALLEY </b> The Sheriffs will take over when they get here. <b> JANE </b> But they're not here yet. Tell me about you. Jane touches his arm -- <b> JANE (CONT'D) </b> Jesus, you're shaking. Self-conscious, Talley moves away so that he's out of reach -- <b> TALLEY </b> Why don't you guys grab some dinner at the Thai place? I'll meet you there as soon as I can. <b> JANE </b> You sure? <b> TALLEY </b> I don't know how long I'll be stuck here. <b> JANE </b> I'm in no rush. Maybe later we can talk. Talley gives her a gentle nod, then watches her walk away until -- <b> TALLEY </b> Jane? She turns back, her eyes asking 'what?' <b> TALLEY (CONT'D) </b> I'm scared shitless. <b> JANE </b> That's okay. I love you anyway. Talley and Jane share the moment, and then she walks away. <b>EXT. YORK ESTATES -- DAY </b> A news chopper swings by overhead bringing us to the main entrance of York Estates. The entrance has been blocked, and cars are being turned away, so traffic is backed up both ways along the street -- <b>INT. GLEN HOWELL'S CAR -- DAY </b> Glen Howell is a nice-looking man in his early forties: Sport coat, gold Rolex, deep tan. He hammers the horn of his Mercedes S600 sedan, but it does no good; traffic is frozen -- A news van trying to work up the line pulls alongside, then gets jammed by the crunch like everyone else. Howell rolls down the window -- <b> HOWELL </b> Hey, you guys know what's going on? An attractive Asian-American reporter leans from her window to answer -- <b> REPORTER </b> Three men took a family hostage. <b> HOWELL </b> Jesus, no shit? My client lives in there. The reporter checks her notes -- <b> REPORTER </b> It's a family named Smith, Walter and Pamela Smith. Do you know them? Howell stares at her emptily, then shakes his head -- <b> HOWELL </b> No. No, I don't know them. Thanks for your time. Howell pulls a U-turn to get out of traffic. He flips open his cell phone and presses the speed dial -- <b> HOWELL (CONT'D) </b> (into his phone) We have a problem out here. <b>INT. SONNY BENZA'S OFFICE -- PALM SPRINGS -- DAY </b> We're in a palatial home on the ridge overlooking Palm Springs. On the cut, Sonny Benza, Phil Tuzee, and Charlie Fischer are watching TV news coverage of the situation in Bristo Camino -- <b> TUZEE </b> Worst case, it's a bloodbath. The detectives come out with Smith's computer, and we go directly to jail, do not pass Go. <b> BENZA </b> Maybe Glen already picked up the disks. <b> TUZEE </b> I took the call from Glen personally. They're still in Smith's house. Fischer tries being positive -- <b> FISCHER </b> Maybe we're getting too dramatic. It's three kids. They'll give up, the cops will arrest them, and that's that. Why would they search the house? <b> BENZA </b> You think we should take that chance? <b> FISCHER </b> (on the spot) I guess not. <b> BENZA </b> I guess not, too. How much information is in the house? <b> TUZEE </b> Smith was cooking the books for the IRS. That means he has it all: The cash flow, where it comes from, how we launder it, our split with the East. <b> FISCHER </b> It's on two computer disks he calls Marlon and Al. <b> BENZA </b> What, he's cute? That's his idea of humor? <b> FISCHER </b> If the Feds get those disks, the East Coast is gonna take a hit, too. You should let them know. <b> BENZA </b> No way. I tell them, that Old Man is gonna handle this from back there. <b> TUZEE </b> You should warn them, Sonny. <b> </b><b> BENZA </b> Fuck them! Now get your head in the game, Phil--we have to handle this. Benza turns back to the television -- <b> BENZA (CONT'D) </b> Put our people on the scene. Smith might talk just to cut a break for his kids. <b> TUZEE </b> He knows better than that. <b> BENZA </b> Bullshit--a man will do anything to save his family. Who's running the show up there? <b> FISCHER </b> They have a chief of police, a guy named Talley. I saw him being interviewed. The television suddenly shows Talley making a statement. He looks tired and haggard -- <b> FISCHER </b> (pointing) Hey, that's him. That's Talley right there! Benza studies Talley, then looks at his lieutenants -- <b> BENZA </b> Find out how we can hurt him. By the end of the day, I want to own him. <b> TUZEE </b> It's happening right now. That's exactly what Benza wanted to hear. <b>EXT. THE DESERT ROSE MOTEL -- DAY </b> A low-rent motel on the road between Bristo Camino and Newhall. Glen Howell's Mercedes is parked on the side, along with several other cars. It's late-afternoon going into evening. The sun is sinking fast -- <b>INT. HOWELL'S ROOM -- DAY </b> Howell is being briefed by his operators, four men and two women. There's a minimum of bullshit; these people are professionals -- Ken Seymore is an intense, compact man who talks fast -- <b> SEYMORE </b> L.A. County Sheriffs are inbound from a bank robbery in Pico Rivera. <b> HOWELL </b> Give me an ETA. <b> SEYMORE </b> An hour, tops. Might be sooner. Duane Manelli speaks up -- <b> MANELLI </b> When the Sheriffs get here, how many we looking at? <b> SEYMORE </b> (checking his notes) A command team, a negotiating team, a tactical team--the tac team includes a perimeter team, the assault team, snipers, and breachers--thirty-five new bodies. <b> HOWELL </b> How many locals? Gayle Devarona, one of the women, leans forward -- <b> DEVARONA </b> Fourteen officers and two civilians. I have their names and most of their addresses. She tosses a yellow legal pad onto the table -- <b> HOWELL </b> And Talley? <b> DEVARONA </b> Married but separated, ex-LAPD. The fam doesn't live here, but they're coming up today. I got his address there. <b> MANELLI </b> The cops I talked to, they said Talley was a hostage negotiator in LA. <b> DEVARONA </b> His last three years on the job. Before that, he was SWAT. Mike Ruiz joins in -- <b> RUIZ </b> How's a SWAT negotiator make it up here to this shithole? <b> DEVARONA </b> I make him for a stress release. <b> HOWELL </b> Good work, Gayle--everybody. Now stay ahead of the curve. I want to know everything that happens before it happens. I'll cover Talley. Howell tears Talley's address off the yellow pad. This meeting is over -- <b> SEYMORE </b> What if it goes south? <b> HOWELL </b> What do you mean? <b> SEYMORE </b> If things get wet, we're going to need someone who can handle that end. <b> HOWELL </b> You worry about your end. I got my side covered. Howell tucks the address in his pocket and goes to the door. <b>EXT. DONUT SHOP -- NEWHALL, CALIFORNIA -- NIGHT </b> The sun has set. The donut shop glows greasily at the end of a strip mall. It is empty except for the overweight woman behind the counter and a lone man seated at a window booth -- <b>INT. THE DONUT SHOP -- NIGHT </b> The man in the booth is named Marion Clewes. He's an average looking guy, more or less, except for the strange cant to his right eye and the thin black tie he wears over his white J. C. Penney shirt. His jacket doesn't fit quite right, but not so much as you'd notice. Marion could disappear into a crowd just by being so ordinary. That's the point. A fat black desert fly, heavy with juice and thorny with coarse hair, buzzes past -- Marion watches it, only his eyes moving -- The fly lands in the sprinkles of sugar on the table -- Marion watches it, then, suddenly, with no warning, his hand flashes out, slamming down on the table. He holds his hand in place, feeling for movement, then slowly peeks under his hand -- The fly oozes sideways, legs kicking, trying to walk. One wing beats furiously; the other is broken -- Marion examines his hand. A smear of fly goo and a single black leg streaks his third finger. Marion touches his tongue to the smear -- The woman behind the counter watches this, her eyes widening with disgust -- Marion holds the fly in place with his left index finger, and uses his right to break away another leg. He eats this leg, too -- The woman disappears into the rear -- Headlights flash across the glass, and Marion swivels around to see Howell's Mercedes pull up -- Marion carefully pushes the still-alive fly aside as Glen Howell takes a seat across from him. Howell puts the yellow slip with Talley's address on the table -- <b> HOWELL </b> Talley lives here. I don't know if the place has security or not. <b> MARION </b> It won't be a problem. <b> HOWELL </b> He has a wife and kid. That's how we'll get to him. <b> MARION </b> Okey-doke. <b> HOWELL </b> We have to own this guy, Marion. We don't want him dead; we need to use him. Marion puts Talley's address into his pocket. <b> MARION </b> Can we make him dead after we use him? Glen Howell slides out of the booth without answering. Marion creeps him out -- <b> HOWELL </b> Whatever you want. Page me when you're done. Howell starts away, then turns back -- <b> HOWELL (CONT'D) </b> Donuts here any good? <b> MARION </b> I don't eat junk food. Howell frowns like he might've known, then walks away. Marion turns back to the fly -- It lays there, still, until Marion prods it. The remaining wing flutters -- Marion breaks off the remaining wing and eats that, too. <b>EXT. COMMAND STREET -- NIGHT </b> Talley and Leigh Metzger stride through a pool of street light as she reports -- <b> METZGER </b> PacBell shows six lines into the house. They blocked all six like you wanted. <b> TALLEY </b> I have the only number that can call into the house? <b> METZGER </b> Yes, sir. They'll only accept calls from your cell. <b> TALLEY </b> Way to go. They arrive at Larry Anders, who is waiting at his car with a slim, nervous cement contractor named Brad Dill -- <b> ANDERS </b> Chief, this is Brad Dill. Dennis and Kevin work for him. <b> DILL </b> I didn't know anything about this. I didn't know what they were gonna do. <b> TALLEY </b> Mr. Dill, these pricks didn't know what they were going to do until they did it. I want you to take a look at something. Metzger holds out a still picture that was made from Junior Kim's security tape -- <b> TALLEY (CONT'D) </b> Can you identify this man? <b> DILL </b> That would be Mars Krupchek. Jesus, he works for me, too. <b> TALLEY </b> (to Metzger) Have Louise run the name 'Mars Krupchek' through DMV and NCIC. Tell her to list the tattoo as an identifier. Metzger hurries away as Talley turns back to Dill -- <b> TALLEY (CONT'D) </b> Is Krupchek an aggressive guy? Hot- tempered? Anything like that? <b> DILL </b> Keeps to himself, more like. <b> TALLEY </b> You have his address? <b> DILL </b> Pretty sure I do. Yeah, here we go -- Dill pulls out a tattered address book. Talley hands the book to Anders, who copies the address -- <b> TALLEY </b> (to Anders) Call the Palmdale City Attorney for a telephonic search warrant. When you get the warrant, have Mikkelson and Dreyer search his house. <b> ANDERS </b> Yes, sir. Anders turns away as Metzger calls from Mrs. Pena's door -- <b> METZGER </b> Chief! The Sheriffs are ten minutes out! Talley has wanted to hear that, but now his sense of relief is tempered by something he did not expect: Loss. Talley keys his shoulder mike -- <b> TALLEY </b> (into his radio) Louise? <b> LOUISE'S VOICE </b> Go, Chief. <b> TALLEY </b> Call Jane for me. She's at the little Thai place. <b> LOUISE'S VOICE </b> I know the one. <b> TALLEY </b> Tell her I'm almost home. <b>INT. SMITH'S SECURITY CLOSET -- NIGHT </b> Dennis is on the floor with the money, touching it, feeling it, smelling it. Mars is standing over him, profoundly unmoved -- <b> DENNIS </b> There's gotta be a million bucks here. Maybe two million! Mars turns away from the money to consider the monitors and the door -- <b> MARS </b> It's a safety room. If anyone breaks into your house, you can hide. <b> DENNIS </b> Who gives a shit, Mars? Check out the cash! We're rich. <b> MARS </b> We're trapped in a house. Mars walks away -- <b>INT. DOWNSTAIRS HALL -- NIGHT </b> Dennis and Mars are returning to the front of the house, Dennis irritated at Mars's lack of enthusiasm -- <b> DENNIS </b> We can take it with us. <b> MARS </b> You can't run with suitcases. Dennis grabs Mars by the arm, stopping him -- <b> DENNIS </b> Then we'll stuff it up our asses. This is the payoff. This is every dream you ever had, all in those two bags. Mars continues on without responding, Dennis angrily following -- <b>INT. WALTER'S OFFICE -- NIGHT </b> Kevin is grimly watching news coverage of their standoff as Mars and Dennis enter. A female anchor is reporting on the events at York Estates with Dennis's booking photo cut into the picture -- <b> ANCHOR </b> (from the tube) -- thought to be Dennis James Rooney. Rooney was recently released from the Antelope Valley Correctional Institute where he served time for robbery. Dennis spots himself on television and breaks into a big smile -- <b> DENNIS </b> (thrilled) Check me out! I look like fuckin' Jon Bon Jovi. Kevin is anything but thrilled -- <b> KEVIN </b> Everyone knows what we look like, Dennis. We won't be able to hide. <b> DENNIS </b> Jesus, first Mars, now you. You two need anti-depressants. Across the room, Walter Smith shudders and moans; his face is swollen and covered with clammy sweat -- Jennifer is sick with worry and can't stand seeing her father like this -- <b> JENNIFER </b> My father needs a doctor. Please. <b> DENNIS </b> Hey, I've got a situation here, in case you haven't noticed. <b> JENNIFER </b> All you're doing is watching yourself on TV. Look at him. <b> DENNIS </b> Use more ice. <b> JENNIFER </b> I'm getting a doctor! Jennifer lurches to her feet and runs toward the front door. Dennis catches her in two steps and backhands her exactly the way his old man used to smack his old lady, knocking her to the floor -- <b> THOMAS </b> Jen!!! Thomas charges into Dennis like an angry midget. Kevin jumps between them -- <b> KEVIN </b> Stop it! Stop it, Dennis! Jesus! Mars steps forward and jerks Thomas into the air. Mars' physical presence is suddenly so imposing that everyone stops fighting -- <b> MARS </b> (quietly) We should tie them. We can put them upstairs out of the way. It takes Dennis a moment to come up to speed with that, but then he nods -- <b> DENNIS </b> That's right. That's a good idea, Mars. <b> MARS </b> (to Kevin) Find something: Extension cords, rope, wire--we'll have to tie them tight. <b> DENNIS </b> Find something, Kevin. Don't just stand there. (waves at Walter) And tie this bastard, too. I don't want him waking up and goin' Rambo on us. Mars nods his approval. Subtly, there is the beginning of a shift in power -- <b>INT. JENNIFER'S BEDROOM -- NIGHT </b> Mars pushes Jennifer inside. Kevin follows her with duct tape and a couple of extension cords. Mars, holding Thomas, pauses in the hall -- <b> MARS </b> Tie her to the chair. I'll take care of the windows when I finish with the boy. Mars disappears with Thomas down the hall. Jennifer stands by the chair, arms once more crossed over her breasts. Kevin can see that she's scared. He takes a T-shirt from where she's left it on the floor and hands it to her -- <b> KEVIN </b> Here. Put this on. She pulls it over her head -- <b> KEVIN (CONT'D) </b> You gotta pee? <b> JENNIFER </b> I don't see why you can't just lock me in. It's not like I can go anywhere. <b> KEVIN </b> Either I'm going to tie you or Mars will tie you. Which do you want? Jennifer sits. Kevin pulls her hands behind the back of the chair. As he ties her, Jennifer decides that if any of them can be reached, it's Kevin -- <b> JENNIFER </b> Thanks for the shirt. <b> KEVIN </b> Whatever. <b> JENNIFER </b> Kevin, my father needs a doctor. <b> </b><b> KEVIN </b> He's just knocked out. I've been knocked out. <b> JENNIFER </b> If my father dies they'll charge you with his murder. Can't you make Dennis see that? Kevin leans back. He knows she's right, but he doesn't believe he can do anything about it -- <b> KEVIN </b> I can't make Dennis see anything. A shadow moves behind Kevin. It's Mars, standing in the door. He holds up a wicked claw hammer -- <b> MARS </b> Look what I found. He enters and tests at Jennifer's binds -- <b> MARS (CONT'D) </b> You tied her like a pussy. Make it tight. As Kevin reties the bindings, Mars rips the phone from the wall. He smashes the phone jack with the hammer, crushing it. Then he goes to the window and drives a heavy nail into the sill, nailing the window closed -- Mars returns to Jennifer and once more checks her binds -- <b> MARS (CONT'D) </b> Better. He tears off a strip of duct tape and presses it over her mouth -- <b> KEVIN </b> Make sure she can breathe. Mars rubs his fingers hard over the tape covering her mouth. He massages the tape into her skin, slow, sensual -- <b> MARS </b> Go downstairs, Kevin. Jennifer looks at Kevin, her eyes pleading that he not leave, but Kevin is cowed; he leaves -- Jennifer looks back at Mars -- Mars leans close to her. She is terrified that he is going to kiss her, but, instead, he sniffs, smelling her -- <b> MARS (CONT'D) </b> I want to show you something. Mars hooks the claw hammer under his shirt and lifts to expose his chest. A large tattoo in flowing script is lined across his body: A Mother's Son. <b> MARS (CONT'D) </b> It cost two hundred forty dollars, but I was happy to spend it. I love my mom. You see these? Mars points out hard gray knots that speckle his chest as if he were diseased. He fingers the lumps sensuously as if touching them excites him -- <b> MARS (CONT'D) </b> My mom burned me with cigarettes. Jennifer is both disgusted and terrified. Mars stares at her emptily for another moment, then lowers his shirt and leaves without another word. <b>INT. THOMAS'S ROOM -- NIGHT </b> The room is dark. Thomas is tied firmly to the bed. The cords cut into Thomas's wrists and Thomas can't reach the knots, but Mars made one mistake: He tied Thomas to the headboard posts, and one of the newels has been loose for years -- Thomas stretches against the ropes to reach the newel, then twists it back and forth. He works it harder and harder until the newel slides off its pin, and suddenly his hand is free, though still tied to the newel -- Thomas peels the tape from his mouth, then unties the remaining binds and frees himself from the newel. He slips off his bed and crawls along the wall to his closet -- <b>INT. THOMAS'S CLOSET -- NIGHT </b> A service hatch that opens into the attic crawlspace is built into the wall beneath Thomas's clothes. Thomas prys open the hatch, then reaches inside for a small flashlight. He flicks it on, then climbs into the eaves of the roof -- <b>INT. CRAWLSPACE -- NIGHT </b> The crawlspace is a long triangular tunnel that follows the edge of the roof. It was built for plumbers and air conditioning technicians, but Thomas has taken the space for his own: Witness the stack of Penthouse, pictures of sports heroes tacked to the rafters, and old soda cans strewn between the joists -- Thomas scurries quietly through the tunnel, heading for -- <b>INT. JENNIFER'S CLOSET -- NIGHT </b> Thomas pushes through a hatch identical to the one in his own closet, then creeps to the door -- <b> THOMAS </b> (whispers) Jen! <b>INT. JENNIFER'S ROOM -- NIGHT </b> Jennifer twists around to see him, mumbling through the tape -- <b> THOMAS </b> Sit still! If they're in the security room, they can see you on the monitors. Jennifer quiets. Thomas slips out of the closet and creeps toward her along the wall -- <b> THOMAS (CONT'D) </b> I figured out what these cameras can see last year when Mom and Dad went to Lake Arrowhead. It can't see me over here, but it's looking at you, so don't move! Thomas reaches up from behind Jennifer and jerks the tape off her mouth -- <b> JENNIFER </b> Ow! Shit! <b> THOMAS </b> Be quiet! Listen! Thomas is hiding behind Jennifer so that the camera cannot see him -- <b> JENNIFER </b> No one's coming. <b> THOMAS </b> That big asshole nailed my windows. <b> JENNIFER </b> Mine, too. <b> THOMAS </b> We can use the crawlspace to get downstairs. Then we can run for it. <b> JENNIFER </b> No! I'm not going to leave Daddy with them! Thomas thinks about that and decides that he can't leave their father, either -- <b> THOMAS </b> We can't carry him. <b> JENNIFER </b> You go, Thomas. You get out, and I'll stay with Daddy. <b> THOMAS </b> I'm not gonna leave you! <b> JENNIFER </b> Go! If you get out, maybe you can help the police! Thomas suddenly realizes what he has to do -- <b> THOMAS </b> We'll all go, Jennifer. All of us or none of us. I know where Daddy keeps a gun. Jennifer jerks so hard that she almost tips over the chair -- <b> JENNIFER </b> (loud) You leave that gun alone! <b> THOMAS </b> Shh, they'll hear you! <b> JENNIFER </b> (louder) Better than you getting killed! Don't touch that gun! Daddy says -- Thomas slaps the tape back over her mouth. Jennifer struggles helplessly as Thomas slips back into the closet, and is gone -- <b>EXT. YORK ESTATES -- STREET -- NIGHT </b> The Sheriff's Crisis Response Team rolls through the streets like an invading army: A brown sedan leads a huge van known as the Mobile Command Post, which is followed by a Sheriff's SWAT support vehicle, two SWAT Suburbans, and four radio units. Pools of light from the helicopters follow their progress -- <b>EXT. COMMAND STREET -- NIGHT </b> Talley walks out to meet the lead vehicle as the convoy stops. Up and down the row, uniformed Sheriffs pile out of their vehicles and off-load their gear -- Two people climb out of the lead car: Will Maddox, a bespectacled African-American Sheriff's SWAT negotiator, and Captain Laura Martin, the CRT commander -- <b> TALLEY </b> I'm Talley. Who's in charge? <b> MARTIN </b> Laura Martin. This is Will Maddox, the primary negotiator -- <b> MADDOX </b> Is the perimeter around the house secure? <b> TALLEY </b> I've got fourteen officers on my department including me. We're as secure as we can be. <b> MADDOX </b> (to Martin) Permission to deploy the line? <b> MARTIN </b> Do it. <b> TALLEY </b> (to Maddox) Don't crowd the house. The alpha's a kid named Rooney. He's amped up and volatile. Maddox turns away to bark orders into his shoulder mike -- <b> MARTIN </b> Sounds like you know the job. <b> TALLEY </b> I've done it once or twice. I blocked their phones to incoming calls, so you'll have to cut in a hard line to talk to him. <b> MARTIN </b> (over her shoulder) Maddox! You got that? <b> MADDOX </b> Doing it now! <b> MARTIN </b> (back to Talley) I'd like you to brief my supervisors before we take over the scene. <b> TALLEY </b> Whatever you want. Talley and Martin hurry toward her troops -- <b>INT. THE SMITHS' GARAGE -- NIGHT </b> The garage is dark, lit only by the light that comes from the kitchen's open door, as Dennis, Mars and a reluctant Kevin enter -- <b> KEVIN </b> Someone should stay with Mr. Smith. What if he wakes up? <b> DENNIS </b> (annoyed) That's why we tied him, dumbass. Now come here and see this -- Dennis shows them a small casement window, and pushes open the window to reveal a thick hedge -- <b> DENNIS (CONT'D) </b> (excited) These bushes follow the wall into the neighbor's yard. All we need is some kind of diversion and we're home free. <b> KEVIN </b> That's crazy, Dennis. The cops will see us. <b> DENNIS </b> Not if they're looking at something else. <b> KEVIN </b> Like what? <b> MARS </b> Let's burn the house. Mars says it so simply that the moment is frozen. Mars is holding the big claw hammer, kneading it as if it was a living thing. His face is masked by shadows, but his eyes both glow as if already reflecting flame -- <b>INT. CRAWLSPACE ABOVE THE LAUNDRY ROOM -- NIGHT </b> We see Dennis, Kevin, and Mars through a slit overhead as they emerge from the garage and move back into the house -- Thomas is watching them. He has cracked open the service hatch in the laundry room ceiling to make sure that his way is clear -- <b>INT. LAUNDRY ROOM -- NIGHT </b> The room is dark. When Dennis and the others are gone, the ceiling hatch lifts, and Thomas lets himself down. He slides onto the washing machine and then to the floor -- Thomas cups one hand over his flashlight and turns it on. He lets light leak through his fingers so that he can see. The beam cuts across a door to the garage, car keys on key hooks, and Jennifer's purse hanging from one of the hooks -- <b>INT. HOBBY ROOM -- NIGHT </b> This is a small room off the end of the laundry with a work bench, a stool, and shelves above the bench for Walter's hobby supplies -- Thomas shines the light over the shelves, spotting the hard plastic pistol case on the highest shelf. That's the target; that's the goal -- Thomas uses the stool to climb onto the bench -- <b>INT. MASTER BEDROOM -- NIGHT </b> Dennis is in the doorway to the security closet, handing out one of the money bags to Kevin -- <b> KEVIN </b> We can't carry all this. It's too heavy. <b> DENNIS </b> I've been carrying you our whole fuckin' lives. Kevin drops the bag and tries to reason with his brother -- <b> KEVIN </b> Everything we're doing is making it worse. You can't let him burn this house. Dennis abruptly grabs Kevin by the throat, his face hard with fury -- <b> DENNIS </b> Nothing's worse than listening to you. I'm warning you, Kevin--stop holding me back. Now you pick up that fuckin' money and get ready to go. Dennis glares at Kevin another moment, then lets go and steps back into the closet -- <b>INT. THE CLOSET -- NIGHT </b> Dennis lifts the second bag of cash when the monitors catch his eye: The Sheriffs SWAT unit can be seen moving into position. Dennis totally freaks -- <b> DENNIS </b> They're coming! Kev, Mars, they're coming!!! Dennis drops the cash and bolts out of the closet -- <b>INT. KITCHEN -- NIGHT </b> Mars is placing two buckets of gasoline in the hall as Dennis and Kevin pound down the hall -- <b> DENNIS </b> The cops are comin'! <b> MARS </b> I got the gasoline -- <b> DENNIS </b> We don't have time! Dennis runs to the French doors. He sees lights at the rear of the property and SHOOTS through the glass -- <b> DENNIS (CONT'D) </b> Get the kids! They're our only chance! Dennis FIRES AGAIN and runs for the stairs -- <b>INT. HOBBY ROOM -- NIGHT </b> Thomas is straining to reach the pistol which is a fraction of an inch beyond his grasp when he hears Dennis shouting -- Thomas glances helplessly at the gun case--so near, yet so far--then scrambles off the bench and -- <b>INT. LAUNDRY ROOM -- NIGHT </b> Thomas is climbing onto the washing machine when he once more sees Jennifer's purse hanging on a key hook -- Thomas jumps from the washer, grabs the purse, then scrambles into the ceiling as GUNSHOTS ECHO through the house -- <b>EXT. COMMAND STREET -- NIGHT </b> Martin, Maddox, and her supervisors are gathered around Talley when the gunshots crack across the neighborhood -- <b> TALLEY </b> (startled) Who's that shooting? Martin, what's going on? Radio transmissions crackle over Martin's radio -- <b> RADIO VOICES </b> Shots fired! We are taking fire on the back wall! Talley immediately knows what's happening, and he knows why -- <b> TALLEY </b> They're too close! I told you not to crowd him! Pull back your people; do not breach that house! Talley sprints toward the cul-de-sac -- <b>INT. CRAWLSPACE -- NIGHT </b> Thomas races through the narrow black tunnel. He slips off the rafters and almost falls through the ceiling. He's losing precious time -- <b>INT. THE STAIRWELL -- NIGHT </b> Dennis and Mars pound up the stairs, getting closer to his room -- <b>INT. THE CRAWLSPACE -- NIGHT </b> Thomas pushes his way into his closet -- <b>INT. UPSTAIRS HALL -- NIGHT </b> Dennis and Mars reach the second floor -- <b>INT. THOMAS' ROOM -- NIGHT </b> Thomas scrambles into bed just before Dennis jerks open the door. Dennis drags him off the bed and carries him out of the room -- <b>EXT. CUL-DE-SAC -- NIGHT </b> Talley, Martin, and Maddox run into position behind a Sheriff's unit where a deputy has set up the dedicated crisis phone -- Talley grabs up the phone -- <b> TALLEY </b> (to the deputy) This thing good? Talley doesn't wait for the confused deputy to answer; he presses the button in the handle that dials the phone -- <b> MADDOX </b> What in hell are you doing? He's shooting at my men! The phone rings in Talley's ear -- <b> TALLEY </b> (to Maddox) Then get your men off the wall! (to Martin) You breach that house, we're gonna have a bloodbath! I know this guy, Captain -- I can talk to him. <b> MARTIN </b> (to Maddox) Order your men to stand down. The phone is still ringing. Talley pulls the mike from the deputy's car and speaks over the public address -- <b> TALLEY </b> (over the p.a.) Look out the window, Dennis. We are NOT entering the house. We're pulling back. <b>INT. SMITH'S OFFICE -- NIGHT </b> Dennis is holding Thomas around the neck, using the boy as a shield. Kevin is cowering on the floor and Mars is holding Jennifer. Dennis snatches up the phone -- <b> DENNIS </b> (screaming into the phone) You fuck! I got a fuckin' gun to this kid's head! I'll kill'm, you fuck! Intercut Talley outside -- <b> TALLEY </b> It's over now, Dennis! Don't hurt anyone. <b> DENNIS </b> (still screaming) We'll burn this fuckin' place down! I got gasoline all over in here! Talley takes a deep breath; he forces himself to speak quietly, calmly -- <b> TALLEY </b> No one's coming in. A couple of guys out here got carried away. Dennis peers out the front. Talley's careful manner is calming him -- <b> DENNIS </b> Goddamned right they got carried away. It looks like an army out there. Talley mutes the phone to speak to Martin -- <b> TALLEY </b> (to Martin) It's over. He's cooling off. Talley glances at Maddox. Maddox nods, his expression saying that Talley was right -- <b> DENNIS </b> Talley? <b> TALLEY </b> (back into the phone) I'm here. <b> DENNIS </b> I want a helicopter to take us to Mexico. <b> TALLEY </b> That's not going to happen, Dennis. They won't give you a helicopter. <b> DENNIS </b> I'll give you these people. <b> TALLEY </b> The Mexican police would arrest you as soon as it landed. There's only one way out and you're doing it right now--just keep talking to us. (mutes phone; to Martin and Maddox) I think we could make the transition now. Maddox, you good to go? Maddox nods at Martin; he's good to go -- <b> TALLEY (CONT'D) </b> (to Dennis) Hey, Dennis? Can I let you in on a personal secret? <b> DENNIS </b> (hesitantly) What? <b> TALLEY </b> I gotta piss real bad. Dennis can't help himself; he laughs -- <b> DENNIS </b> You're a funny guy, Talley. <b> TALLEY </b> I'm going to put on an officer named Will Maddox. You talk to him for a while. Talley hands the phone to Maddox, who moves past Talley for a better view of the house. Talley looks grimly at Martin -- <b> TALLEY (CONT'D) </b> He says he has gasoline set to burn the place. <b> MARTIN </b> Jesus. He must've siphoned it from the cars. <b> TALLEY </b> If you go in, you can't use tear gas or flashbangs. The whole place would go up. <b> MARTIN </b> (not without humor) Looks like you're bailing out at the right time. <b> TALLEY </b> (returns her smile) That's why you get the big bucks, Captain. Talley is moving away when his radio pops -- <b> LOUISE'S VOICE </b> Chief, base. <b> TALLEY </b> (keying his shoulder mike) Go. <b> LOUISE'S VOICE </b> I couldn't find Jane. She wasn't at the restaurant. <b> TALLEY </b> You have her cell number? <b> LOUISE'S VOICE </b> She didn't answer. <b> TALLEY </b> They might be at the house. Keep trying and let me know. I'm going to be here a little while longer. Talley closes his phone and continues away -- <b>INT. WALTER'S OFFICE -- NIGHT </b> Dennis and Kevin are at the television, watching an aerial view of the Sheriffs deploying around the house. Jennifer and Thomas are huddled by their father -- <b> KEVIN </b> We're surrounded. They're all over the neighborhood. Mars enters carrying candles and flashlights. He lights a candle and place it on a table -- <b> DENNIS </b> What the fuck is that? <b> MARS </b> They'll cut the power. Mars tosses a flashlight to Dennis -- <b> JENNIFER </b> What about my father? <b> DENNIS </b> Aw, Jesus, not more of this. <b> JENNIFER </b> Look at him! I think he's dying! <b> DENNIS </b> (to Kevin and Mars) Take'm back upstairs, but don't tie'm like before. That little fuck untied himself anyway. Dennis returns to the shutters as Mars and Kevin take the kids -- <b>INT. THOMAS' ROOM -- NIGHT </b> Mars shoves Thomas into the room, then lifts the claw hammer. For an instant, we think he's going to hit the boy--but he smashes off the door knob, instead. Mars glares at Thomas, then pulls the door closed. The knob on Thomas's side is gone; there's no way for Thomas to open the door. But that's okay by Thomas. He waits until he's sure that Mars is gone, and then he hurries back to his closet -- <b>INT. THOMAS' CLOSET -- NIGHT </b> Thomas pulls open the hatch, fishes out his flashlight, then dumps the contents of Jennifer's purse on the floor. He picks up her cell phone. <b>INT. MRS. PENA'S BATHROOM -- NIGHT </b> Talley closes his eyes with a blissful expression as a familiar sound fills the bathroom; he's taking a piss. His radio crackles -- <b> LOUISE'S VOICE </b> Chief, base. Talley finishes his business, and keys his mike -- <b> TALLEY </b> Did you find Jane and Mandy? <b> LOUISE'S VOICE </b> Could you call me back on your phone? Right away. <b> TALLEY </b> What's wrong with the radio? <b> LOUISE'S VOICE </b> (hesitantly) Other people can hear us. Just call. Please. <b> TALLEY </b> Stand by. Now Talley is worried. He pulls out his phone and punches the speed dial. It rings only once -- Intercut Louise, at her desk outside Talley's office -- <b> TALLEY (CONT'D) </b> Is something wrong with Jane? <b> LOUISE </b> We have a boy on the line. He says he's Thomas Smith and he's calling from the house. <b> TALLEY </b> It's a crank, Louise. C'mon, don't waste my time with that! <b> LOUISE </b> His cell number belongs to the Smiths. I think it's real, Chief. I think this boy is inside that house. Talley worries it only for a moment -- <b> TALLEY </b> Put him on. Talley pushes out of the bathroom into -- <b>INT. MRS. PENA'S FAMILY ROOM -- NIGHT </b> He flags Leigh Metzger as he cups the phone -- <b> TALLEY </b> (to Metzger) Get Martin. Right away. As Metzger hurries away, we intercut Thomas, hiding in the shadows on his bed, whispering so as not to be overheard -- <b> TALLEY (CONT'D) </b> (into the phone) This is Chief Talley. Tell me your name, son. <b> THOMAS </b> Thomas Smith. I'm in the house that's on TV. Dennis hit my dad and now he won't wake up. You gotta help him. Talley can tell by the tremor in the boy's voice--this is for real -- <b> TALLEY </b> Slow down, Thomas. Take it easy and talk to me. Was your father shot? <b> THOMAS </b> Dennis hit him. His head's all big and he won't wake up. I'm really scared. <b> TALLEY </b> How about you and your sister? <b> THOMAS </b> We're okay. <b> TALLEY </b> Where are you right now? <b> THOMAS </b> In my room. Talley hurries to a large sketch of the Smiths' floor plan laid out on the dining room table -- <b> TALLEY </b> That's on the second floor. Could you climb out your window if we were downstairs to catch you? <b> THOMAS </b> They nailed the windows. I can't get'm open. Martin enters with Leigh Metzger. Talley cups the phone to give her the headline -- <b> TALLEY </b> (to Martin) I've got the boy on the phone. He's using a cell phone. (back to Thomas) What was that, son? I didn't hear you. <b> THOMAS </b> If I try to climb out they'll see me on the security cameras. They would see you outside, too -- Thomas hears someone outside his door -- <b> THOMAS (CONT'D) </b> They're coming! Thomas hangs up, jamming his phone behind the bed -- <b> TALLEY </b> Thomas? Thomas...? Talley lowers the phone -- <b> TALLEY (CONT'D) </b> He says that his father's hurt. <b> MARTIN </b> If we have a man dying in there, we'll have to go in. <b> TALLEY </b> They have security cameras. Rooney would see you coming. <b> MARTIN </b> Did the boy say that any of them are in immediate danger? <b> TALLEY </b> No. He said that his father's unconscious; he didn't say he was dying. <b> MARTIN </b> Then I think we should wait. Do you agree? Talley finally nods -- <b> TALLEY </b> You want me to stick around, I could -- <b> MARTIN </b> You've been here all day, Chief. Take a break. See your family. If I need you, I'll call. Talley looks like the most tired guy in the world. He nods his good-night, then turns away -- <b>INT. TALLEY'S CAR -- NIGHT </b> Talley slides into his car outside Mrs. Pena's home. He's got a lot on his mind, and not all of it centers around 455 Castle Way. He punches a number into his cell phone -- He listens to ringing, and then his own voice answers -- <b> TALLEY'S VOICE MESSAGE </b> This is Jeff Talley. Leave your name and number after the beep. We hear the beep, then -- <b> TALLEY </b> (into his phone) Jane? If you're there, pick up, okay? Mandy? No one answers. Talley closes his phone, his apprehension increasing -- <b>EXT. YORK ESTATES FRONT GATE -- NIGHT </b> The Bristo officers manning the gate swing the blockade aside and wave Talley through -- <b>EXT. MEDIA AREA -- NIGHT </b> The assembled television microwave vans, radio newsvans, and reporters are parked together in an empty lot one block from the front gate. Ken Seymore steps into the street, speaking into a cell phone as he watches Talley drive away -- <b> SEYMORE </b> (into his phone) He's leaving now. <b>EXT. RED LIGHT INTERSECTION -- DAY </b> A traffic light on the outskirts of town, deserted until Talley's car pulls to a stop -- <b>INT. TALLEY'S CAR -- NIGHT </b> Suddenly, two masked men point guns at his head, one from the driver's side, one from the passengers. They're wearing jackets, black ski masks, and gloves. The man on the passenger side sports a big gold Rolex, so we'll call him the Watchman -- <b> THE WATCHMAN </b> (meaning the gun) Do you see the fuckin' gun?! Look at it! Talley freezes. He's been blindsided by this insane shit, but he knows better than to move -- <b> TALLEY </b> Take it easy. The man on the driver's side gets into the backseat, then the Watchman gets into the passenger side. The man behind Talley hooks an arm around Talley's throat while the Watchman searches for Talley's gun -- <b> THE WATCHMAN </b> Where's your gun? <b> TALLEY </b> I'm the Chief. I don't carry it. The Watchman nods at the backseater, who releases Talley. A dark green Mustang roars up ahead of Talley's car. A second car tucks in tight on Talley's rear -- <b> TALLEY (CONT'D) </b> Who are you? <b> THE WATCHMAN </b> Follow the Mustang. We won't go far. The Mustang pulls out, and Talley follows. <b>EXT. A DESERTED ALLEY -- NIGHT </b> The three cars turn into the alley. They stop, the first and last cars bumper-to-bumper with Talley's. The cars are so close to Talley that his own vehicle is pinned; he couldn't drive away now even if he wanted -- <b>INT. TALLEY'S CAR -- NIGHT </b> The Watchman puts Talley's car in park, turns off the ignition, and takes the key. <b> THE WATCHMAN </b> I know you're scared, but unless you do something stupid we're not going to hurt you. You understand? Two more masked men approach from the other cars, one coming to Talley's window, the other getting into the back seat behind the Watchman. <b> THE WATCHMAN (CONT'D) </b> Don't just fuckin' sit there, dumbass. Do you understand? <b> TALLEY </b> What do you want? <b> THE WATCHMAN </b> These guys are going to take hold of you. Don't freak out. It's for your own good. The three men take hold of Talley, the man behind again looping his arm around Talley's neck, the other two each twisting Talley's arms -- <b> TALLEY </b> What is this? The Watchman holds a distinctive white cell phone to Talley's ear -- <b> THE WATCHMAN </b> Say hello. <b> JANE'S VOICE </b> Jeff? Is that you? Talley goes berserk. He bucks and tries to pull away, but the three men hold tight -- The Watchman closes the phone -- <b> THE WATCHMAN </b> (trying to calm Talley) I know, I know--she's all right. Your kid's all right, too. C'mon, now, relax. From this point on, you control what happens to them. Talley can barely breathe, they're holding him so tight -- <b> THE WATCHMAN (CONT'D) </b> Can we let go? You past your shock and all that, we can turn you loose and you won't do something stupid? <b> TALLEY </b> You can let go. The Watchman glances at the men; they let go -- <b> THE WATCHMAN </b> Here's the deal--Walter Smith has two computer disks like this in his house. They're labeled 'Marlon' and 'Al.' The Watchman holds up a thick black Zip disk. Talley's expression tells us that this is the weirdest shit he's ever heard -- <b> TALLEY </b> Marlon and Al.... <b> THE WATCHMAN </b> We want them. You will not let anyone go into that house--or anything come out-- until my people recover these disks. <b> TALLEY </b> I can't control what happens. The Sheriffs are running the scene. <b> THE WATCHMAN </b> You will re-assume command. In two hours, a group of my people will arrive at York Estates. You will tell the Sheriffs that they are an FBI tactical team. The Watchman puts the white cell phone into Talley's hand -- <b> THE WATCHMAN (CONT'D) </b> When this phone rings, you answer. It will be me. I'll tell you what to do. When I have what I want, you get your family. <b> TALLEY </b> You want . . . Marlon and Al. <b> THE WATCHMAN </b> I have people in York Estates right under your nose. If you do anything except what I'm telling you, you'll get Jane and Amanda back in the mail. We clear on that? <b> TALLEY </b> These disks . . . where are they? <b> THE WATCHMAN </b> Smith will know. The Watchman and the others get out of Talley's car. The doors slam shut. The Watchman leans in -- <b> THE WATCHMAN </b> When it rings, answer. The Watchman tosses the keys into Talley's lap. We hear car doors open and close; the cars, front and back, roar to life and speed away -- Talley focuses on the Mustang's license plate, frantically scratching down the number -- <b>INT. BRISTO CAMINO POLICE DEPARTMENT -- NIGHT </b> The place is deserted except for Louise, currently at her desk to monitor radio communications. Talley enters, looking as if he's stricken. Louise can't help herself but to react -- <b> LOUISE </b> You look terrible. Chief, are you all right? Talley barely glances at her, going directly to his office -- <b>INT. TALLEY'S OFFICE -- NIGHT </b> Talley steps inside and peels off his uniform shirt. He takes a bullet-resistant vest and a black sweatshirt from his closet. He straps on the vest, then pulls on the sweatshirt. Talley sits at his desk and lifts out a ballistic nylon pistol case from the lower drawer. He takes out his old SWAT combat piece: This isn't a pussy 9mm; it's a finely tuned .45-caliber Colt Model 1911. One shot, one kill. Talley ejects the empty magazine, then loads it with a deadly efficiency. He slams home the magazine -- Talley clips the gun to his belt under his sweatshirt. He's ready to rock. The camera finds the photograph of Talley during his days as a SWAT tactical officer -- He was one bad motherfucker. <b>INT. THE MAIN ROOM -- NIGHT </b> Talley heads for the front door -- <b> TALLEY </b> I'm going back to York. Have Larry meet me at the front gate. Talley exits without a backward glance -- <b>EXT. YORK ESTATES FRONT GATE -- NIGHT </b> The helicopters orbit in the distance; the empty lot with the news vans is in the background. Talley turns into the development, then stops at the side of the street where Larry Anders is waiting -- <b>INT. TALLEY'S CAR -- NIGHT </b> Anders slides into the passenger seat. He sees a different Talley now, focused and grim -- <b> ANDERS </b> What's up, Chief? Talley stares at Anders, trying to decide: Can I trust him? Will he rat me out to the Watchman and cost the lives of my wife and child? <b> ANDERS (CONT'D) </b> Did I do something wrong? Talley gives him a slip of paper -- <b> TALLEY </b> I want you to run this license plate and phone number. Then I want you to find out everything you can about Walter Smith. <b> ANDERS </b> The guy in the house? <b> TALLEY </b> Go back to the office. Run his name through the FBI and the NLETS database. I think he's involved with illegal activity or he associates with people who are. Anders glances at the slip again, then tucks it away -- <b> ANDERS </b> Wow. Sure, right away, Chief. <b> TALLEY </b> Don't tell anyone what you're doing, not Louise, not the other guys, not the Sheriffs. You understand me, Larry? <b> </b><b> ANDERS </b> I guess so. <b> TALLEY </b> Fuck guessing. You keep your mouth shut. <b> ANDERS </b> I will, Chief. Absolutely. <b> TALLEY </b> Get to work. Anders climbs out and Talley rockets away -- <b>EXT. COMMAND STREET -- NIGHT </b> Talley pulls up behind the Sheriffs' command van. Martin, surprised to see Talley, steps from the van -- <b> TALLEY </b> I'm re-assuming command of the scene. <b> </b>Martin is surprised and angry -- <b> MARTIN </b> Excuse me? You requested our help. You turned over command -- <b> TALLEY </b> And now I'm taking it back. We're getting Smith out of the house. Talley heads for the cul-de-sac -- <b>INT. JENNIFER'S BEDROOM -- NIGHT </b> Jennifer is on her bed in the darkness, groggy with fear and fatigue. She hears someone outside in the hall -- <b> JENNIFER </b> Thomas? The door knob rattles. Jennifer slides out of bed and goes to the door -- <b> JENNIFER (CONT'D) </b> Thomas, is that you? The door suddenly opens, and Mars is framed in the dim light. Jennifer jumps back, terrified -- <b> JENNIFER (CONT'D) </b> What do you want? <b> MARS </b> We can't make the microwave work. That seems so outlandish that Jennifer is confused -- <b> JENNIFER </b> What? <b> MARS </b> We're hungry. You're going to cook. Mars grabs her hair, and pushes her out the door -- <b>INT. KITCHEN -- NIGHT </b> Mars shoves Jennifer into the kitchen. Two frozen pizzas are waiting on the counter -- <b> MARS </b> Make the pizza. I want scrambled eggs and hot dogs on mine. <b> JENNIFER </b> (under her breath) How about dog shit? Mars takes a carton of eggs and a package of hot dogs from the refrigerator -- <b> MARS </b> With hot sauce and butter. Jennifer takes a bowl from the cupboard. When she sets down the bowl, she sees the handle of the paring knife by the food processor. Jennifer breaks eggs into the bowl -- <b> JENNIFER </b> I need a frying pan. Would you get one? Over there, under the range. As soon as Mars turns away, Jennifer palms the knife and pushes it into the waist of her shorts -- <b>EXT. THE CUL-DE-SAC -- NIGHT </b> Talley joins Maddox behind the car -- <b> MADDOX </b> What put a wild hair up your ass? <b> TALLEY </b> I changed my mind. That's all you need to know. Talley picks up the dedicated crisis phone that's been cut into the Smiths' telephone line. He lifts the receiver and presses a button. The phone inside the house rings -- Intercut Dennis inside Smith's office. He answers -- <b> DENNIS </b> That you, Talley? <b> TALLEY </b> The one and only. We got a little problem out here, Dennis. <b> DENNIS </b> You oughta try on the problem I got in here. <b> TALLEY </b> I need you to let me talk to Mr. Smith. Dennis shoots a nervous glance at Walter, who's twitching and shuddering on the couch -- <b> DENNIS </b> We been through that. Forget it. <b> TALLEY </b> We can't forget it. The Sheriffs think you won't let me talk to Smith because he's dead. They think you murdered him. Maddox can't believe that Talley is saying this -- <b> MADDOX </b> (low, so that Dennis can't hear) What in hell are you doing?! <b> DENNIS </b> That's bullshit! The guy's right here! He's alive! <b> TALLEY </b> (pressing Dennis harder) If you don't let me talk to him, they're going to attack the house. Maddox grabs Talley's arm, his voice a low hiss -- <b> MADDOX </b> You're gonna set him off, goddamnit! That's crazy! <b> DENNIS </b> (screaming) They better not! Talley pushes Maddox away and amps the pressure on Dennis -- <b> TALLEY </b> Help me keep them out! Let me speak to Smith, Dennis. Let me speak to him right now. Dennis is freaking. He believes that the Sheriffs are about to crash through the doors -- <b> DENNIS </b><b> SHIT!!!! </b> Now Talley throttles back; he senses that Dennis is at the breaking point and wants to coax him back from the edge -- <b> TALLEY </b> (calmer; coaxing) Talk to me, Dennis. Help me help you. Why can't you put Smith on the phone? Dennis finally makes the admission -- <b> DENNIS </b> (quietly) He got knocked out. It's like he's sleeping. He just lays there. Talley gives a thumbs-up to Maddox, who sits back in awe. This crazy shit is working -- <b> TALLEY </b> (to Dennis) Now I understand. That helps. I can make them understand that. <b> DENNIS </b> Okay. <b> TALLEY </b> Let me come get him. <b> DENNIS </b> Fuck that! You bastards will jump me! <b> TALLEY </b> If you won't let me come in, then put him outside. <b> DENNIS </b> You'll cap my ass as soon as I step out the door! <b> TALLEY </b> You've already helped yourself once, Dennis; be smart again. If you save his life, it'll help when you get to court. Dennis is at the edge; he's looking straight down into his deepest fears. He finally relents -- <b> DENNIS </b> Fuck you, Talley, fuck you! You and one other guy, but that's it! I want you stripped! I gotta know you don't have guns! Dennis slams down the phone -- Talley lowers the crisis phone, then looks at Maddox -- <b> TALLEY </b> Bring up the ambulance. <b>EXT. THE CUL-DE-SAC -- A FEW MINUTES LATER </b> Mobile banks of flood lamps illuminate the front of the house. The ambulance waits behind the lights; tactical officers with M5s and M16s hunker in position in case the program goes south -- Talley and a paramedic named Bigelow emerge between the lights, wearing only shorts and shoes. Bigelow is carrying a collapsable stretcher -- They stop in the mouth of the drive with a full view of the front door. Talley lifts his cell phone -- <b> TALLEY </b> (into the phone) Okay, Dennis, we won't approach the house until you've closed the door. The front door opens, a crack at first, then wider. The line of officers behind the lights shifts -- <b> TALLEY (CONT'D) </b> (over his shoulder) Easy.... Kevin and Mars waddle out with Walter Smith between them. They put him down about six feet from the front door, then return to the house -- <b> TALLEY (CONT'D) </b> (to Bigelow) Let's do it. Talley and Bigelow move forward. When they reach Walter, Bigelow opens the stretcher and locks out the frame. He peels back Walter's eyelids and flashes a penlight -- <b> TALLEY (CONT'D) </b> How's he look? <b> BIGELOW </b> He's got a concussion for sure. I'm going to brace him. As Bigelow sets a cervical neck brace, Talley gets the creepy feeling that he's being watched. He turns toward the shutters, and finds a pair of eyes only inches from his own. It's Mars. Talley stares at Mars, and Mars stares back. It's as if they're locked in a contest of wills until -- <b> BIGELOW (CONT'D) </b> Let's get him on the stretcher. Talley turns away to help Bigelow -- <b> BIGELOW (CONT'D) </b> I'll support his head and shoulders. You lift his hips and knees. On three. Three. As they carry Walter away, Talley glances back at the eyes. Mars is still watching him -- <b>IN THE CUL-DE-SAC--TALLEY AND BIGELOW </b> are surrounded by cops as soon as they step into the shadows behind the lights. Another paramedic takes the stretcher from Talley. Maddox is waiting with Talley's clothes -- <b> MADDOX </b> You ready to tell me what's going on? Talley pulls on his pants -- <b> TALLEY </b> No. Talley stalks straight to the ambulance, pulling on his sweatshirt as he goes -- <b>INT. THE AMBULANCE -- NIGHT </b> A young physician named Klaus is examining Walter as Talley steps up into the ambulance -- <b> TALLEY </b> I'm the chief of police here. I have to talk to him. <b> KLAUS </b> Ain't gonna happen. We've got unequal pupilation. He could have an intracranial hematoma or a fracture or both. Talley ignores the doctor and shakes Walter by the face -- <b> TALLEY </b> Smith! Wake up! <b> KLAUS </b> What are you doing?! Stop that! Walter's eyes flutter, one more open than the other. Talley leans closer -- <b> TALLEY </b> (to Smith) Wake up, goddamnit. Who are you? Klaus tries to shove Talley away, but it's like pushing a wall -- <b> KLAUS </b> This man needs a hospital! Stop it! Talley grabs Klaus by the arm, trying to make him see -- <b> TALLEY </b> Use smelling salts, give him a shot, whatever. I just need a minute. Bigelow climbs behind the wheel and starts the ambulance. Talley pounds on the wall, shouting -- <b> TALLEY (CONT'D) </b> Stop the fuckin' engine! Klaus and Bigelow are both staring at Talley. Sheriffs and Talley's own officers have gathered at the open rear of the ambulance to see what all the shouting is about -- Klaus pointedly looks at Talley's hand gripping his arm. He speaks slowly, trying to make Talley understand -- <b> KLAUS </b> I'm not going to wake him. I don't even know that I can. <b> TALLEY </b> Just one question. Please. <b> KLAUS </b> He. Can't. Answer. Talley stares at Walter Smith. So close. So damned close. Walter knows about the disks. Walter might even know who has Jane and Amanda. But now Walter can't talk -- Talley turns away and climbs out of the ambulance -- <b>EXT. THE CUL-DE-SAC -- NIGHT </b> As Talley emerges from the van, he pulls Metzger aside -- <b> TALLEY </b> I want you waiting in Smith's lap. I want to know the second--and I mean the second--that he wakes up. As Metzger hurries after the ambulance, a phone in Talley's pocket rings. He's startled and scared; it might be the Watchman. Talley takes out the Watchman's white phone, but it's not ringing. He answers his other phone -- <b> TALLEY (CONT'D) </b> (into phone) Talley. <b> ANDERS' VOICE </b> It's me, Chief. Can you talk? Talley notices that Martin, Maddox, and the others are staring at him. He turns away -- <b> TALLEY </b> (into his phone) What'd you find out? <b> ANDERS' VOICE </b> The cell phone is registered to a jewelry store in Beverly Hills. The phone company shows no unusual -- <b> TALLEY </b> (cutting him off) Dead end--it's a clone. What about the Mustang? <b> ANDERS' VOICE </b> It was stolen. Talley lowers the phone in frustration, then -- <b> TALLEY </b> You get anything on Smith? <b> ANDERS' VOICE </b> Chief...it's like none of this exists. I'm sorry. <b> TALLEY </b> Keep trying. Talley pockets his phone. He watches the ambulance pull away, then strides back through the banks of lights to the nearest patrol car. He grabs the dash mike and keys the public address -- <b> TALLEY (CONT'D) </b> (through the p.a.) Call me. If you're safe, call me. Talley's voice echoes across the neighborhood. Every cop in the cul-de-sac stares at him. He has addressed the house for, apparently, no reason. Dennis shouts from his window -- <b> DENNIS </b> I'll be safe when I'm outta here, you asshole! I'm not talking any more! Talley drops the mike without a word and walks away -- <b>INT. GLEN HOWELL'S MOTEL ROOM -- NIGHT </b> Howell is on the phone with Ken Seymore, watching the televised news coverage with increasing alarm -- <b> HOWELL </b> Was Smith talking? Intercut Seymore, who is reporting from the York front gate as the ambulance roars away, siren wailing -- <b> SEYMORE </b> I heard he's fucked up. They're taking him to the hospital. <b> HOWELL </b> Goddamnit, tell me what you know. Did the cops go in? Did Smith have the disks? <b> SEYMORE </b> I don't know. Talley talked those punks into letting Smith out. He's fucking us over, Glen. That guy is fucking us over. <b> HOWELL </b> What hospital? <b> SEYMORE </b> Canyon Country. Howell slams down the phone. He breathes deeply, taking a moment to center himself. He lifts the phone and punches a number -- <b> HOWELL </b> I have another job for you. <b>EXT. COMMAND STREET -- NIGHT </b> Talley is by himself, pacing at the curb well away from the other officers. He is holding his cell phone. Waiting. Finally, it rings. Talley answers, listens, then -- <b> TALLEY </b> Put him on. Intercut Thomas, phoning Talley in his room -- <b> THOMAS </b> Is my daddy okay? <b> TALLEY </b> The doctors are taking care of him right now. Thomas . . . are you safe? Can you talk? <b> THOMAS </b> I think so. <b> TALLEY </b> I need your help with something. But if you think those guys could catch you, then I don't want you to do it, okay? <b> THOMAS </b> Okay. <b> TALLEY </b> I'm serious, Thomas; I don't want you to get hurt. <b> THOMAS </b> What do you want me to do? <b> TALLEY </b> Your dad has two computer disks. They have funny names: Marlon and Al. <b> THOMAS </b> He has lots of disks. <b> TALLEY </b> I think he was working on them today, so they're probably in his office. Could you find them and see who they belong to? <b> THOMAS </b> Dennis won't let me go to the desk. He makes me sit on the floor. Talley absorbs the bad news like his last best hope of saving his family is circling the drain -- <b> THOMAS (CONT'D) </b> But I might be able to sneak into the office if they're not around. Then I could open the disks here in my room. <b> TALLEY </b> I thought they locked you in your room. <b> THOMAS </b> I can get into the crawlspace from my closet and climb all over the house. <b> TALLEY </b> Can you get into the office? <b> THOMAS </b> I can get into the den. The office is right across the hall. Talley thinks about what the boy is saying, and what he'll have to do to get Marlon and Al -- <b> TALLEY </b> If I get Rooney into the back of the house, can you find the disks without being caught? <b> THOMAS </b> Yes, sir. Talley glances toward the SWAT Command Van as he comes up with a plan -- <b>EXT. THE COMMAND VAN -- NIGHT </b> Martin, Maddox, and several of her supervisors are gathered outside the van as Talley approaches -- Martin sees him coming and steps away to meet him. She's pissed off and she wants answers -- <b> MARTIN </b> I want to know what in hell you're doing. <b> TALLEY </b> I'm looking for you. I need your tactical unit. <b> MARTIN </b> I'm not stupid! You can't get out of here fast enough, then you take back command; you agree to wait on Smith, then you risk everything in a stupid stunt to get him out -- <b> TALLEY </b> (interrupting) Don't question me, Captain! This is my crime scene! <b> MARTIN </b> (shouting over him) -- then when you get him, you damn near assault the man in the ambulance! What is going on? Talley glares at her, half-a-heartbeat from going off, and then he throttles back -- <b> TALLEY </b> (simply) I'm a negotiator, Captain. I negotiate. That's all you need to know. Now are you going to help me or not? Martin weighs the determination in his eyes. She's angry, she's resentful, and she wants to knock Talley onto his ass-- but, instead, she glances back to her van -- <b> MARTIN </b> Maddox! Let's give the man a hand! <b>INT. SMITHS' DEN -- NIGHT </b> Dennis steps through the double doors that open from the entry and admires the room--rich paneled walls, soft leather couches and chairs, and a lush beaten-copper bar. Walter Smith's office is directly across the hall. Dennis saunters behind the bar, letting his fingers play over the copper, then pours a stiff Ketel One on the rocks. Kevin appears behind him, watching, as Dennis takes a seat on one of the leather bar stools, then peels a hundred off a thick roll and drops it on the bar -- <b> DENNIS </b> (to an imaginary bartender) Keep the change, m'man. Dennis takes a deep drink of the vodka as Kevin approaches -- <b> KEVIN </b> We're fucked. <b> DENNIS </b> We're fucked until we think of a way out; then we're rich. <b> KEVIN </b> There is no way out. <b> DENNIS </b> For chrissake, please! Help me celebrate! I figured it out! <b> KEVIN </b> Celebrate what? Going to prison? Dennis enjoys another stiff belt -- <b> DENNIS </b> No, dumbass--Talley. Talley's the guy who keeps us in here, and Talley's the guy who can let us out. Dennis grins as if he's discovered the wisdom of the ages -- <b> DENNIS (CONT'D) </b> Cops want to be rich like everyone else. All we have to do is share. (leans closer and lowers his voice) And if he wants someone to swing for the Chinaman, we'll give'm Mars. <b> MARS </b> Dennis. Mars is standing in the doors, large and ominous. For an insane moment Dennis thinks that Mars has heard, but then -- <b> MARS (CONT'D) </b> The food's ready. Dennis grins, then shoves Kevin out of the room ahead of him, the three of them disappearing toward the kitchen as -- The camera drifts up to an air vent in the ceiling, through the slats in the grate to -- <b>INT. CRAWLSPACE -- NIGHT </b> Thomas watches them leave through a hole in the air duct. When he's confident that they are gone, he continues along the crawlspace to a service hatch that opens down into -- <b>INT. WINE CELLAR - NIGHT </b> The "wine cellar" is a climate-controlled closet behind the bar fitted with floor-to-ceiling wine racks. The ceiling hatch lifts, and Thomas climbs down the racks to the floor. He eases open the door and peeks out behind the bar. The den is bright with light, and empty -- Thomas lifts his cell phone -- <b> THOMAS </b> (whispers into the phone) It's me, Chief. I'm in the den. <b>EXT. SMITHS' REAR WALL -- NIGHT </b> Talley, Maddox, and several tactical officers are lined along the rear wall, watching the house. Talley, with a phone to his ear, is looking through a night-vision scope -- He can see into the kitchen through the French doors. Mars and Jennifer are inside, and, as we watch, Dennis and Kevin enter -- <b> TALLEY </b> (into his phone) Okay, bud, here we go. Talley hands the scope to Maddox, then keys his radio mike -- <b> TALLEY (CONT'D) </b> (into his mike) Captain? Kill the lights. <b>INT. SMITHS' KITCHEN -- NIGHT </b> Dennis and Kevin are digging into plates of pizza and eggs when the house goes dark -- <b> DENNIS </b> Shit! It's the cops! The backyard ERUPTS; explosions from Starflash grenades JUMP and CAREEN over the swimming pool like New Year fireworks. It sounds like World War III -- Dennis throws himself behind the kitchen counter -- <b>INT. THE DEN -- NIGHT </b> The house now dark, Thomas scurries to the double doors. He peeks around the corner to see if the coast is clear, then darts across the hall to -- <b>INT. WALTER'S OFFICE -- NIGHT </b> The office is lit only by the flickering candles. Thomas checks his father's computer--no disks. He searches through the papers scattered over the desk, but finds nothing -- Then he opens the drawer -- The disk case that his father put there earlier is waiting. Thomas opens the case -- Marlon. Al. He found them. <b>INT. THE KITCHEN -- NIGHT </b> The Starflash grenades burn out as Talley's amplified voice echoes into the house -- <b> TALLEY'S VOICE </b> It's time to talk face-to-face, Dennis. Come out, just you, and we'll talk. <b> KEVIN </b> What's he doing? What's going on?! <b> DENNIS </b> Mars! They're trying to blindside us! Check the front! Mars lurches to his feet and hurries to the office -- <b>INT. THE OFFICE -- NIGHT </b> Thomas is heading for the door when he hears footsteps coming fast toward the office -- Thomas reverses course and ducks under the desk. He pulls himself into a ball and tries not to breathe -- Mars is in the room. The desk is a great oak monster, big as a boat. It sits on curvy legs that leave a gap between the desk and the floor. Thomas can see feet -- The feet go to the windows -- <b> DENNIS'S VOICE </b> What's going on out front? The feet turn toward the desk. Thomas tries to squeeze himself smaller -- <b> DENNIS'S VOICE (CONT'D) </b> Mars?! What the fuck are they doin'? The feet come to the desk -- <b> DENNIS'S VOICE (CONT'D) </b> Mars! Something's happening! Get back here! The feet hesitate, then, finally, walk away -- Thomas scrambles from under the desk and darts across the hall -- <b>EXT. THE BACKYARD -- NIGHT </b> Talley approaches the house. He can see flashlights moving in the kitchen -- <b> TALLEY </b> Come on, Dennis. Talk to me. Dennis doesn't answer, so Talley moves closer. He spreads his hands wide -- <b> TALLEY (CONT'D) </b> I'm unarmed. I'm looking at you. Get out here and let's talk. Dennis comes to the French doors. He stuffs his pistol into his pants, and opens the doors -- <b> DENNIS </b> You got a sniper out there, gonna shoot me? <b> TALLEY </b> Only if you try to grab me. We could've shot you from the wall. Dennis considers that and accepts it. He steps out of the house and walks over to Talley -- <b> TALLEY (CONT'D) </b> You've been in there a long time. What're you waiting for? <b> DENNIS </b> Would you be in a hurry to go to prison for the rest of your life? <b> TALLEY </b> I'd be trying to get the best deal that I could. <b> DENNIS </b> Maybe that's what I'm doing. Can I reach in my pocket, show you something? Dennis Rooney steps closer because he doesn't want anyone else to see the wad of money he pulls out -- <b> DENNIS (CONT'D) </b> That's fifty hundred-dollar bills. Five grand. They got money in this house, Talley, more than you've ever seen. Dennis pushes the money back into his pocket. <b> DENNIS (CONT'D) </b> How much would it be worth to you, getting me out of here? So that's what keeps Dennis in the house--money. This is the first that Talley has heard of the money -- <b> TALLEY </b> You picked a bad house to hole up in, son. <b> DENNIS </b> Two hundred thousand cash, right in your pocket, no one needs to know. <b> TALLEY </b> Give up. <b> DENNIS </b> There's a million dollars in there, maybe two million. I'll give you half. Talley stares at Dennis, wondering how much to tell him and whether or not it will do any good -- <b> </b><b> TALLEY </b> The man you sent to the hospital is a criminal. He has partners. This is their house and their money and they want it back. These simple facts settle on Dennis like a funeral shroud-- everything that Smith said earlier now makes a horrible sense: You can't imagine the fucking you're going to get. Dennis's eyes fill with defeat and helplessness -- <b> DENNIS </b> It ain't been a good day, Chief. <b> TALLEY </b> Give up, Dennis. Let these people go. At least you'll have your life. Dennis steps inside and pulls the door closed, the darkness in the house swallowing him like dirty water. The power is turned on. The house comes to life -- As Talley turns away, his phone once more rings -- <b>INT. THOMAS' ROOM -- NIGHT </b> Thomas is hunkered with his computer behind his bed so that the camera can't see him. <b> THOMAS </b> I got'm! Intercut Talley, now back in the cul-de-sac -- <b> TALLEY </b> Can you open them? <b> THOMAS </b> I opened Marlon. I think it's somebody's taxes. <b> TALLEY </b> Look for names. Does it say whose taxes they are? Thomas scrolls through a spread sheet -- <b> THOMAS </b> I don't see any people names. It's all businesses. <b> TALLEY </b> Try Al. See if you can open Al. Thomas changes disks and opens Al -- <b> THOMAS </b> Yeah! Here's a name. This is somebody's personal tax -- <b> TALLEY </b> Who is it? <b> THOMAS </b> Charles G. Benza. (then; noise in the hall) They're coming! Thomas abruptly hangs up and the line goes dead in Talley's ear. Talley recognizes the name as easily as an East Coast cop would recognize John Gotti, and realizes the stunning import of Smith possessing Sonny Benza's financial records -- <b> TALLEY </b> Sonny Benza. Oh, fuck. Talley sprints across the cul-de-sac to his nearest officer, Jorgenson, and keys Jorgenson's shoulder mike -- <b> TALLEY (CONT'D) </b> (into the mike) Leigh? Metzger, answer me! <b> METZGER'S VOICE </b> I'm at the hospital. <b> TALLEY </b> Put a guard on Smith! I want you with Smith until I get there! <b> JORGENSON </b> What's going on? <b> TALLEY </b> Get in the car. Now. Talley drops the mike and shoves Jorgenson toward the car -- <b>EXT. CANYON COUNTRY HOSPITAL -- NIGHT </b> Marion Clewes is stepping from his car as Talley's police unit rips into the parking lot with flashing lights -- Marion watches Talley and Jorgenson rush into the ER, then he frowns and punches the speed dial on his phone -- <b> MARION </b> (into his phone) We're too late. The police are here. <b>INT. EMERGENCY ROOM CORRIDOR -- NIGHT </b> Talley and Jorgenson huddle in the hall with Klaus and the ER supervisor, Dr. Estelle Reese. Metzger is outside Walter's room in the background -- <b> TALLEY </b> I'm posting a guard outside his room, but we'll need help from hospital security. <b> REESE </b> Is my staff in danger? <b> TALLEY </b> Not with my officers here, no, ma'am. Metzger steps into Walter's room, then reappears -- <b> METZGER </b> Hey! He's waking up! Talley and Klaus press for the room -- <b>INT. WALTER'S ROOM -- NIGHT </b> Walter's eyes flutter open. His voice is slurred, but understandable -- <b> WALTER </b> Where am I? Klaus peels open Walter's eyes, passing his penlight over one, then the other -- <b> KLAUS </b> Canyon Country Hospital. Do you remember your name? It takes Walter a few moments to answer -- <b> WALTER </b> Walter Smith. All of Walter's memories come flooding back, and he tries to sit up. Klaus forces him down -- <b> WALTER (CONT'D) </b> Where are my children? <b> TALLEY </b> They're still in the house. Walter looks at Talley. He has never seen Talley and has no idea who he is -- <b> TALLEY (CONT'D) </b> I'm Jeff Talley, the Bristo chief of police. So far as we know, your children are okay. <b> KLAUS </b> Chief Talley is the one who got you out. <b> TALLEY </b> (to Klaus) I need to talk to him. Alone. This time, Klaus is hard-pressed to refuse. He nods, then steps away -- Talley turns back to Walter Smith, and lowers his voice -- <b> TALLEY (CONT'D) </b> Sonny Benza has my wife and daughter. He wants the disks, Marlon and Al. He took my family to make me help. Talley's eyes fill. His tears drip on the sheets. Walter looks away -- <b> WALTER </b> I don't know what you're talking about. <b> TALLEY </b> He's going to kill you. Don't you know that? He can't take the chance that you'll talk. Klaus returns and places a hand on Talley's shoulder -- <b> KLAUS </b> That's enough. <b> TALLEY </b> Another minute. Please -- But when he looks back at Walter, he realizes that another minute will do no good: Walter's eyes are once more closed. <b>EXT. HOSPITAL PARKING LOT -- NIGHT </b> Talley is pacing by his car in the deserted parking lot. He pounds the hood, cursing, awash in rage and frustration -- And then a phone rings. Talley takes out the phones. The white phone is ringing. The Watchman's phone -- Talley answers furiously, the two of them instantaneously screaming at each other -- <b> THE WATCHMAN'S VOICE </b> You dumb fuckwad cop, you fucked up bad! <b> TALLEY </b> Do you think I'm going to let you murder someone?! <b> THE WATCHMAN'S VOICE </b> You want a blowtorch on your daughter's pretty face?! <b> TALLEY </b> I'll go in that fuckin' house right now! I'll give those disks to the real FBI, you COCKSUCKINGMOTHERFUCKER!! And I've got Smith! I've got Smith!! A profound silence fills the parking lot, both men now purged. When the Watchman speaks again, his voice is measured -- <b> THE WATCHMAN'S VOICE </b> I guess we each have something the other wants. <b> TALLEY </b> I guess we do. <b> THE WATCHMAN'S VOICE </b> My people are good to go. You know who I mean? <b> TALLEY </b> Your phony FBI assholes. <b> THE WATCHMAN'S VOICE </b> We're almost home, you and me. Keep your shit together. This isn't L.A. <b> TALLEY </b> What do you mean by that? <b> THE WATCHMAN'S VOICE </b> You don't want another dead child on your conscience. The line goes dead -- <b>INT. THE SMITHS' DEN -- NIGHT </b> Dennis is pouring another stiff glass of Ketel One -- <b> DENNIS </b> I shouldn't have told him about the money. Now Talley is gonna keep it for himself. Kevin joins him at the bar. Mars is by the doors -- <b> KEVIN </b> He said that? Dennis downs a big hit of vodka, then moves to the couch -- <b> DENNIS </b> If we don't escape, we gotta get the word out about the cash. That's how we'll stay alive. <b> KEVIN </b> What are you talking about? <b> DENNIS </b> The only way he can keep the cash is if nobody knows about it. He's gotta cap all three of us before they even read our rights. He's probably planning it right now. <b> KEVIN </b> That's crazy. He's not going to kill us. <b> DENNIS </b> Kevin, you're so fuckin' stupid... Kevin follows his brother to the couch and stares at him; Dennis has clearly lost his mind, and Kevin has reached the end of his rope -- <b> KEVIN </b> It's over. We have to give up. <b> DENNIS </b> Fuck it's over. That money's mine. <b> KEVIN </b> That money's fucked up your brain. Talley's going to get tired of waiting for us to give up, and we'll all be fuckin' killed! Dennis tips his glass, like a toast -- <b> DENNIS </b> Then we might as well die rich. <b> KEVIN </b> I'm not going to die for this! Kevin slaps the glass away. Dennis boils up from the couch. He grabs his brother and the two of them fall over the coffee table, Dennis hammering Kevin in a furious rage until he runs out of gas -- <b> DENNIS </b> You're my fuckin' anchor, Kevin, the fuckin' lead around my life that I've been draggin' like a cripple leg! Dennis gets up and steps back -- <b> DENNIS (CONT'D) </b> Get this into your stupid head, Kevin. We're not leaving without the money. Beaten and whimpering, Kevin crawls away. Dennis watches him crawl out of the room, then looks at Mars -- <b> DENNIS (CONT'D) </b> You got something to say? <b> MARS </b> I like it here, Dennis. I'm never going to leave. <b> DENNIS </b> Fuckin' A. Dennis returns to the bar. When he looks around again, Mars is gone--melted into the darkness. <b>INT. JENNIFER'S ROOM -- NIGHT </b> Jennifer is hiding in her shadows when her doorknob moves. She reaches pulls the knife from her shorts, keeping it hidden as she backs away -- Kevin steps inside, leaving the door ajar -- <b> JENNIFER </b> What do you want? <b> KEVIN </b> Keep your voice down. I'm taking you and your brother out of here. Jennifer now sees the marks and cuts on his face -- <b> JENNIFER </b> What happened? <b> KEVIN </b> Do you want to go or not? I'm offering you a way out of here. <b> JENNIFER </b> I can't go without Thomas. <b> KEVIN </b> All three of us will go, but we have to move fast. Mars and Dennis don't know I'm doing this. <b> JENNIFER </b> How can we get out? <b> KEVIN </b> Dennis and Mars are in the den. I'll get your brother, then come back for you. We'll go down the stairs and out the front door, you understand? <b> JENNIFER </b> Yes. Kevin goes back to the door, then considers her. Maybe he wants to apologize for all this, but the best he can manage is -- <b> KEVIN </b> Put on some shoes. Kevin slips out and pulls the door closed. <b>INT. SECOND FLOOR HALL -- NIGHT </b> As Kevin emerges from the room, he comes face-to-face with -- Mars. Mars is a great black shadow in the dark, only inches away. Kevin steps back -- <b> KEVIN </b> You scared the shit out of me. I was looking for you. Dennis wants you to watch the monitors. <b> MARS </b> I heard you with the girl. Kevin takes another step back, but Mars follows him, staying uncomfortably close -- <b> KEVIN </b> It's over, Mars. If we stay the cops will kill us. Don't you get that? Mars seems thoughtful, steps aside -- <b> MARS </b> I get it. If you want to go, go. Kevin expected Mars to stop him, but Mars is letting him go. Kevin turns away and hurries down the hall -- <b>EXT. YORK ESTATES MAIN ENTRANCE -- NIGHT </b> Talley is returning to the hospital. As he turns into York Estates, he's stopped by one of his officers, Dale Cooper. Talley rolls down his window to see what Cooper wants -- <b> COOPER </b> Come FBI guys showed up, Chief. They said you were expecting them. <b> TALLEY </b> They here now? <b> COOPER </b> You'll see'm up the street. Talley nods, and continues through the gate -- <b>EXT. STREET -- NIGHT </b> Two gray Econoline vans are parked at the curb beneath a street light, four men in the lead van, two in the rear. Talley pulls up behind them, then gets out of his car. He walks up the middle of the street to the lead van, eyeballing the men in the vans: They all have short haircuts and are wearing black tactical fatigues. Some of them wear ball caps that say FBI. <b> THE DRIVER </b> You Talley? <b> TALLEY </b> Yeah. The man in the passenger seat, Mr. Jones, gets out. He looks the part of FBI SWAT: black tac fatigues, jump boots, buzzed hair. A pistol hangs under his left arm in a ballistic holster -- <b> MR. JONES </b> Let me see some ID. Something with a picture. I don't give a shit about your badge. Talley takes out his wallet and flashes his photo ID. Jones does the same in return -- <b> MR. JONES (CONT'D) </b> Okay, here's mine. My name is Special Agent Jones. <b> TALLEY </b> Are all of you named Jones? <b> MR. JONES </b> Don't be funny, Chief. You can't afford it. Jones slaps the side of the van. Doors open, and the remaining five men climb out. They strap into vests with FBI emblazoned on the back, then pass out load-bearing gear, knit masks, and flash-bang grenades. <b> MR. JONES (CONT'D) </b> In a few minutes the white phone is going to ring. So let's get our shit straight before that happens. <b> TALLEY </b> You used to be a cop. All of you used to be cops. I can tell by the way you move. <b> MR. JONES </b> Don't worry about what we used to be. <b> TALLEY </b> How do you people expect this to work? The Sheriffs have a Crisis Response Team here. <b> MR. JONES </b> What's my name? <b> TALLEY </b> What? <b> MR. JONES </b> I asked you my name. You just saw my commission slip. What's my fucking name? <b> TALLEY </b> Special Agent Jones. <b> MR. JONES </b> Think of me that way and you won't fuck up. I'll handle the Sheriffs. The men at the second van are now passing out MP5s, CAR-15s, and loaded magazines -- <b> TALLEY </b> What are you people going to do? <b> MR. JONES </b> You and I are gonna straighten this out with the Sheriffs, and then we'll wait for the man to call. When he gives the word, we move. <b> TALLEY </b> What does he have on you? I know why I'm doing this, but what does he have on you? One of the other men hands an MP5 to Mr. Jones. Jones jacks the bolt to chamber a round. He slings his gun without answering -- <b> MR. JONES </b> Let's go, Chief. Time to get real. Jones walks away, and all Talley can do is follow -- <b>EXT. MARS KRUPCHEK'S TRAILER -- NIGHT </b> We're at the end of a gravel road in the low foothills of Pearblossom, a farm community of fruit orchards in the low foothills. A Bristo Camino police car pulls up outside a thirty-foot Caravan trailer, and Mikkelson and Dreyer get out. Mikkelson lights up the trailer with the radio car's spotlight -- <b> DREYER </b> Krupchek lives in a shithole. The trailer is dark and silent. They walk to the door carrying their Maglites. Mikkelson tries the knob -- <b> MIKKELSON </b> I guess we could jimmy it. <b> DREYER </b> I don't want to pay for breaking it. Mikkelson pulls hard and the door pops open. Both officers cringe as a smell like simmering mustard greens rolls out at them -- <b> MIKKELSON </b> Christ, that stinks. <b>INT. THE TRAILER -- NIGHT </b> Mikkelson switches on the lights as they step inside. Dreyer sees it first -- <b> DREYER </b> Mickey? Look at this shit. Mikkelson joins Dreyer in the trailer's tiny kitchen where teetering stacks of folded cereal boxes fill the counters and sink and floor. Hundreds and hundreds of Captain Crunch and Count Chocula boxes, all neatly folded and stacked -- <b> DREYER (CONT'D) </b> He's burned them. <b> MIKKELSON </b> What? Dreyer shows her a box. The nose of each character has been burned with a cigarette -- <b> DREYER </b> He burned their noses. <b> MIKKELSON </b> Okay, this is creeping me out. Mikkelson opens the oven. It's empty. She opens a cupboard. It's filled with large glass jars. She opens another cupboard. More jars. Shapes float in the jars, suspended in yellow fluid. Mikkelson and Dreyer examine the shapes -- <b> DREYER </b> What are those, rats? Mikkelson opens the fridge, then slams it, looking like she wants to puke -- <b> MIKKELSON </b> Ohmigod. We gotta call Talley. Dreyer sees the expression on her face, then looks at the fridge, wondering -- <b>EXT. CUL-DE-SAC -- NIGHT </b> Talley, Jones, and Jones's phony "FBI" team are moving down the cul-de-sac toward the house with Martin at their heels -- <b> MR. JONES </b> Walter Smith is in the Federal Witness Protection program. When Washington learned about the situation here, they asked Chief Talley for his cooperation. <b> MARTIN </b> This is bullshit. I should've been notified. <b> MR. JONES </b> I'm sure you will be, Captain, but it's after midnight. Now, if you'll pull your people off the perimeter, I want to get my people in position. Martin looks like she wants to spit bullets -- <b> TALLEY </b> Let it go, Captain. <b> MARTIN </b> Goddamned small town bullshit. Martin relents and stalks away just as Talley's phone rings. Both Talley and Jones tense at the ring, thinking it might be the white phone, but it's not -- <b> TALLEY </b> It's mine. (into his phone) Talley. <b> MIKKELSON'S VOICE </b> Chief, it's Mikkelson. <b> TALLEY </b> Go, Mickey. <b>EXT. KRUPCHEK'S TRAILER -- NIGHT </b> Both Mikkelson and Dreyer are leaning against their car. They look shellshocked. Mikkelson is making the call -- <b> MIKKELSON </b> Chief, we just found Krupchek's trailer. We just went in there. She trails off and looks at Dreyer for help: How do I say this? Dreyer, at a loss, looks away -- <b> MIKKELSON (CONT'D) </b> He has human body parts in his refrigerator. He has five human heads. Mikkelson can't handle it any more. She lowers the phone -- <b>WITH TALLEY </b> The shock that Mikkelson is feeling sweeps over Talley as well. He takes a moment to get his head around this -- <b> TALLEY </b> (into his phone) Mickey? Call the state Homicide Bureau. Don't touch anything, just sit back and wait. <b> MIKKELSON'S VOICE </b> Yes, sir. Talley lowers the phone as he stares at the house, wondering what sort of monster is in there with Thomas and Jennifer. His gaze shifts to Mr. Jones, who is watching him -- <b> TALLEY </b> We're getting those kids out of there. <b>INT. THE SMITHS' DEN -- NIGHT </b> Dennis is sprawled on the couch, sucking the last few drops of Ketel One from the bottle. He frowns at the empty bottle, then lumbers to his feet -- <b> DENNIS </b> (calling) Kev? Key, Kevin, c'mon back. I'm sorry I hit you. Dennis weaves through the door, carrying the empty bottle like his dearest friend -- <b>INT. THE KITCHEN -- NIGHT </b> Dennis staggers into the kitchen -- <b> DENNIS </b> C'mon, Kev, don't fuckin' pout! You're right. It's time to call it a game. <b> MARS'S VOICE </b> Kevin left. He didn't want to be here anymore. The voice from the other side of the kitchen startles him. Mars steps out of the shadows -- <b> DENNIS </b> You mean he left, as in went out the front door? <b> MARS </b> I overheard him with the girl. <b> DENNIS </b> Shit! That fuck! Even when I want to turn myself in he screws it up! Did he take the kids with him? <b> MARS </b> I don't know. <b> DENNIS </b> Jesus, get upstairs and find out! If he took those kids, we're fucked! Mars cross the kitchen and goes for the stairs without another word -- <b> DENNIS (CONT'D) </b> KEVIN!!! You ASSHOLE!!! Dennis throws the bottle across the room -- <b>INT. THE HOBBY ROOM -- NIGHT </b> Thomas is scared by all the shouting, but he waits in the darkness until Dennis quiets, and then we notice that he is no longer in his room; he's in the hobby room, once more trying to reach the gun -- Thomas stacks two phone books on the bench, then uses the phone books as an extra step to reach the high shelf -- He can finally reach the gun case! He puts it on the bench, then climbs down, and opens the case. Thomas is bouyant with confidence; now, he can protect himself and his sister! Thomas shoves the gun into his pants and creeps back into -- <b>INT. THE LAUNDRY ROOM -- NIGHT </b> Thomas is climbing onto the washing machine when his foot slips and he bangs his head -- It's so dark in ehre that Thomas can't see what made him slip, but he tests the floor. His shoe makes a tacky sound. Thomas cups his hand over his flashlight like before, and turns it on. A dark liquid like oil is spreading on the floor. Thomas follows it with his light to the broom closet. He lets out more light and sees that the oil is red. Thomas knows that something terrible is behind the door, but he is drawn to it. He reaches out -- Kevin's lifeless body topples out, collapsing in a heap at Thomas's feet. His neck is cut so deeply that his head is almost severed -- His eyes are open. Thomas screams! <b>INT. JENNIFER'S ROOM -- NIGHT </b> Jennifer is anxiously waiting for Kevin. When she hears someone in the hall, she thinks that it's Kevin, but when the door opens -- It's Mars. He steps inside, tall, wide, and massive as a bear. He's carrying the claw hammer. Jennifer backs away -- <b> MARS </b> Kevin left without you. <b> JENNIFER </b> I don't know what you're talking about. Mars turns off the lights. <b> JENNIFER (CONT'D) </b> Don't do that. Turn on the lights. Jennifer grows even more frightened. Mars follows her across the room until she backs into the window -- <b> JENNIFER (CONT'D) </b> You'd better get out of here! Kevin's coming back! <b> MARS </b> Kevin's gone, your daddy's gone, everybody's gone. When Mars reaches her, he touches the hammer to the chest, pressing to make it hurt -- <b> MARS (CONT'D) </b> Now we can do whatever we want. <b> JENNIFER </b> Stop it. Mars rakes the claws slowly between her breasts as Jennifer finds the knife in her shorts. She jerks free the blade and stabs blindly burying the knife high in his chest, but Mars doesn't even step back -- He grips the handle, moaning hideously as he pulls out the knife. A red flower blossoms from the wound. Jennifer tries to get past him, but he grabs her throat and pins her to the wall -- <b> MARS </b> You're going to enjoy this. He raises the knife to her face -- <b>INT. KITCHEN -- NIGHT </b> The scream from the laundry room having scared the shit out of Dennis, he has his gun out -- <b> DENNIS </b> Who's that? Goddamnit, who's there? Dennis turns on his flashlight and sweeps the beam across the kitchen -- <b> DENNIS (CONT'D) </b> Kev? Is that you? Talley? Dennis weaves across the kitchen, pushing the gun ahead of him -- <b> DENNIS (CONT'D) </b> Kevin, if that's you, say something. Mars said you left. Dennis steps through the door into -- <b>INT. THE LAUNDRY ROOM -- NIGHT </b> Dennis shines the light on the floor and sees the red ooze. He follows the blood to Kevin's body, but even then doesn't realize what he's seeing -- <b> DENNIS </b> Kevin, what the fuck? Get up. Dennis steps closer, and now he sees the open neck, the grotesque white bone within the flesh -- Only one other person in the house could have done this -- <b> DENNIS (CONT'D) </b><b> MARS?!?! </b> Dennis hears Jennifer screaming upstairs -- <b> DENNIS (CONT'D) </b><b> MARS!!! </b> Dennis rushes from the room -- <b>INT. JENNIFER'S ROOM -- NIGHT </b> Dennis slams through the door so heard that the door crashes into the wall. Mars is across the room, still holding Jennifer by the neck -- Dennis aims his gun -- <b> DENNIS </b> You're dead, you fuck. Mars calmly pulls the girl in front of him, blocking Dennis's aim. <b> MARS </b> What's wrong, Dennis? Why're you so pissed off? It's weird the way Mars is acting, so calm and all. But Dennis can see the feat in Jennifer's face and her swollen eyes. She manages one word -- <b> JENNIFER </b> Please... Dennis tries to aim past her -- <b> DENNIS </b> This fuck killed Kevin. There's blood everywhere down there -- Jennifer sobs. And when she does -- Mars charges across the room holding Jennifer like a shield. Dennis hesitates only a heartbeat, and then it's too late -- Jennifer crashes into him, the full force of Mars's weight behind her, knocking Dennis backward into the hall -- <b>INT. SECOND FLOOR HALL -- NIGHT </b> They fall through the door into a tangle on the floor. Mars raises the hammer, then brings it down, smashing Dennis over and over -- <b>INT. JENNIFER'S BEDROOM -- NIGHT </b> Thomas emerges from the closet to see the carnage in the hall: Mars over Dennis, grunting like a pig as he turns Dennis into pulp, and Jennifer crawling away, splattered with blood -- Thomas pulls the gun from his pants and darts past Mars into the hall -- <b>INT. UPSTAIRS HALL -- NIGHT </b> Thomas grabs Jennifer's arm and pulls her toward the stairs -- <b> THOMAS </b> C'mon, Jen! Run! Mars heaves to his feet and turns after them -- Thomas jerks up the pistol with both hands -- <b> THOMAS (CONT'D) </b> I'll shoot you! Mars stops, blood dripping from his face and hands and the hammer. Jennifer pulls her brother -- <b> JENNIFER </b> Keep going! They back toward the stairs, Thomas trying to hold the gun steady. Mars follows, spreading his arms wide as if to embrace them -- <b> MARS </b> Everyone's gone. We can do whatever we want. We can do anything. <b> THOMAS </b> I'll shoot you! I'm not kidding, you better stay away! Mars keeps coming -- Thomas pulls the trigger. Click. Mars stops, frozen by the sharp sound -- Thomas pulls again. Click click click -- No bullets. <b> JENNIFER </b> Run!!!!! Thomas and Jennifer sprint for the stairs -- <b>INT. FRONT ENTRY -- NIGHT </b> Jennifer and Thomas crash down the stairs and spill into the entry. Thomas goes to the front door but Jennifer pulls him away -- <b> JENNIFER </b> No! They have everything nailed! They race away down the hall just as Mars reaches the bottom of the stairs -- <b>INT. THE SMITHS' BEDROOM -- NIGHT </b> Mars is closing. Jennifer and Thomas scramble through the bedroom only paces ahead of him. They run straight into -- <b>INT. THE SAFE ROOM -- NIGHT </b> Jennifer and Thomas slam the door and throw the bolts just as Mars crashes into the door -- Jennifer and Thomas have made it. They are shaking and scared, but they are safe. <b> JENNIFER </b> He can't reach us in here. We're safe. <b> THOMAS </b> I know. Mars pounds on the door with the hammer. They can see him on the monitors. Slow rhythmic pounding. Then he walks away -- <b> JENNIFER </b> What's he doing? They can see him on the monitors--moving through the hall, going into the entry.... Mars picks up a bucket of gasoline. He splashes gas on the walls and floor all the way back to the bedroom, and then he empties the bucket on the security room's door -- Mars looks up at the camera again and takes out a match. He flicks it with his thumbnail and it flares -- <b> JENNIFER (CONT'D) </b> Ohmigod, he's going to burn us! Mars tosses the match, and the room erupts into flame -- <b>EXT. THE CUL-DE-SAC -- NIGHT </b> Talley is arguing with Jones, trying to convince the man that they need to move into the house now -- <b> TALLEY </b> We've got to get those kids out of there! <b> MR. JONES </b> Not until the man calls. <b> TALLEY </b> Those kids are in there with a fucking psychopath! He kills people! <b> MR. JONES </b> They've been in there all day. Talley's phone rings. Again, they both think that it's the white phone, but instead it's Talley's personal phone -- <b> TALLEY </b> (into his phone) Talley. It's Thomas. His voice cuts in and out, broken by static -- <b> THOMAS'S VOICE </b> Mars killed Kevin and Dennis! We're in the security room. He's burning the house -- Thomas' phone cuts out. Talley turns toward the house and sees a growing column of smoke. He looks back at Jones -- <b> TALLEY </b> You do what you have to do; I'm getting those kids. Talley hurries away. Jones stares after him, then comes to his own agonized decision. He catches up -- <b> MR. JONES </b> Talley! We'll secure the house, but then we get the disks. Talley accepts that; they move toward the house -- <b>EXT. THE SMITHS' HOUSE -- NIGHT </b> The banks of floodlights abruptly shut off, plunging the house and grounds into darkness -- <b>INT. THE MASTER BEDROOM -- NIGHT </b> The fire is spreading, following the gasoline trail through the hall and the rest of the house; a thick layer of smoke covers the ceiling -- Mars sees that the outside lights have been turned off, and senses that the cops are making their move. That's all right with Mars--he's been waiting to die for most of his life -- Mars checks the load in his pistol, then melts away into the dark -- A moment later, throbbing music pounds the house -- <b>EXT. SMITHS' HOUSE -- NIGHT </b> Talley and Jones slip up to a side window at the front of the house. Both are carrying fire extinguishers. They peer inside, then Jones uses a pry bar to lift the window -- <b>INT. FRONT GUEST ROOM -- NIGHT </b> Talley enters first, followed by Jones. The air is thick with smoke, and the music is confusing; the hall outside the room is filled with flames -- Talley points toward the bedroom, then uses hand signals to countdown the launch--three...two...one -- Jones keys his throat mike to launch the strike -- <b> MR. JONES </b> Go -- They blast the flames with their fire extinguishers, then plunge into the hall -- <b>INT. MASTER BEDROOM -- NIGHT </b> The sliding glass doors shatter as one of Jones's men breaches the door. As he rolls to his feet, Mars shoots him from the flames -- A second man rolls through the door, and Mars shoots again, laughing as the man writhes in flames -- <b>INT. HALL -- TALLEY AND JONES </b> fight back the flames with their fire extinguishers, working their way into -- <b>INT. THE MASTER BEDROOM -- NIGHT </b> It's an inferno as Talley and Jones come through the door. They spot the two men on the floor just as -- Mars rears up behind the flames. He is shirtless and glistening, screaming maniacally is he fires his gun -- Talley and Jones fire in unison, pounding Mars with bullets and knocking him into the fire. Mars thrashes and screams, burning alive -- Talley hears pounding inside the safe room: Jennifer and Thomas! He fights his way to the security door, which is covered with flames -- <b> TALLEY </b> The kids are in here! <b> MR. JONES </b> Where's the office? <b> TALLEY </b> Help me, goddamnit, we can get the disks later! Talley expects that Jones will help, but Jones is aiming his gun -- <b> MR. JONES </b> We don't need you any more, Chief. We can get the disks on our own. But before Jones can kill Talley, Mars heaves himself up from the flames, firing wildly. He hits Jones in the head -- Talley fires reflexively, his powerful .45 kicking Mars across the room and out the glass doors. Talley turns back to the burning door and douses the flames with his fire extinguisher -- <b> TALLEY </b> Thomas! Thomas, it's me! Thomas and Jennifer jerk open the door, but shrink from the heat. Talley uses the last of his fire extinguisher, then pulls them into his arms -- <b> TALLEY (CONT'D) </b> Stay close. We're going to move fast -- <b>INT. DOWNSTAIRS HALL -- NIGHT </b> Talley shepherds Jennifer and Thomas past the flames -- <b>INT. THE ENTRY -- NIGHT </b> They reach the entry, and Talley uses his pry bar to break open the door -- A wall of cops are out on the street, waiting -- <b> TALLEY </b> (to Thomas) Are the disks still in your room? <b> THOMAS </b> No! They're right here -- Thomas pulls Marlon and Al from his pocket -- Talley clutches the disks and pulls the boy close in a spontaneous hug. They run out the door as we -- <b> CUT TO: </b> <b>INT. WALTER SMITH'S HOSPITAL ROOM -- LATER THAT NIGHT </b> Walter is resting comfortably when Talley steps up beside his bed. Talley is a mess--smokey, dirty, greased with sweat -- <b> TALLEY </b> (quietly) Smith. Walter opens his eyes, then Talley steps away. Jennifer and Thomas are standing behind him. They rush to their father -- <b> JENNIFER/THOMAS </b> Daddy! <b> WALTER </b> Thank God! Are you guys all right? You're not hurt? <b> THOMAS </b> Our house is on fire! We almost burned! Both children burst into tears, and Walter hugs them. He looks up at Talley, then gently eases his kids away -- <b> WALTER </b> (to Jennifer and Thomas) You guys step out for a second. I have to talk to the Chief. Walter waits until his children are gone, and then -- <b> WALTER (CONT'D) </b> Did you find the disks? <b> TALLEY </b> Yes. <b> WALTER </b> Then you have everything. You can put them away. <b> TALLEY </b> (touches his wrist) A man has my family. Gold watch here. Dark tan. <b> WALTER </b> That would be Glen Howell. He was on his way for the disks. <b> TALLEY </b> How do I reach him? <b>EXT. HOSPITAL PARKING LOT -- NIGHT </b> Talley is alone in his car, his phone to his ear, listening to the ring at the other end of the line. A familiar voice answers -- <b> HOWELL'S VOICE </b> Hello? <b> TALLEY </b> Two words: Glen Howell. Intercut Howell in his motel room. He is thrown by getting this call -- <b> HOWELL </b> How did you get this number? <b> TALLEY </b> Mr. Jones is dead. So are two of his men. The other three are in jail. I have the disks. I have Walter Smith. And you know what, you motherfucker? I have you. <b> HOWELL </b> I have your fucking family. Don't forget that. <b> TALLEY </b> I also have a couple of million in cash. Call Sonny Benza. Ask if I can keep it. This throws Howell, too. He didn't expect anything like this; not from Talley -- <b> HOWELL </b> What do you want? <b> TALLEY </b> My wife and my daughter and the money. I'll bring the disks to the mall by the freeway, you bring my family. We'll trade. <b> HOWELL </b> Fuck that! You think I'm crazy?! <b> TALLEY </b> I think you got no choice. Howell thinks about it. It's a tough call because Talley might be setting him up, but they're playing even hands-- Talley still has the disks -- <b> HOWELL </b> Fuck the mall. You know that motel on the road west of town? <b> TALLEY </b> Yeah. <b> HOWELL </b> You got ten minutes. If you're one minute late, we won't be here to find. Talley tosses his phone aside, then drives away -- <b>EXT. NEW YORK CITY -- NIGHT </b> A graphic identifies our location: New York City. <b>INT. VICTOR CASTELLANO'S BROWNSTONE -- NIGHT </b> Victor Castellano is "the old man" that Benza's people have mentioned. He is not a happy man in the best of circumstances and is even less happy now -- Castellano's assistant, Jamie Beldone, is briefing him on events in the West -- <b> BELDONE </b> The house is in flames, Benza's accountant is with the cops, and they're stacking the bodies like cordwood. <b> CASTELLANO </b> Jesus Christ, it's a clusterfuck. <b> BELDONE </b> You wanted to let Sonny handle it. I would've moved in when we first found out. Castellano scowls at the younger man -- <b> CASTELLANO </b> And by doing so, he would've known we have spies in his organization. <b> BELDONE </b> (embarrassed) Yes, sir. But what about the disks? If the cops end up with the disks, we're gonna see a whole lot of heat. <b> CASTELLANO </b> I hate that Mickey Mouse bastard. I hated his father, and I hate Sonny, too. Always with the tan. <b> BELDONE </b> What do you want to do? <b> CASTELLANO </b> Our people out there, they good people? People in the right place? <b> BELDONE </b> The best. <b> CASTELLANO </b> Sonny's a fuckup. If he pulls this off, fine--life goes on. But if the cops end up with those disks, we cut our losses. <b> BELDONE </b> I understand. <b> CASTELLANO </b> I want a message sent: No fuckups allowed. <b> BELDONE </b> I'll make the call. Vic Castellano watches Beldone depart as he considers what is about to come -- <b>EXT. MOTEL -- NIGHT </b> The motel floats like an island of light in the middle of nowhere. A few cars are scattered throughout the quiet parking lot -- <b>MIKE RUIZ </b> is hiding in weeds across from the motel, keeping an eye on the road for Talley's approaching vehicle. A radio transmission crackles quietly -- <b> MANELLI'S VOICE </b> You see anything? Ruiz keys the mike -- <b> RUIZ </b> Not yet. Talley steps silently behind him and presses his gun to Mike Ruiz's ear -- <b>LOU BUSTER </b> Buster is on the dark side of thge parking lot, standing watch outside the pool of light in the shadows -- Gravel crunches behind him; Buster turns, and -- Talley cracks him across the face with his .45 -- <b>WITH TALLEY </b> He edges along the perimeter of the parking lot, working as close as he can to a Fat Man who is leaning against the green Mustang -- The door to a ground floor room opens, and Glen Howell steps out. Talley recognizes Howell from the big gold watch -- <b> HOWELL </b> (to the Fat Man) Keep your eyes open. He should've been here. Howell returns to the room. The Fat Man steps away from the Mustang, and -- Talley slams into his blindside, using the .45 as a club. The Fat Man staggers, and Talley wraps an arm around his neck in a choke hold, running him at the door -- Talley rams the Fat man into the door, knocking it open and shoving the Fat Man through -- <b>INT. HOWELL'S MOTEL ROOM -- NIGHT </b> Talley explodes through the door with the Fat Man in front of him like a shield -- <b> TALLEY </b> (screaming) Police! Glen Howell jerks out his pistol as he drops behind the bed. Duane Manelli rolls out of a chair, aiming from the floor in a two-handed grip -- <b> HOWELL </b> Don't shoot! Don't shoot him! Talley shifts his aim back and forth between the two men. He has his back to the wall and the Fat Man in front of him -- <b> TALLEY </b> Where's my family?! Where's my family, you fuck?! All three men are sucking air like freight engines. No one is shooting, but if one person fires, everyone will fire. Everybody has something the other guy wants. That's the only thing holding them back -- <b> HOWELL </b> Take it easy. Just take it easy. We're here to do business. <b> TALLEY </b> You said they would be here, goddamnit! Where are they? Howell releases his grip on the gun, and lets it swing free on his finger. He's trying to cool Talley -- <b> HOWELL </b> They're close. Let me make a call. You can see they're okay. <b> TALLEY </b> You said they would be here! Howell takes out his phone and presses a number. Talley shifts his aim from Howell to the Fat Man to Manelli -- <b> HOWELL </b> (into the phone) Put on the woman. Howell offers the phone, but Talley is wary--he can't let go of the Fat Man and he won't put down his pistol. Howell carefully holds the phone to Talley's ear -- <b> TALLEY </b> (into the phone) Jane? <b> JANE'S VOICE </b> Jeff, we're -- Howell backs away with the phone -- <b> HOWELL </b> You have the disks? Talley takes out a single disk. It's the one labeled 'Marlon.' He tosses it onto the bed -- <b> TALLEY </b> You get the other one when I have my girls. Not talk to them; have them. <b> HOWELL </b> Where is it? <b> TALLEY </b> Close. Howell considers the disk. If Talley has the second disk in his pocket, Howell could just shoot him. But Howell can't be sure -- <b> HOWELL </b> I have to see if it's real. Howell brings the disk to a lap top computer set up in the corner. He inserts the disk, and waits for it to read. He's satisfied with what he sees -- <b> HOWELL (CONT'D) </b> All right. Now the second one. <b> TALLEY </b> First my girls. I get my girls, you get the other disk. Howell stares at Talley again, then picks up his phone -- <b> HOWELL </b> (into the phone) Bring them. Stop the car outside the room, but don't get out. The car pulls up directly outside the door. It was only seconds away. Marion Clewes is driving; Jane and Amanda are wedged into the front seat beside him, Jane next to Marion, Amanda on the far side. They are bound tight with their mouths taped, immobile and helpless, their eyes wide with fear -- <b> HOWELL (CONT'D) </b> (into his phone) Aim your gun at the woman's head. If he doesn't give me the disk, kill her. Marion presses a gun to Jane's temple -- Talley jerks his gun toward Howell -- <b> TALLEY </b> I'll kill you! You won't get the other disk! <b> HOWELL </b> If you shoot me, he'll kill your daughter. Do you want to lose both of them? Talley aims at the man in the car; he aims at Howell. He tried so hard to save his family, and now Howell has him boxed -- <b> HOWELL (CONT'D) </b> The negotiation is over, Talley. I won. Now give me the disk or he'll put her brain on the glass. Talley looks at Jane and Amanda, and his eyes fill. He mouths the words -- <b> TALLEY </b> I love you. He's saying good-bye. Talley drops his gun and releases the Fat Man, who stumbles away. Talley tosses a second disk onto the bed. Manelli scoops it up and tosses it to Howell as Mation appears in the door -- <b> TALLEY (CONT'D) </b> I gave the other one to the Sheriffs and they're giving it to the real FBI. This one's a fake. <b> HOWELL </b> You'd better be kidding. Howell anxiously pushes the disk into his lap top -- <b> TALLEY </b> I'm a cop, you asshole! What did you expect me to do? Pretend all this never happened? Howell stares at the lap top with the withering face of a man reading his own death sentence. There is nothing on this disk. <b> TALLEY (CONT'D) </b> Benza's over. You're over. I just want to take my family home. Howell stands like a mechanical man; incredulous -- <b> HOWELL </b> Are you out of your mind? <b> MARION </b> (quietly) You fucked up, Glen. Howell looks over as if seeing Marion for the first time, and gives him the order -- <b> HOWELL </b> Kill them. Marion aims his gun directly between Talley's eyes, then points it at Howell -- <b> MARION </b> No fuckups allowed. Marion shoots Howell in the head, then the Fat Man, then Manelli--bambambam--one shot, one kill. He lowers his gun, considers Talley. Talley doesn't move. <b> MARION (CONT'D) </b> It's like a storm, isn't it? This raging force that you can't control does whatever it wants, and the best you can do is survive. A winner survives. <b> TALLEY </b> Why...? The question being: Why aren't I dead? Why aren't you killing me? <b> MARION </b> What good would it do to kill you? The police already have the disk. Marion considers Talley another moment -- <b> MARION (CONT'D) </b> Your wife is a very nice lady. Marion goes to his car. He helps out Jane and Amanda, then gets into his car and drives away. <b>EXT. THE PARKING LOT -- SUNRISE </b> Talley stumbles out of the room and runs to his family. He scoops up Jane and Amanda, hugging them tightly as the camera pulls up and away, rising, leaving this reunited family as Marion Clewes disappears like a passing thunderhead -- <b>CLOSING CREDITS </b> The credits roll to black, then-- <b>EXT. SONNY BENZA'S HOME -- DAWN </b> The garage door slides up. Benza backs out in his Mercedes, then roars to the front door. He pops the trunk, then gets out and hurries to the front door. He sticks his head inside and calls to his wife -- <b> BENZA </b> The fucking jet's waiting! Would you get your shit out here?! He picks up two bags from inside the door and brings them to the car -- <b>AT THE TRUNK </b> Benza steps behind the raised trunk to put away his bags. When he steps back around again, a nondescript sedan is waiting in the drive -- <b> A VOICE </b> No fuckups allowed. Gunfire erupts on the quiet ridge above Palm Springs. <b>FADE OUT </b> <b>THE END </b></pre><br> <table width="85%" border="0" align="center" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" class="body" style="BORDER-TOP: #000000 1px solid; BORDER-RIGHT: #000000 1px solid; BORDER-LEFT: #000000 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #000000 1px solid;"> <tr> <td align=center><img src="/posters/Hostage.jpg" border=0> <td><h1>Hostage</h1><br><br> <b>Writers</b> : &nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="/writer.php?w=Robert Crais" title="Scripts by Robert Crais">Robert Crais</a><br> <b>Genres</b> : &nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="/genre/Action" title="Action Scripts">Action</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="/genre/Crime" title="Crime Scripts">Crime</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="/genre/Drama" title="Drama Scripts">Drama</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="/genre/Thriller" title="Thriller Scripts">Thriller</a><br><br><br> <a href="/Movie Scripts/Hostage Script.html#comments" title="Hostage comments">User Comments</a> </td> </table> <br><br> <div align="center"> <a href="https://www.imsdb.com" title="Internet Movie Script Database"><img src="/images/lilbutton.gif" style="border: 1px solid black;" alt="Internet Movie Script Database" border=1><br> Back to IMSDb</a> </div><br> <br><br> </tr> </table> <br><br> </table> <table width="99%" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" class="body"> <tr> <td background="/images/reel.gif" height="13" colspan="2"> </table> <div align="center"> <a href="https://www.imsdb.com" title="Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb)">Index</a> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;|&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <a href="/submit" title="Submit scripts">Submit</a> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;|&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <a href="/links" title="Other sites">Links</a> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;|&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <a href="/link to us" title="Link to IMSDb">Link to us</a> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;|&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <a href="/feeds" title="IMSDb RSS Feeds">RSS Feeds</a> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;|&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <a href="/disclaimer">Disclaimer</a> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;|&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <a href="/privacy">Privacy policy</a> </div> <br /> </body> </html> Question: What was Jeff Talley's former line of work? Answer: SWAT officer.
{ "task_name": "narrativeqa" }
/* * Licensed to the Apache Software Foundation (ASF) under one * or more contributor license agreements. See the NOTICE file * distributed with this work for additional information * regarding copyright ownership. The ASF licenses this file * to you under the Apache License, Version 2.0 (the * "License"); you may not use this file except in compliance * with the License. You may obtain a copy of the License at * * http://www.apache.org/licenses/LICENSE-2.0 * * Unless required by applicable law or agreed to in writing, * software distributed under the License is distributed on an * "AS IS" BASIS, WITHOUT WARRANTIES OR CONDITIONS OF ANY * KIND, either express or implied. See the License for the * specific language governing permissions and limitations * under the License. * */ package org.apache.directory.fortress.rest; import org.apache.directory.fortress.core.DelAccessMgr; import org.apache.directory.fortress.core.DelAccessMgrFactory; import org.apache.directory.fortress.core.SecurityException; import org.apache.directory.fortress.core.model.RolePerm; import org.apache.directory.fortress.core.model.UserAdminRole; import org.apache.directory.fortress.core.model.Permission; import org.apache.directory.fortress.core.model.Role; import org.apache.directory.fortress.core.model.Session; import org.apache.directory.fortress.core.model.User; import org.apache.directory.fortress.core.model.UserRole; import org.apache.directory.fortress.core.model.FortRequest; import org.apache.directory.fortress.core.model.FortResponse; import org.slf4j.Logger; import org.slf4j.LoggerFactory; import java.util.List; import java.util.Set; /** * Utility for Fortress Rest Server. This class is thread safe. * * @author <a href="mailto:[email protected]">Apache Directory Project</a> */ class DelegatedAccessMgrImpl extends AbstractMgrImpl { /** A logger for this class */ private static final Logger LOG = LoggerFactory.getLogger( DelegatedAccessMgrImpl.class.getName() ); /** * ************************************************************************************************************************************ * BEGIN DELEGATEDACCESSMGR * ************************************************************************************************************************************** */ /* No qualifier */ FortResponse canAssign(FortRequest request) { FortResponse response = createResponse(); try { UserRole uRole = (UserRole) request.getEntity(); Session session = request.getSession(); DelAccessMgr accessMgr = DelAccessMgrFactory.createInstance( request.getContextId() ); boolean result = accessMgr.canAssign( session, new User( uRole.getUserId() ), new Role( uRole.getName() ) ); response.setSession( session ); response.setAuthorized( result ); } catch ( SecurityException se ) { createError( response, LOG, se ); } return response; } /* No qualifier */ FortResponse canDeassign(FortRequest request) { FortResponse response = createResponse(); try { UserRole uRole = (UserRole) request.getEntity(); Session session = request.getSession(); DelAccessMgr accessMgr = DelAccessMgrFactory.createInstance( request.getContextId() ); boolean result = accessMgr.canDeassign( session, new User( uRole.getUserId() ), new Role( uRole.getName() ) ); response.setSession( session ); response.setAuthorized( result ); } catch ( SecurityException se ) { createError( response, LOG, se ); } return response; } /* No qualifier */ FortResponse canGrant(FortRequest request) { FortResponse response = createResponse(); try { RolePerm context = (RolePerm) request.getEntity(); Session session = request.getSession(); DelAccessMgr accessMgr = DelAccessMgrFactory.createInstance( request.getContextId() ); boolean result = accessMgr.canGrant( session, new Role( context.getRole().getName() ), context.getPerm() ); response.setSession( session ); response.setAuthorized( result ); } catch ( SecurityException se ) { createError( response, LOG, se ); } return response; } /* No qualifier */ FortResponse canRevoke(FortRequest request) { FortResponse response = createResponse(); try { RolePerm context = (RolePerm) request.getEntity(); Session session = request.getSession(); DelAccessMgr accessMgr = DelAccessMgrFactory.createInstance( request.getContextId() ); boolean result = accessMgr.canRevoke( session, new Role( context.getRole().getName() ), context.getPerm() ); response.setSession( session ); response.setAuthorized( result ); } catch ( SecurityException se ) { createError( response, LOG, se ); } return response; } public FortResponse checkAdminAccess(FortRequest request) { FortResponse response = createResponse(); try { Permission perm = (Permission) request.getEntity(); Session session = request.getSession(); DelAccessMgr accessMgr = DelAccessMgrFactory.createInstance( request.getContextId() ); perm.setAdmin( true ); boolean result = accessMgr.checkAccess( session, perm ); response.setSession( session ); response.setAuthorized( result ); } catch ( SecurityException se ) { createError( response, LOG, se ); } return response; } /* No qualifier */ FortResponse addActiveAdminRole(FortRequest request) { FortResponse response = createResponse(); try { UserAdminRole uAdminRole = (UserAdminRole) request.getEntity(); Session session = request.getSession(); DelAccessMgr accessMgr = DelAccessMgrFactory.createInstance( request.getContextId() ); accessMgr.addActiveRole( session, uAdminRole ); response.setSession( session ); } catch ( SecurityException se ) { createError( response, LOG, se ); } return response; } /* No qualifier */ FortResponse dropActiveAdminRole(FortRequest request) { FortResponse response = createResponse(); try { UserAdminRole uAdminRole = (UserAdminRole) request.getEntity(); Session session = request.getSession(); DelAccessMgr accessMgr = DelAccessMgrFactory.createInstance( request.getContextId() ); accessMgr.dropActiveRole( session, uAdminRole ); response.setSession( session ); } catch ( SecurityException se ) { createError( response, LOG, se ); } return response; } /* No qualifier */ FortResponse sessionAdminRoles(FortRequest request) { FortResponse response = createResponse(); try { Session session = request.getSession(); DelAccessMgr accessMgr = DelAccessMgrFactory.createInstance( request.getContextId() ); List<UserAdminRole> roles = accessMgr.sessionAdminRoles( session ); response.setEntities( roles ); } catch ( SecurityException se ) { createError( response, LOG, se ); } return response; } /* No qualifier */ FortResponse sessionAdminPermissions(FortRequest request) { FortResponse response = createResponse(); try { DelAccessMgr accessMgr = DelAccessMgrFactory.createInstance( request.getContextId() ); Session session = request.getSession(); List<Permission> perms = accessMgr.sessionPermissions( session ); response.setSession( session ); response.setEntities( perms ); } catch ( SecurityException se ) { createError( response, LOG, se ); } return response; } /* No qualifier */ FortResponse authorizedSessionRoles(FortRequest request) { FortResponse response = createResponse(); try { DelAccessMgr accessMgr = DelAccessMgrFactory.createInstance( request.getContextId() ); Session session = request.getSession(); Set<String> roles = accessMgr.authorizedAdminRoles( session ); response.setValueSet( roles ); response.setSession( session ); } catch ( SecurityException se ) { createError( response, LOG, se ); } return response; } }
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
Passage 1: Government of Australia Twelve Senators from each state are elected for six-year terms, using proportional representation and the single transferable vote (known in Australia as "quota-preferential voting": see Australian electoral system), with half elected every three years. In addition to the state Senators, two senators are elected by voters from the Northern Territory (which for this purpose includes the Indian Ocean Territories, Christmas Island and the Cocos (Keeling) Islands), while another two senators are elected by the voters of the Australian Capital Territory (which for this purpose includes the Jervis Bay Territory). Senators from the territories are also elected using preferential voting, but their term of office is not fixed; it starts on the day of a general election for the House of Representatives and ends on the day before the next such election. Passage 2: 2017 United States Senate special election in Alabama A special election for the United States Senate in Alabama took place on December 12, 2017, to fill a vacancy in the Senate through the end of the term ending on January 3, 2021, arising from the resignation on February 8, 2017, of Jeff Sessions to serve as U.S. Attorney General. Democratic candidate Doug Jones defeated Republican candidate Roy Moore by a margin of 21,924 votes (1.7%). Jones is the first Democrat to win a U.S. Senate seat in the state since 1992. Passage 3: Eldon A. Money Eldon A. Money (born November 7, 1930), was an American politician who was a Democratic member of the Utah House of Representatives and Utah State Senate. An alumnus of Utah State University, he was a farmer and cattleman. As of 2014, he is the last Democrat elected in Utah County, Utah to public office since he was defeated for re-election to the senate in 1998. Passage 4: Jennifer Shilling Jennifer Shilling (née Ehlenfeldt; born July 4, 1969) is a Democratic member of the Wisconsin State Senate first elected to represent the 32nd District in 2011 from La Crosse, Wisconsin. In 2014, she was elected Senate Minority Leader by fellow Democrats. Passage 5: List of current members of the Maryland Senate The Maryland Senate is the upper house of the Maryland General Assembly, the state legislature of the U.S. State of Maryland. One Senator is elected from each of the state's 47 electoral districts. As of January 2015, 33 of those seats are held by Democrats and 14 by Republicans. The leader of the Senate is known as the President, a position currently held by Thomas V. Mike Miller, Jr., who represents Calvert, Charles and Prince George's counties. In addition, Senators elect a President Pro Tempore, and the respective party caucuses elect a majority and minority leader and a majority and minority whip. Passage 6: 2014 United States Senate election in Oklahoma The 2014 United States Senate election in Oklahoma took place on November 4, 2014 to elect a member of the United States Senate to represent the State of Oklahoma, concurrently with the special election to Oklahoma's other Senate seat, as well as other elections to the United States Senate in other states and elections to the United States House of Representatives and various state and local elections. Passage 7: Tennessee In 2002, businessman Phil Bredesen was elected as the 48th governor. Also in 2002, Tennessee amended the state constitution to allow for the establishment of a lottery. Tennessee's Bob Corker was the only freshman Republican elected to the United States Senate in the 2006 midterm elections. The state constitution was amended to reject same-sex marriage. In January 2007, Ron Ramsey became the first Republican elected as Speaker of the State Senate since Reconstruction, as a result of the realignment of the Democratic and Republican parties in the South since the late 20th century, with Republicans now elected by conservative voters, who previously had supported Democrats. Passage 8: United States Senate The composition and powers of the Senate are established by Article One of the United States Constitution. The Senate is composed of senators who represent each of the states, with each state being equally represented by two senators, regardless of their population, serving staggered terms of six years; with fifty states presently in the Union, there are 100 U.S. Senators. From 1789 until 1913, Senators were appointed by legislatures of the states they represented; following the ratification of the Seventeenth Amendment in 1913, they are now popularly elected. The Senate chamber is located in the north wing of the Capitol, in Washington, D.C. Passage 9: United States Senate The composition and powers of the Senate are established by Article One of the United States Constitution. The Senate is composed of senators, each of whom represents a single state in its entirety, with each state being equally represented by two senators, regardless of its population, serving staggered terms of six years; with 50 states currently in the Union, there are 100 U.S. Senators. From 1789 until 1913, Senators were appointed by legislatures of the states they represented; following the ratification of the Seventeenth Amendment in 1913, they are now popularly elected. The Senate chamber is located in the north wing of the Capitol, in Washington, D.C. Passage 10: Leticia Sosa In 2006 she was elected to serve in the Senate of Mexico for a six-year term. She left the Senate to run for Governor of the state of Colima. In 2009 She was designated the PAN candidate for the 2009 Colima state election. Sosa was defeated by the PRI candidate. Passage 11: 2018 Florida gubernatorial election The 2018 Florida gubernatorial election will take place on November 6, 2018, to elect the Governor of Florida, concurrently with the election of Florida's Class I U.S. Senate seat, as well as other elections to the United States Senate in other states and elections to the United States House of Representatives and various Florida and local elections. Incumbent Republican Governor Rick Scott is term - limited and can not seek re-election to a third consecutive term. Passage 12: Seventeenth Amendment to the United States Constitution The Seventeenth Amendment (Amendment XVII) to the United States Constitution established the popular election of United States Senators by the people of the states. The amendment supersedes Article I, § 3, Clauses 1 and 2 of the Constitution, under which senators were elected by state legislatures. It also alters the procedure for filling vacancies in the Senate, allowing for state legislatures to permit their governors to make temporary appointments until a special election can be held. Passage 13: Marc Laménie Marc Laménie (born 11 July 1956) is a French politician and a member of the Senate of France. He represents the Ardennes department and is a member of the Union for a Popular Movement Party. He was elected on 26 August 2007, and was re-elected on 21 September 2008. He was mayor of Neuville-Day. Passage 14: 2018 United States Senate elections Elections to the United States Senate will be held November 6, 2018, with 33 of the 100 seats in the Senate being contested in regular elections. The winners will serve six - year terms from January 3, 2019, to January 3, 2025. Currently, Democrats have 23 seats up for election along with 2 independents who caucus with them. Republicans have 8 seats up for election. Two of the Republican seats are open as a result of Tennessee Senator Bob Corker's and Arizona Senator Jeff Flake's pending retirements. The seats up for election in 2018 were last up for election in 2012, although some seats may have special elections if incumbents die or resign, as has already happened in Alabama and Minnesota. After the 2016 elections, some state election officials are trying to upgrade voting systems in time for this election. Passage 15: 2018 Michigan gubernatorial election The Michigan gubernatorial election of 2018 will take place on November 6, 2018, to elect the Governor of Michigan, concurrently with the election of Michigan's Class I U.S. Senate seat, as well as other elections to the United States Senate in other states and elections to the United States House of Representatives and various state and local elections. Passage 16: 1998 United States Senate election in Hawaii The 1998 United States Senate election in Hawaii was held November 3, 1998 alongside other elections to the United States Senate in other states as well as elections to the United States House of Representatives and various state and local elections. Incumbent Democratic U.S. Senator Daniel Inouye won re-election to a seventh term. Passage 17: 2012 United States House of Representatives elections in Ohio The 2012 United States House of Representatives elections in Ohio were held on Tuesday, November 6, 2012 to elect the 16 U.S. Representatives from the state of Ohio, a loss of two seats following the 2010 United States Census. The elections coincided with the elections of other federal and state offices, including a quadrennial presidential election and an election to the U.S. Senate. Passage 18: United States Congress The members of the House of Representatives serve two - year terms representing the people of a single constituency, known as a ``district ''. Congressional districts are apportioned to states by population using the United States Census results, provided that each state has at least one congressional representative. Each state, regardless of population or size, has two senators. Currently, there are 100 senators representing the 50 states. Each senator is elected at - large in their state for a six - year term, with terms staggered, so every two years approximately one - third of the Senate is up for election. Passage 19: WAGG WAGG (610 AM) is a radio station licensed to Birmingham, Alabama. It broadcasts at a daytime power 5,000 watts, and at nighttime, it broadcasts at 1,000 watts from a transmitter in the city's westside. WAGG is a gospel music station that targets Birmingham's African-American population. It is owned by SummitMedia, which also owns six other stations in the market, and all share studios in the Cahaba neighborhood in far southeast Birmingham. The station was assigned the WAGG call letters by the Federal Communications Commission on January 15, 1999. Passage 20: Massachusetts Senate The Massachusetts Senate is the upper house of the Massachusetts General Court, the bicameral state legislature of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. The Senate comprises 40 elected members from 40 single - member senatorial districts in the state. All but one of the districts are named for the counties in which they are located (the ``Cape and Islands ''district covers Dukes, Nantucket, and parts of Barnstable counties). Senators serve two - year terms, without term limits. The Senate convenes in the Massachusetts State House, in Boston. Question: When is election day for senate in the state where WAGG is located? Answer: December 12, 2017
{ "task_name": "MuSiQue" }
/* Copyright (C) 2005-2012, by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. Licensed under the Apache License, Version 2.0 (the "License"); you may not use this file except in compliance with the License. You may obtain a copy of the License at http://www.apache.org/licenses/LICENSE-2.0 Unless required by applicable law or agreed to in writing, software distributed under the License is distributed on an "AS IS" BASIS, WITHOUT WARRANTIES OR CONDITIONS OF ANY KIND, either express or implied. See the License for the specific language governing permissions and limitations under the License. Dataverse Network - A web application to share, preserve and analyze research data. Developed at the Institute for Quantitative Social Science, Harvard University. Version 3.0. */ package edu.harvard.iq.dataverse; import edu.harvard.iq.dataverse.settings.SettingsServiceBean; import java.io.File; import java.io.FileInputStream; import java.net.InetAddress; import java.net.UnknownHostException; import java.util.*; import java.util.logging.Level; import java.util.logging.Logger; import javax.ejb.EJB; import javax.ejb.Stateless; import java.security.PrivateKey; /* Handlenet imports: */ import net.handle.hdllib.AbstractMessage; import net.handle.hdllib.AbstractResponse; import net.handle.hdllib.AdminRecord; import net.handle.hdllib.ClientSessionTracker; import net.handle.hdllib.CreateHandleRequest; import net.handle.hdllib.DeleteHandleRequest; import net.handle.hdllib.Encoder; import net.handle.hdllib.HandleException; import net.handle.hdllib.HandleResolver; import net.handle.hdllib.HandleValue; import net.handle.hdllib.ModifyValueRequest; import net.handle.hdllib.PublicKeyAuthenticationInfo; import net.handle.hdllib.ResolutionRequest; import net.handle.hdllib.Util; import org.apache.commons.lang.NotImplementedException; /** * * @author Leonid Andreev * * This is a *partial* implementation of the Handles global id * service. * As of now, it only does the registration updates, to accommodate * the modifyRegistration datasets API sub-command. */ @Stateless public class HandlenetServiceBean extends AbstractGlobalIdServiceBean { @EJB DataverseServiceBean dataverseService; @EJB SettingsServiceBean settingsService; private static final Logger logger = Logger.getLogger(HandlenetServiceBean.class.getCanonicalName()); private static final String HANDLE_PROTOCOL_TAG = "hdl"; int handlenetIndex = System.getProperty("dataverse.handlenet.index")!=null? Integer.parseInt(System.getProperty("dataverse.handlenet.index")) : 300; public HandlenetServiceBean() { logger.log(Level.FINE,"Constructor"); } @Override public boolean registerWhenPublished() { return false; // TODO current value plays safe, can we loosen up? } public void reRegisterHandle(DvObject dvObject) { logger.log(Level.FINE,"reRegisterHandle"); if (!HANDLE_PROTOCOL_TAG.equals(dvObject.getProtocol())) { logger.log(Level.WARNING, "reRegisterHandle called on a dvObject with the non-handle global id: {0}", dvObject.getId()); } String handle = getDvObjectHandle(dvObject); boolean handleRegistered = isHandleRegistered(handle); if (handleRegistered) { // Rebuild/Modify an existing handle logger.log(Level.INFO, "Re-registering an existing handle id {0}", handle); String authHandle = getHandleAuthority(dvObject); HandleResolver resolver = new HandleResolver(); String datasetUrl = getRegistrationUrl(dvObject); logger.log(Level.INFO, "New registration URL: {0}", datasetUrl); PublicKeyAuthenticationInfo auth = getAuthInfo(dvObject.getAuthority()); try { AdminRecord admin = new AdminRecord(authHandle.getBytes("UTF8"), handlenetIndex, true, true, true, true, true, true, true, true, true, true, true, true); int timestamp = (int) (System.currentTimeMillis() / 1000); HandleValue[] val = {new HandleValue(100, "HS_ADMIN".getBytes("UTF8"), Encoder.encodeAdminRecord(admin), HandleValue.TTL_TYPE_RELATIVE, 86400, timestamp, null, true, true, true, false), new HandleValue(1, "URL".getBytes("UTF8"), datasetUrl.getBytes(), HandleValue.TTL_TYPE_RELATIVE, 86400, timestamp, null, true, true, true, false)}; ModifyValueRequest req = new ModifyValueRequest(handle.getBytes("UTF8"), val, auth); resolver.traceMessages = true; AbstractResponse response = resolver.processRequest(req); if (response.responseCode == AbstractMessage.RC_SUCCESS) { logger.info("\nGot Response: \n" + response); } else { logger.info("\nGot Error: \n" + response); } } catch (Throwable t) { logger.fine("\nError: " + t); } } else { // Create a new handle from scratch: logger.log(Level.INFO, "Handle {0} not registered. Registering (creating) from scratch.", handle); registerNewHandle(dvObject); } } public Throwable registerNewHandle(DvObject dvObject) { logger.log(Level.FINE,"registerNewHandle"); String handlePrefix = dvObject.getAuthority(); String handle = getDvObjectHandle(dvObject); String datasetUrl = getRegistrationUrl(dvObject); logger.log(Level.INFO, "Creating NEW handle {0}", handle); String authHandle = getHandleAuthority(dvObject); PublicKeyAuthenticationInfo auth = getAuthInfo(handlePrefix); HandleResolver resolver = new HandleResolver(); try { AdminRecord admin = new AdminRecord(authHandle.getBytes("UTF8"), handlenetIndex, true, true, true, true, true, true, true, true, true, true, true, true); int timestamp = (int) (System.currentTimeMillis() / 1000); HandleValue[] val = {new HandleValue(100, "HS_ADMIN".getBytes("UTF8"), Encoder.encodeAdminRecord(admin), HandleValue.TTL_TYPE_RELATIVE, 86400, timestamp, null, true, true, true, false), new HandleValue(1, "URL".getBytes("UTF8"), datasetUrl.getBytes(), HandleValue.TTL_TYPE_RELATIVE, 86400, timestamp, null, true, true, true, false)}; CreateHandleRequest req = new CreateHandleRequest(handle.getBytes("UTF8"), val, auth); resolver.traceMessages = true; AbstractResponse response = resolver.processRequest(req); if (response.responseCode == AbstractMessage.RC_SUCCESS) { logger.log(Level.INFO, "Success! Response: \n{0}", response); return null; } else { logger.log(Level.WARNING, "RegisterNewHandle failed. Error response: {0}", response); return new Exception("registerNewHandle failed: " + response); } } catch (Throwable t) { logger.log(Level.WARNING, "registerNewHandle failed", t); return t; } } public boolean isHandleRegistered(String handle){ logger.log(Level.FINE,"isHandleRegistered"); boolean handleRegistered = false; ResolutionRequest req = buildResolutionRequest(handle); AbstractResponse response = null; HandleResolver resolver = new HandleResolver(); try { response = resolver.processRequest(req); } catch (HandleException ex) { logger.log(Level.WARNING, "Caught exception trying to process lookup request", ex); } if((response!=null && response.responseCode==AbstractMessage.RC_SUCCESS)) { logger.log(Level.INFO, "Handle {0} registered.", handle); handleRegistered = true; } return handleRegistered; } private ResolutionRequest buildResolutionRequest(final String handle) { logger.log(Level.FINE,"buildResolutionRequest"); String handlePrefix = handle.substring(0,handle.indexOf("/")); PublicKeyAuthenticationInfo auth = getAuthInfo(handlePrefix); byte[][] types = null; int[] indexes = null; ResolutionRequest req = new ResolutionRequest(Util.encodeString(handle), types, indexes, auth); req.certify = false; req.cacheCertify = true; req.authoritative = false; req.ignoreRestrictedValues = true; return req; } private PublicKeyAuthenticationInfo getAuthInfo(String handlePrefix) { logger.log(Level.FINE,"getAuthInfo"); byte[] key = null; String adminCredFile = System.getProperty("dataverse.handlenet.admcredfile"); int handlenetIndex = System.getProperty("dataverse.handlenet.index")!=null? Integer.parseInt(System.getProperty("dataverse.handlenet.index")) : 300; key = readKey(adminCredFile); PrivateKey privkey = null; privkey = readPrivKey(key, adminCredFile); String authHandle = getHandleAuthority(handlePrefix); PublicKeyAuthenticationInfo auth = new PublicKeyAuthenticationInfo(Util.encodeString(authHandle), handlenetIndex, privkey); return auth; } private String getRegistrationUrl(DvObject dvObject) { logger.log(Level.FINE,"getRegistrationUrl"); String siteUrl = systemConfig.getDataverseSiteUrl(); String targetUrl = siteUrl + dvObject.getTargetUrl() + "hdl:" + dvObject.getAuthority() + "/" + dvObject.getIdentifier(); return targetUrl; } public String getSiteUrl() { logger.log(Level.FINE,"getSiteUrl"); String hostUrl = System.getProperty("dataverse.siteUrl"); if (hostUrl != null && !"".equals(hostUrl)) { return hostUrl; } String hostName = System.getProperty("dataverse.fqdn"); if (hostName == null) { try { hostName = InetAddress.getLocalHost().getCanonicalHostName(); } catch (UnknownHostException e) { return null; } } hostUrl = "https://" + hostName; return hostUrl; } private byte[] readKey(final String file) { logger.log(Level.FINE,"readKey"); byte[] key = null; try { File f = new File(file); FileInputStream fs = new FileInputStream(f); key = new byte[(int)f.length()]; int n=0; while(n<key.length) { key[n++] = (byte)fs.read(); } } catch (Throwable t){ logger.log(Level.SEVERE, "Cannot read private key {0}: {1}", new Object[]{file, t}); } return key; } private PrivateKey readPrivKey(byte[] key, final String file) { logger.log(Level.FINE,"readPrivKey"); PrivateKey privkey=null; String secret = System.getProperty("dataverse.handlenet.admprivphrase"); byte secKey[] = null; try { if ( Util.requiresSecretKey(key) ) { secKey = secret.getBytes(); } key = Util.decrypt(key, secKey); privkey = Util.getPrivateKeyFromBytes(key, 0); } catch (Throwable t){ logger.log(Level.SEVERE, "Can''t load private key in {0}: {1}", new Object[]{file, t}); } return privkey; } private String getDvObjectHandle(DvObject dvObject) { /* * This is different from dataset.getGlobalId() in that we don't * need the "hdl:" prefix. */ String handle = dvObject.getAuthority() + "/" + dvObject.getIdentifier(); return handle; } private String getHandleAuthority(DvObject dvObject){ return getHandleAuthority(dvObject.getAuthority()); } private String getHandleAuthority(String handlePrefix) { logger.log(Level.FINE,"getHandleAuthority"); return "0.NA/" + handlePrefix; } @Override public boolean alreadyExists(DvObject dvObject) throws Exception { String handle = getDvObjectHandle(dvObject); return isHandleRegistered(handle); } @Override public boolean alreadyExists(GlobalId pid) throws Exception { String handle = pid.getAuthority() + "/" + pid.getIdentifier(); return isHandleRegistered(handle); } @Override public Map<String,String> getIdentifierMetadata(DvObject dvObject) { throw new NotImplementedException(); } @Override public HashMap lookupMetadataFromIdentifier(String protocol, String authority, String identifier) { throw new NotImplementedException(); } @Override public String modifyIdentifierTargetURL(DvObject dvObject) throws Exception { logger.log(Level.FINE,"modifyIdentifier"); reRegisterHandle(dvObject); if(dvObject instanceof Dataset){ Dataset dataset = (Dataset) dvObject; dataset.getFiles().forEach((df) -> { reRegisterHandle(df); }); } return getIdentifier(dvObject); } @Override public void deleteIdentifier(DvObject dvObject) throws Exception { String handle = getDvObjectHandle(dvObject); String authHandle = getAuthHandle(dvObject); String adminCredFile = System.getProperty("dataverse.handlenet.admcredfile"); int handlenetIndex = System.getProperty("dataverse.handlenet.index")!=null? Integer.parseInt(System.getProperty("dataverse.handlenet.index")) : 300; byte[] key = readKey(adminCredFile); PrivateKey privkey = readPrivKey(key, adminCredFile); HandleResolver resolver = new HandleResolver(); resolver.setSessionTracker(new ClientSessionTracker()); PublicKeyAuthenticationInfo auth = new PublicKeyAuthenticationInfo(Util.encodeString(authHandle), handlenetIndex, privkey); DeleteHandleRequest req = new DeleteHandleRequest(Util.encodeString(handle), auth); AbstractResponse response=null; try { response = resolver.processRequest(req); } catch (HandleException ex) { ex.printStackTrace(); } if(response==null || response.responseCode!=AbstractMessage.RC_SUCCESS) { logger.fine("error deleting '"+handle+"': "+response); } else { logger.fine("deleted "+handle); } } private boolean updateIdentifierStatus(DvObject dvObject, String statusIn) { logger.log(Level.FINE,"updateIdentifierStatus"); reRegisterHandle(dvObject); // No Need to register new - this is only called when a handle exists return true; } private String getAuthHandle(DvObject dvObject) { // TODO hack: GNRSServiceBean retrieved this from vdcNetworkService return "0.NA/" + dvObject.getAuthority(); } @Override public List<String> getProviderInformation(){ ArrayList <String> providerInfo = new ArrayList<>(); String providerName = "Handle"; String providerLink = "https://hdl.handle.net"; providerInfo.add(providerName); providerInfo.add(providerLink); return providerInfo; } @Override public String createIdentifier(DvObject dvObject) throws Throwable { Throwable result = registerNewHandle(dvObject); if (result != null) throw result; // TODO get exceptions from under the carpet return getDvObjectHandle(dvObject); } @Override public boolean publicizeIdentifier(DvObject dvObject) { if (dvObject.getIdentifier() == null || dvObject.getIdentifier().isEmpty()){ generateIdentifier(dvObject); } return updateIdentifierStatus(dvObject, "public"); } }
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
using System; using System.IO; using System.Reflection; using System.Windows.Forms; namespace SIL.Windows.Forms { public static class ReflectionHelper { /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ /// <summary> /// Loads a DLL. /// </summary> /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ public static Assembly LoadAssembly(string dllPath) { try { if (!File.Exists(dllPath)) { string dllFile = Path.GetFileName(dllPath); dllPath = Path.Combine(Application.StartupPath, dllFile); if (!File.Exists(dllPath)) return null; } return Assembly.LoadFrom(dllPath); } catch (Exception) { return null; } } /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ /// <summary> /// /// </summary> /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ public static object CreateClassInstance(Assembly assembly, string className) { return CreateClassInstance(assembly, className, null); } /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ /// <summary> /// /// </summary> /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ public static object CreateClassInstance(Assembly assembly, string className, object[] args) { try { // First, take a stab at creating the instance with the specified name. object instance = assembly.CreateInstance(className, false, BindingFlags.CreateInstance, null, args, null, null); if (instance != null) return instance; Type[] types = assembly.GetTypes(); // At this point, we know we failed to instantiate a class with the // specified name, so try to find a type with that name and attempt // to instantiate the class using the full namespace. foreach (Type type in types) { if (type.Name == className) { return assembly.CreateInstance(type.FullName, false, BindingFlags.CreateInstance, null, args, null, null); } } } catch { } return null; } /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ /// <summary> /// Returns a string value returned from a call to a private method. /// </summary> /// <param name="binding">This is either the Type of the object on which the method /// is called or an instance of that type of object. When the method being called /// is static then binding should be a type.</param> /// <param name="methodName">Name of the method to call.</param> /// <param name="args">An array of arguments to pass to the method call.</param> /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ public static string GetStrResult(object binding, string methodName, object[] args) { return (GetResult(binding, methodName, args) as string); } /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ /// <summary> /// Returns a string value returned from a call to a private method. /// </summary> /// <param name="binding">This is either the Type of the object on which the method /// is called or an instance of that type of object. When the method being called /// is static then binding should be a type.</param> /// <param name="methodName">Name of the method to call.</param> /// <param name="args">An single arguments to pass to the method call.</param> /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ public static string GetStrResult(object binding, string methodName, object args) { return (GetResult(binding, methodName, args) as string); } /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ /// <summary> /// Returns a integer value returned from a call to a private method. /// </summary> /// <param name="binding">This is either the Type of the object on which the method /// is called or an instance of that type of object. When the method being called /// is static then binding should be a type.</param> /// <param name="methodName">Name of the method to call.</param> /// <param name="args">An single arguments to pass to the method call.</param> /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ public static int GetIntResult(object binding, string methodName, object args) { return ((int)GetResult(binding, methodName, args)); } /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ /// <summary> /// Returns a integer value returned from a call to a private method. /// </summary> /// <param name="binding">This is either the Type of the object on which the method /// is called or an instance of that type of object. When the method being called /// is static then binding should be a type.</param> /// <param name="methodName">Name of the method to call.</param> /// <param name="args">An array of arguments to pass to the method call.</param> /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ public static int GetIntResult(object binding, string methodName, object[] args) { return ((int)GetResult(binding, methodName, args)); } /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ /// <summary> /// Returns a float value returned from a call to a private method. /// </summary> /// <param name="binding">This is either the Type of the object on which the method /// is called or an instance of that type of object. When the method being called /// is static then binding should be a type.</param> /// <param name="methodName">Name of the method to call.</param> /// <param name="args">An single arguments to pass to the method call.</param> /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ public static float GetFloatResult(object binding, string methodName, object args) { return ((float)GetResult(binding, methodName, args)); } /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ /// <summary> /// Returns a float value returned from a call to a private method. /// </summary> /// <param name="binding">This is either the Type of the object on which the method /// is called or an instance of that type of object. When the method being called /// is static then binding should be a type.</param> /// <param name="methodName">Name of the method to call.</param> /// <param name="args">An array of arguments to pass to the method call.</param> /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ public static float GetFloatResult(object binding, string methodName, object[] args) { return ((float)GetResult(binding, methodName, args)); } /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ /// <summary> /// Returns a boolean value returned from a call to a private method. /// </summary> /// <param name="binding">This is either the Type of the object on which the method /// is called or an instance of that type of object. When the method being called /// is static then binding should be a type.</param> /// <param name="methodName">Name of the method to call.</param> /// <param name="args">An single arguments to pass to the method call.</param> /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ public static bool GetBoolResult(object binding, string methodName, object args) { return ((bool)GetResult(binding, methodName, args)); } /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ /// <summary> /// Returns a boolean value returned from a call to a private method. /// </summary> /// <param name="binding">This is either the Type of the object on which the method /// is called or an instance of that type of object. When the method being called /// is static then binding should be a type.</param> /// <param name="methodName">Name of the method to call.</param> /// <param name="args">An array of arguments to pass to the method call.</param> /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ public static bool GetBoolResult(object binding, string methodName, object[] args) { return ((bool)GetResult(binding, methodName, args)); } /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ /// <summary> /// Calls a method specified on the specified binding. /// </summary> /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ public static void CallMethod(object binding, string methodName) { CallMethod(binding, methodName, null); } /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ /// <summary> /// Calls a method specified on the specified binding. /// </summary> /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ public static void CallMethod(object binding, string methodName, object args) { GetResult(binding, methodName, args); } /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ /// <summary> /// Calls a method specified on the specified binding. /// </summary> /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ public static void CallMethod(object binding, string methodName, object arg1, object arg2) { object[] args = new[] {arg1, arg2}; GetResult(binding, methodName, args); } /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ /// <summary> /// Calls a method specified on the specified binding. /// </summary> /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ public static void CallMethod(object binding, string methodName, object arg1, object arg2, object arg3) { object[] args = new[] { arg1, arg2, arg3 }; GetResult(binding, methodName, args); } /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ /// <summary> /// Calls a method specified on the specified binding. /// </summary> /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ public static void CallMethod(object binding, string methodName, object arg1, object arg2, object arg3, object arg4) { object[] args = new[] { arg1, arg2, arg3, arg4 }; GetResult(binding, methodName, args); } /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ /// <summary> /// Calls a method specified on the specified binding. /// </summary> /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ public static void CallMethod(object binding, string methodName, object[] args) { GetResult(binding, methodName, args); } /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ /// <summary> /// Returns the result of calling a method on the specified binding. /// </summary> /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ public static object GetResult(object binding, string methodName, object args) { return Invoke(binding, methodName, new[] { args }, BindingFlags.InvokeMethod); } /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ /// <summary> /// Returns the result of calling a method on the specified binding. /// </summary> /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ public static object GetResult(object binding, string methodName, object[] args) { return Invoke(binding, methodName, args, BindingFlags.InvokeMethod); } /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ /// <summary> /// Sets the specified property on the specified binding. /// </summary> /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ public static void SetProperty(object binding, string propertyName, object args) { Invoke(binding, propertyName, new[] { args }, BindingFlags.SetProperty); } /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ /// <summary> /// Sets the specified field (i.e. member variable) on the specified binding. /// </summary> /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ public static void SetField(object binding, string fieldName, object args) { Invoke(binding, fieldName, new[] { args }, BindingFlags.SetField); } /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ /// <summary> /// Gets the specified property on the specified binding. /// </summary> /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ public static object GetProperty(object binding, string propertyName) { return Invoke(binding, propertyName, null, BindingFlags.GetProperty); } /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ /// <summary> /// Gets the specified field (i.e. member variable) on the specified binding. /// </summary> /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ public static object GetField(object binding, string fieldName) { return Invoke(binding, fieldName, null, BindingFlags.GetField); } /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ /// <summary> /// Sets the specified member variable or property (specified by name) on the /// specified binding. /// </summary> /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ private static object Invoke(object binding, string name, object[] args, BindingFlags flags) { flags |= (BindingFlags.NonPublic | BindingFlags.Public); //if (CanInvoke(binding, name, flags)) { try { // If binding is a Type then assume invoke on a static method, property or field. // Otherwise invoke on an instance method, property or field. if (binding is Type) { return ((binding as Type).InvokeMember(name, flags | BindingFlags.Static, null, binding, args)); } return binding.GetType().InvokeMember(name, flags | BindingFlags.Instance, null, binding, args); } catch { } } return null; } /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ /// <summary> /// Calls a method specified on the specified binding, throwing any exceptions that /// may occur. /// </summary> /// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ public static object CallMethodWithThrow(object binding, string name, object[] args) { const BindingFlags flags = (BindingFlags.NonPublic | BindingFlags.Public | BindingFlags.InvokeMethod); // If binding is a Type then assume invoke on a static method, property or field. // Otherwise invoke on an instance method, property or field. if (binding is Type) { return ((binding as Type).InvokeMember(name, flags | BindingFlags.Static, null, binding, args)); } return binding.GetType().InvokeMember(name, flags | BindingFlags.Instance, null, binding, args); } ///// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ ///// <summary> ///// Gets a value indicating whether or not the specified binding contains the field, ///// property or method indicated by name and having the specified flags. ///// </summary> ///// ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ //private static bool CanInvoke(object binding, string name, BindingFlags flags) //{ // var srchFlags = (BindingFlags.Public | BindingFlags.NonPublic); // Type bindingType = null; // if (binding is Type) // { // bindingType = (Type)binding; // srchFlags |= BindingFlags.Static; // } // else // { // binding.GetType(); // srchFlags |= BindingFlags.Instance; // } // if (((flags & BindingFlags.GetProperty) == BindingFlags.GetProperty) || // ((flags & BindingFlags.SetProperty) == BindingFlags.SetProperty)) // { // return (bindingType.GetProperty(name, srchFlags) != null); // } // if (((flags & BindingFlags.GetField) == BindingFlags.GetField) || // ((flags & BindingFlags.SetField) == BindingFlags.SetField)) // { // return (bindingType.GetField(name, srchFlags) != null); // } // if ((flags & BindingFlags.InvokeMethod) == BindingFlags.InvokeMethod) // return (bindingType.GetMethod(name, srchFlags) != null); // return false; //} } }
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
// *********************************************************************** // Copyright (c) 2010-2014 Charlie Poole // // Permission is hereby granted, free of charge, to any person obtaining // a copy of this software and associated documentation files (the // "Software"), to deal in the Software without restriction, including // without limitation the rights to use, copy, modify, merge, publish, // distribute, sublicense, and/or sell copies of the Software, and to // permit persons to whom the Software is furnished to do so, subject to // the following conditions: // // The above copyright notice and this permission notice shall be // included in all copies or substantial portions of the Software. // // THE SOFTWARE IS PROVIDED "AS IS", WITHOUT WARRANTY OF ANY KIND, // EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO THE WARRANTIES OF // MERCHANTABILITY, FITNESS FOR A PARTICULAR PURPOSE AND // NONINFRINGEMENT. IN NO EVENT SHALL THE AUTHORS OR COPYRIGHT HOLDERS BE // LIABLE FOR ANY CLAIM, DAMAGES OR OTHER LIABILITY, WHETHER IN AN ACTION // OF CONTRACT, TORT OR OTHERWISE, ARISING FROM, OUT OF OR IN CONNECTION // WITH THE SOFTWARE OR THE USE OR OTHER DEALINGS IN THE SOFTWARE. // *********************************************************************** using System; using System.Collections.Generic; #if PARALLEL using System.Collections.Concurrent; #endif using System.Globalization; using System.IO; using System.Text; #if NETCF || NET_2_0 using NUnit.Compatibility; #endif using System.Threading; using NUnit.Framework.Interfaces; namespace NUnit.Framework.Internal { /// <summary> /// The TestResult class represents the result of a test. /// </summary> public abstract class TestResult : ITestResult { #region Fields /// <summary> /// Error message for when child tests have errors /// </summary> internal static readonly string CHILD_ERRORS_MESSAGE = "One or more child tests had errors"; /// <summary> /// Error message for when child tests are ignored /// </summary> internal static readonly string CHILD_IGNORE_MESSAGE = "One or more child tests were ignored"; /// <summary> /// The minimum duration for tests /// </summary> internal const double MIN_DURATION = 0.000001d; // static Logger log = InternalTrace.GetLogger("TestResult"); private StringBuilder _output = new StringBuilder(); private double _duration; /// <summary> /// Aggregate assertion count /// </summary> protected int InternalAssertCount; private ResultState _resultState; private string _message; private string _stackTrace; #if PARALLEL /// <summary> /// ReaderWriterLock /// </summary> #if NET_2_0 protected ReaderWriterLock RwLock = new ReaderWriterLock(); #elif NETCF protected ReaderWriterLockSlim RwLock = new ReaderWriterLockSlim(); #else protected ReaderWriterLockSlim RwLock = new ReaderWriterLockSlim(LockRecursionPolicy.SupportsRecursion); #endif #endif #endregion #region Constructor /// <summary> /// Construct a test result given a Test /// </summary> /// <param name="test">The test to be used</param> public TestResult(ITest test) { Test = test; ResultState = ResultState.Inconclusive; #if PORTABLE || SILVERLIGHT OutWriter = new StringWriter(_output); #else OutWriter = TextWriter.Synchronized(new StringWriter(_output)); #endif } #endregion #region ITestResult Members /// <summary> /// Gets the test with which this result is associated. /// </summary> public ITest Test { get; private set; } /// <summary> /// Gets the ResultState of the test result, which /// indicates the success or failure of the test. /// </summary> public ResultState ResultState { get { #if PARALLEL RwLock.EnterReadLock(); #endif try { return _resultState; } finally { #if PARALLEL RwLock.ExitReadLock(); #endif } } private set { _resultState = value; } } /// <summary> /// Gets the name of the test result /// </summary> public virtual string Name { get { return Test.Name; } } /// <summary> /// Gets the full name of the test result /// </summary> public virtual string FullName { get { return Test.FullName; } } /// <summary> /// Gets or sets the elapsed time for running the test in seconds /// </summary> public double Duration { get { return _duration; } set { _duration = value >= MIN_DURATION ? value : MIN_DURATION; } } /// <summary> /// Gets or sets the time the test started running. /// </summary> public DateTime StartTime { get; set; } /// <summary> /// Gets or sets the time the test finished running. /// </summary> public DateTime EndTime { get; set; } /// <summary> /// Gets the message associated with a test /// failure or with not running the test /// </summary> public string Message { get { #if PARALLEL RwLock.EnterReadLock(); #endif try { return _message; } finally { #if PARALLEL RwLock.ExitReadLock(); #endif } } private set { _message = value; } } /// <summary> /// Gets any stacktrace associated with an /// error or failure. /// </summary> public virtual string StackTrace { get { #if PARALLEL RwLock.EnterReadLock(); #endif try { return _stackTrace; } finally { #if PARALLEL RwLock.ExitReadLock(); #endif } } private set { _stackTrace = value; } } /// <summary> /// Gets or sets the count of asserts executed /// when running the test. /// </summary> public int AssertCount { get { #if PARALLEL RwLock.EnterReadLock(); #endif try { return InternalAssertCount; } finally { #if PARALLEL RwLock.ExitReadLock (); #endif } } internal set { InternalAssertCount = value; } } /// <summary> /// Gets the number of test cases that failed /// when running the test and all its children. /// </summary> public abstract int FailCount { get; } /// <summary> /// Gets the number of test cases that passed /// when running the test and all its children. /// </summary> public abstract int PassCount { get; } /// <summary> /// Gets the number of test cases that were skipped /// when running the test and all its children. /// </summary> public abstract int SkipCount { get; } /// <summary> /// Gets the number of test cases that were inconclusive /// when running the test and all its children. /// </summary> public abstract int InconclusiveCount { get; } /// <summary> /// Indicates whether this result has any child results. /// </summary> public abstract bool HasChildren { get; } /// <summary> /// Gets the collection of child results. /// </summary> public abstract IEnumerable<ITestResult> Children { get; } /// <summary> /// Gets a TextWriter, which will write output to be included in the result. /// </summary> public TextWriter OutWriter { get; private set; } /// <summary> /// Gets any text output written to this result. /// </summary> public string Output { get { return _output.ToString(); } } #endregion #region IXmlNodeBuilder Members /// <summary> /// Returns the Xml representation of the result. /// </summary> /// <param name="recursive">If true, descendant results are included</param> /// <returns>An XmlNode representing the result</returns> public TNode ToXml(bool recursive) { return AddToXml(new TNode("dummy"), recursive); } /// <summary> /// Adds the XML representation of the result as a child of the /// supplied parent node.. /// </summary> /// <param name="parentNode">The parent node.</param> /// <param name="recursive">If true, descendant results are included</param> /// <returns></returns> public virtual TNode AddToXml(TNode parentNode, bool recursive) { // A result node looks like a test node with extra info added TNode thisNode = Test.AddToXml(parentNode, false); thisNode.AddAttribute("result", ResultState.Status.ToString()); if (ResultState.Label != string.Empty) // && ResultState.Label != ResultState.Status.ToString()) thisNode.AddAttribute("label", ResultState.Label); if (ResultState.Site != FailureSite.Test) thisNode.AddAttribute("site", ResultState.Site.ToString()); thisNode.AddAttribute("start-time", StartTime.ToString("u")); thisNode.AddAttribute("end-time", EndTime.ToString("u")); thisNode.AddAttribute("duration", Duration.ToString("0.000000", NumberFormatInfo.InvariantInfo)); if (Test is TestSuite) { thisNode.AddAttribute("total", (PassCount + FailCount + SkipCount + InconclusiveCount).ToString()); thisNode.AddAttribute("passed", PassCount.ToString()); thisNode.AddAttribute("failed", FailCount.ToString()); thisNode.AddAttribute("inconclusive", InconclusiveCount.ToString()); thisNode.AddAttribute("skipped", SkipCount.ToString()); } thisNode.AddAttribute("asserts", AssertCount.ToString()); switch (ResultState.Status) { case TestStatus.Failed: AddFailureElement(thisNode); break; case TestStatus.Skipped: case TestStatus.Passed: case TestStatus.Inconclusive: if (Message != null) AddReasonElement(thisNode); break; } if (Output.Length > 0) AddOutputElement(thisNode); if (recursive && HasChildren) foreach (TestResult child in Children) child.AddToXml(thisNode, recursive); return thisNode; } #endregion #region Other Public Methods /// <summary> /// Set the result of the test /// </summary> /// <param name="resultState">The ResultState to use in the result</param> public void SetResult(ResultState resultState) { SetResult(resultState, null, null); } /// <summary> /// Set the result of the test /// </summary> /// <param name="resultState">The ResultState to use in the result</param> /// <param name="message">A message associated with the result state</param> public void SetResult(ResultState resultState, string message) { SetResult(resultState, message, null); } /// <summary> /// Set the result of the test /// </summary> /// <param name="resultState">The ResultState to use in the result</param> /// <param name="message">A message associated with the result state</param> /// <param name="stackTrace">Stack trace giving the location of the command</param> public void SetResult(ResultState resultState, string message, string stackTrace) { #if PARALLEL RwLock.EnterWriteLock(); #endif try { ResultState = resultState; Message = message; StackTrace = stackTrace; } finally { #if PARALLEL RwLock.ExitWriteLock(); #endif } // Set pseudo-counts for a test case //if (IsTestCase(test)) //{ // passCount = 0; // failCount = 0; // skipCount = 0; // inconclusiveCount = 0; // switch (ResultState.Status) // { // case TestStatus.Passed: // passCount++; // break; // case TestStatus.Failed: // failCount++; // break; // case TestStatus.Skipped: // skipCount++; // break; // default: // case TestStatus.Inconclusive: // inconclusiveCount++; // break; // } //} } /// <summary> /// Set the test result based on the type of exception thrown /// </summary> /// <param name="ex">The exception that was thrown</param> public void RecordException(Exception ex) { if (ex is NUnitException) ex = ex.InnerException; if (ex is ResultStateException) SetResult(((ResultStateException)ex).ResultState, ex.Message, StackFilter.Filter(ex.StackTrace)); #if !PORTABLE else if (ex is System.Threading.ThreadAbortException) SetResult(ResultState.Cancelled, "Test cancelled by user", ex.StackTrace); #endif else SetResult(ResultState.Error, ExceptionHelper.BuildMessage(ex), ExceptionHelper.BuildStackTrace(ex)); } /// <summary> /// Set the test result based on the type of exception thrown /// </summary> /// <param name="ex">The exception that was thrown</param> /// <param name="site">THe FailureSite to use in the result</param> public void RecordException(Exception ex, FailureSite site) { if (ex is NUnitException) ex = ex.InnerException; if (ex is ResultStateException) SetResult(((ResultStateException)ex).ResultState.WithSite(site), ex.Message, StackFilter.Filter(ex.StackTrace)); #if !PORTABLE else if (ex is System.Threading.ThreadAbortException) SetResult(ResultState.Cancelled.WithSite(site), "Test cancelled by user", ex.StackTrace); #endif else SetResult(ResultState.Error.WithSite(site), ExceptionHelper.BuildMessage(ex), ExceptionHelper.BuildStackTrace(ex)); } /// <summary> /// RecordTearDownException appends the message and stacktrace /// from an exception arising during teardown of the test /// to any previously recorded information, so that any /// earlier failure information is not lost. Note that /// calling Assert.Ignore, Assert.Inconclusive, etc. during /// teardown is treated as an error. If the current result /// represents a suite, it may show a teardown error even /// though all contained tests passed. /// </summary> /// <param name="ex">The Exception to be recorded</param> public void RecordTearDownException(Exception ex) { if (ex is NUnitException) ex = ex.InnerException; ResultState resultState = ResultState == ResultState.Cancelled ? ResultState.Cancelled : ResultState.Error; if (Test.IsSuite) resultState = resultState.WithSite(FailureSite.TearDown); string message = "TearDown : " + ExceptionHelper.BuildMessage(ex); if (Message != null) message = Message + NUnit.Env.NewLine + message; string stackTrace = "--TearDown" + NUnit.Env.NewLine + ExceptionHelper.BuildStackTrace(ex); if (StackTrace != null) stackTrace = StackTrace + NUnit.Env.NewLine + stackTrace; SetResult(resultState, message, stackTrace); } #endregion #region Helper Methods /// <summary> /// Adds a reason element to a node and returns it. /// </summary> /// <param name="targetNode">The target node.</param> /// <returns>The new reason element.</returns> private TNode AddReasonElement(TNode targetNode) { TNode reasonNode = targetNode.AddElement("reason"); return reasonNode.AddElementWithCDATA("message", Message); } /// <summary> /// Adds a failure element to a node and returns it. /// </summary> /// <param name="targetNode">The target node.</param> /// <returns>The new failure element.</returns> private TNode AddFailureElement(TNode targetNode) { TNode failureNode = targetNode.AddElement("failure"); if (Message != null) failureNode.AddElementWithCDATA("message", Message); if (StackTrace != null) failureNode.AddElementWithCDATA("stack-trace", StackTrace); return failureNode; } private TNode AddOutputElement(TNode targetNode) { return targetNode.AddElementWithCDATA("output", Output); } #endregion } }
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
Passage 1: Bird of paradise Bird of paradise or bird- of- paradise may refer to: Passage 2: Edge of Paradise (disambiguation) Edge of Paradise is an American hard rock band. The Edge of Paradise may also refer to: Passage 3: Lupton's bird-of-paradise Lupton's bird-of-paradise is a bird in the family Paradisaeidae that is a hybrid between a greater bird-of-paradise and raggiana bird-of-paradise. It was described by Percy Lowe in 1923 as a subspecies of the greater bird-of-paradise, though he also noted the possibility of hybridisation. Passage 4: Saddle Leather Law Saddle Leather Law is a 1944 American Western film directed by Benjamin H. Kline and written by Elizabeth Beecher. The film stars Charles Starrett, Dub Taylor, Vi Athens, Lloyd Bridges, Jimmy Wakely and Salty Holmes. The film was released on December 21, 1944, by Columbia Pictures. Passage 5: Emperor bird-of-paradise The emperor bird- of- paradise(" Paradisaea guilielmi"), also known as emperor of Germany's bird- of- paradise, is a species of bird- of- paradise. The emperor bird- of- paradise is endemic to Papua New Guinea. It is distributed in hill forests of the Huon Peninsula. The diet consists mainly of fruits, figs and arthropods. The name commemorates the last German Emperor and King of Prussia, Wilhelm II of Germany. In January 1888, the emperor bird- of- paradise was the last bird- of- paradise discovered by Carl Hunstein, who also found the blue bird- of- paradise on his journeys. These two species, along with the red bird- of- paradise, are the only" Paradisaea" that perform inverted display. Due to ongoing habitat loss, limited range and overhunting in some areas, the emperor bird- of- paradise is evaluated as Near Threatened on the IUCN Red List of Threatened Species. It is listed on Appendix II of CITES. Passage 6: Empress of Germany's bird of paradise The Empress of Germany's bird of paradise," Paradisaea raggiana augustavictoriae", is a large, up to 34 cm long, maroon brown bird in the family Paradisaeidae, one of three families of birds known as birds of paradise. The male has a dark emerald green throat, yellow crown, pale brown below and narrow yellow throat collar. It closely resembles the crimson- plumed Raggiana bird- of- paradise, but has apricot orange rather than crimson flank plumes. The female is an overall brown bird with yellow head and dark brown face. The Empress of Germany's bird of paradise is distributed and endemic to upper Ramu River and Huon Peninsula of northeastern Papua New Guinea. The male is polygamous and displays in communal lek. The diet consists mainly of fruits, insects and arthropods. One of the most heavily hunted birds of paradise in the plume hunting era, the Empress of Germany's bird of paradise was the first bird of paradise to breed in captivity. It was bred by Prince K. S. Dharmakumarsinhji of India in 1940. The name commemorates the German Empress and queen consort of Prussia, Augusta Victoria of Schleswig- Holstein. In the wild, the Empress of Germany's bird of paradise is hybridized with the emperor bird- of- paradise, with at least six specimens known. Thought to be a new species, the hybrid was named Maria's bird- of- paradise," Paradisaea maria" or Frau Reichenow's bird- of- paradise. Passage 7: King of Holland's bird-of-paradise The King of Holland's bird of paradise, also known as King William III's bird of paradise or the exquisite little king, is a bird in the family Paradisaeidae that is a hybrid between a magnificent bird of paradise and king bird of paradise. Passage 8: Fruit of Paradise Fruit of Paradise is a 1970 Czechoslovak avant- garde drama film directed by Věra Chytilová. It was entered into the 1970 Cannes Film Festival. The film is an adaptation of the Adam and Eve story. This was Chytilová's last film before she was placed on an eight- year ban by the Czechoslovak Government. Passage 9: Ruys's bird-of-paradise Ruys's bird-of-paradise is a bird in the family Paradisaeidae that is presumed to be an intergeneric hybrid between a magnificent bird-of-paradise and lesser bird-of-paradise. Passage 10: Maria's bird-of-paradise Maria's bird- of- paradise, also known as Frau Reichenow's bird- of- paradise or Mrs. Reichenow's bird- of- paradise, is a bird in the family Paradisaeidae that is a presumptive hybrid species between an emperor bird- of- paradise and raggiana bird- of- paradise. It was named for the wife of the describer, German ornithologist Anton Reichenow. Question: Which film was released first, Fruit of Paradise or Saddle Leather Law? Answer: Saddle Leather Law
{ "task_name": "2WikiMultihopQA" }
Passage 1: Valencia Valencia ( ; ] ), officially València (] ), on the east coast of Spain, is the capital of the autonomous community of Valencia and the third-largest city in Spain after Madrid and Barcelona, with around 800,000 inhabitants in the administrative centre. Its urban area extends beyond the administrative city limits with a population of around 1.5–1.6 million people. Valencia is Spain's third largest metropolitan area, with a population ranging from 1.7 to 2.5 million depending on how the metropolitan area is defined. The Port of Valencia is the 5th busiest container port in Europe and the busiest container port on the Mediterranean Sea. The city is ranked at Gamma+ in the Globalization and World Cities Research Network. Valencia is integrated into an industrial area on the "Costa del Azahar" (Orange Blossom Coast). Passage 2: Madurankuli Madurankuliya is a town and an actively operate to be a city level in the suburb of Puttalam. It is also known as Madurankuliya(මදුරන්කුලිය) in Sinhala and மதுரங்குளி in Tamil; it is abbreviated as "MDK". It is a fast developing city in North Western Province, Sri Lanka with well-connected by roads and railway network, situated between Puttalam and Chilaw (in the A3 Puttalam to Peliyagoda road) town. This city is located 114 km away from the centre of the commercial capital Colombo, accurately in North Western region at 7°54'43" north of the equator and 79°49'49" east of the Prime Meridian with most greenery and river environments. It is one of the oldest residential parts of the city with over 3,000+ people around including all religions - Buddhist, Hindu, Muslims, Christian, living together with prosperity and harmonny. Passage 3: Junior Yearly Meeting Junior Yearly Meeting (JYM) is a gathering for young Quakers. There are various JYM groups worldwide, which cover the same geographical boundaries as their respective Yearly meeting. Most countries have one Yearly meeting which corresponds to national borders, but in the United States there are Yearly Meetings on regional, state and city level, and this is reflected in their JYMs. The frequency and age range of gatherings varies between JYMs. Passage 4: Djibloho Djibloho, officially the Administrative City of Djibloho, is the newest province of Equatorial Guinea, formally established by law in 2017. The administrative city was initially carved out of Añisok, a district in Wele-Nzas, on 1 August 2015, and was created to eventually replace Malabo as Equatorial Guinea's future national capital. Passage 5: Al Leader George Alfred "Al" Leader (December 4, 1903, Barnsley, Manitoba – May 8, 1982) was a Canadian-American ice hockey player, referee, and administrator. He is a member of the Hockey Hall of Fame in the "Builder" category. Leader settled in Seattle, Washington in the 1930s and became involved in hockey as the administrator of the Seattle City League. He worked as a player, referee, and administrator at the city level for several years before organizing the Defense Hockey League in 1940, which involved five teams from Seattle and Portland, Oregon. Passage 6: Adi Mehameday Adi Mehameday (also Adihimeday, Adi Mehamiday or officially, Ge'ez ዓዲ መሓመዳይ "Adi Me'ha'me'day")also known as Wehabit is a small town and separate Tabiya in Asgede Tsimbla woreda in the North Western or Semien Mi'irabawi zone of Tigray Regional State of Ethiopia. Adi Mehameday is located about 373 km North West of Mekelle, administrative city of Tigray regional state, Northern Ethiopia, bordered along the south by Tekezé river which separates the tabiya on the south from Tselemti and also to the west by the Tekezé river then on the northwest by Dedebit, on the north by Deguadugugni or Selam, and on the east by May Tel river. The administrative center of this tabiya is Adi Mehameday; other small village towns in Adi Mehameday include Adi Hilina, Sifra Mariyam and May Tselwadu. Passage 7: Daqing Daqing (; formerly romanized as Taching) is a prefecture-level city in the west of Heilongjiang province, People's Republic of China. The name literally means "Great Celebration". Daqing is known as the Oil Capital of China and has experienced a phenomenal boom since oil was discovered at the Daqing Oil Field in 1959. Passage 8: Gaomi Gaomi () is a county-level city of eastern Shandong province, China, under the administration of Weifang City. It is the hometown of writer and 2012 Nobel Prize in Literature winner Mo Yan, who has set some of his stories in the region. Passage 9: Brescia Brescia (] ; Lombard: "Brèsa" (locally: ] , ] or ] ); ; Venetian: "Bressa" ) is a city and "comune" in the region of Lombardy in northern Italy. It is situated at the foot of the Alps, a few kilometres from the lakes Garda and Iseo. With a population of 196,480, it is the second largest city in the region and the fourth of northwest Italy. The urban area of Brescia extends beyond the administrative city limits and has a population of 672,822, while over 1.5 million people live in its metropolitan area. The city is the administrative capital of the Province of Brescia, one of the largest in Italy, with over 1,200,000 inhabitants. Passage 10: Supreme People's Procuracy of Vietnam The Supreme People’s Prosecutor of Vietnam has the function of prosecution acts of justice and public prosecutor exercising state. Procuratorate system is organized according to three levels of district level, provincial level, city level and the military Procuracy. Question: Are Daqing and Gaomi at the same administrative city level? Answer: no
{ "task_name": "hotpotqa" }
Passage 1: Feelin' Alright (Len song) " Feelin' Alright" is the second single by Canadian group Len from their major- label debut album," You Ca n't Stop the Bum Rush". The song features Poison guitarist C.C. DeVille on lead guitar. Passage 2: I Can't Stop Loving You (Though I Try) " I Ca n't Stop Loving You( Though I Try)" is a song written by Billy Nicholls and first released by Leo Sayer from his 1978 self- titled album on the Chrysalis label. It reached number six on the UK Singles Chart and was classified silver. An American Southern rock group, the Outlaws, recorded" I Ca n't Stop Loving You" on their 1980 release" Ghost Riders". In 2002, Phil Collins also covered the song, as" Ca n't Stop Loving You". His version reached number 28 on the UK Singles Chart. For other versions of the song, see section below. Passage 3: Can't Stop (After 7 song) " Ca n't Stop" is a song performed by After 7, issued as the fourth single from the group's eponymous debut album. It is the group's highest charting single, peaking at# 6 on the" Billboard" Hot 100 in 1990. The song also became the group's second# 1 R&B single, as well as peaking at# 25 on the dance charts. " Ca n't Stop" was certified Gold by the RIAA on February 7, 1991. Passage 4: Alonso Mudarra Alonso Mudarra( c. 1510 – April 1, 1580) was a Spanish composer of the Renaissance, and also played the vihuela, a guitar- shaped string instrument. He was an innovative composer of instrumental music as well as songs, and was the composer of the earliest surviving music for the guitar. Passage 5: You Can't Stop a Tattler "You Can't Stop a Tattler" is a gospel blues song, written by Washington Phillips (18801954) and recorded by him for Columbia Records in 1929 (vocals and zither). The song is in two parts, intended to occupy both sides of a 10-inch 78 rpm record. However, it remained unreleased for many years. Part 2 was included on the 1971 album "This Old World's in a Hell of a Fix" (Biograph). Both parts were included on a 1980 compilation album of songs by Phillips, "Denomination Blues" (Agram). The song is unusual in that the verses are separated by a wordless hummed refrain; a similar device to the wordless vocalise which Phillips had used in "I Had a Good Father and Mother". The song first came to wider notice when Ry Cooder included a version of Part 2, titled "Tattler", on his 1974 album, "Paradise and Lunch" (note, however, that Cooder does not label it as "Part 2"; he also includes two verses from Part 1, which seems to have been unreleased at the time); and when Linda Ronstadt covered that version on her 1976 album, "Hasten Down the Wind". It has since been recorded several times. Passage 6: I Can't Stop (The Osmonds song) " I Ca n't Stop" is a song written by Jerry Goldstein and Wes Farrell and performed by The Osmonds. The group released the song as a single three different times. The song was originally released in 1967, but did not chart. After the Osmonds left Uni Records and broke through as pop stars with" One Bad Apple" for MGM Records, Uni re-released" I Ca n't Stop" in 1971, when it reached# 96 on the" Billboard" chart. Uni's successor MCA Records again re-released" I Ca n't Stop" in 1974 for the United Kingdom market, which reached# 12 on the UK Singles chart. The song was produced by Goldstein. Passage 7: Washington Phillips George Washington "Wash" Phillips (January 11, 1880 – September 20, 1954) was an American gospel and gospel blues singer and instrumentalist. The exact nature of the instrument or instruments he played is uncertain, being identified only as "novelty accompaniment" on the labels of the 78 rpm records released during his lifetime. Passage 8: Cease to Exist (Suicide Silence song) Cease to Exist is the first single by American deathcore band Suicide Silence from their fourth studio album," You Ca n't Stop Me". It was released on May 6, 2014. Passage 9: You Can't Stop the Reign (song) " Still Ca n't Stop the Reign" is the first single released from Shaquille O' Neal's third album," You Ca n't Stop the Reign". The song was not much of a success, only making it to 54 on the Hot R&B/ Hip- Hop Singles& Tracks. Three versions of the song were released, the single version featuring three verses from Shaq, the album version, which featured 2 verses from The Notorious B.I.G. and a remix that was made by DJ Quik. The Notorious B.I.G.'s verse would later be posthumously re-used on" Unbreakable", the opening track of Michael Jackson's 2001 album" Invincible". Passage 10: You Can't Stop the Music "You Can't Stop the Music" is a song by the British rock band The Kinks. The song, appearing on the band's 1975 album "Soap Opera", was written by the band's principal songwriter, Ray Davies. Question: Which country the composer of song You Can'T Stop A Tattler is from? Answer: American
{ "task_name": "2WikiMultihopQA" }
Passage 1: Billy Milano Billy Milano is a Bronx- born heavy metal musician now based in Austin, Texas. He is the singer and- occasionally- guitarist and bassist of crossover thrash band M.O.D., and he was also the singer of its predecessor, Stormtroopers of Death. He was also the singer of United Forces, which also featured his Stormtroopers of Death bandmate Dan Lilker. Passage 2: Terence Robinson Terence D. Robinson( date of birth and death unknown) was a male wrestler who competed for England. Passage 3: Les Richards Les Richards( date of birth unknown) was an Australian rules footballer who played with North Melbourne in the Victorian Football League( VFL). Passage 4: Caspar Babypants Caspar Babypants is the stage name of children's music artist Chris Ballew, who is also widely known as the singer of The Presidents of the United States of America. Passage 5: Brian Saunders (weightlifter) Brian Saunders( date of birth and death unknown) was a male weightlifter who competed for England. Passage 6: Theodred II (Bishop of Elmham) Theodred II was a medieval Bishop of Elmham. The date of Theodred's consecration unknown, but the date of his death was sometime between 995 and 997. Passage 7: Bernie Bonvoisin Bernard Bonvoisin, known as Bernie Bonvoisin( born 9 July 1956 in Nanterre, Hauts- de- Seine), is a French hard rock singer and film director. He is best known for having been the singer of Trust. He was one of the best friends of Bon Scott the singer of AC/ DC and together they recorded the song" Ride On" which was one of the last songs by Bon Scott. Passage 8: Gates of Eden (song) "Gates of Eden" is a song by Bob Dylan that appears on his fifth studio album "Bringing It All Back Home", released on March 22, 1965 by Columbia Records. It was also released as a single as the B-side of "Like a Rolling Stone". Dylan plays the song solo, accompanying himself on acoustic guitar and harmonica. It is considered one of Dylan's most surreal songs. In a 2005 "Mojo" magazine poll of its writers and various well-known musicians, "Gates of Eden" was ranked 76th among Dylan's 100 greatest songs. Passage 9: Bob Dylan Bob Dylan (born Robert Allen Zimmerman; May 24, 1941) is an American singer-songwriter, author, and visual artist who has been a major figure in popular culture for more than fifty years. Much of his most celebrated work dates from the 1960s, when songs such as "Blowin' in the Wind" (1963) and "The Times They Are a-Changin'" (1964) became anthems for the civil rights movement and anti-war movement. His lyrics during this period incorporated a wide range of political, social, philosophical, and literary influences, defied pop-music conventions and appealed to the burgeoning counterculture. Following his self-titled debut album in 1962, which mainly comprised traditional folk songs, Dylan made his breakthrough as a songwriter with the release of "The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan" the following year. The album featured "Blowin' in the Wind" and the thematically complex "A Hard Rain's a-Gonna Fall." For many of these songs, he adapted the tunes and phraseology of older folk songs. He went on to release the politically charged "The Times They Are a-Changin'" and the more lyrically abstract and introspective "Another Side of Bob Dylan" in 1964. In 1965 and 1966, Dylan encountered controversy when he adopted electrically amplified rock instrumentation, and in the space of 15 months recorded three of the most important and influential rock albums of the 1960s: "Bringing It All Back Home" (1965), "Highway 61 Revisited" (1965) and "Blonde on Blonde" (1966). The six-minute single "Like a Rolling Stone" (1965) has been described as challenging and transforming the "artistic conventions of its time, for all time." In July 1966, Dylan withdrew from touring after being injured in a motorcycle accident. During this period, he recorded a large body of songs with members of the Band, who had previously backed him on tour. These recordings were released as the collaborative album "The Basement Tapes" in 1975. In the late 1960s and early 1970s, Dylan explored country music and rural themes in "John Wesley Harding" (1967), "Nashville Skyline" (1969), and "New Morning" (1970). In 1975, he released "Blood on the Tracks", which many saw as a return to form. In the late 1970s, he became a born-again Christian and released a series of albums of contemporary gospel music before returning to his more familiar rock-based idiom in the early 1980s. The major works of his later career include "Time Out of Mind" (1997), "Love and Theft" (2001), "Modern Times" (2006) and "Tempest" (2012). His most recent recordings have comprised versions of traditional American standards, especially songs recorded by Frank Sinatra. Backed by a changing lineup of musicians, he has toured steadily since the late 1980s on what has been dubbed the Never Ending Tour. Since 1994, Dylan has published eight books of drawings and paintings, and his work has been exhibited in major art galleries. He has sold more than 100 million records, making him one of the best-selling music artists of all time. He has also received numerous awards, including the Presidential Medal of Freedom, ten Grammy Awards, a Golden Globe Award, and an Academy Award. Dylan has been inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, Minnesota Music Hall of Fame, Nashville Songwriters Hall of Fame, and the Songwriters Hall of Fame. The Pulitzer Prize Board in 2008 awarded him a special citation for "his profound impact on popular music and American culture, marked by lyrical compositions of extraordinary poetic power." In 2016, Dylan was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature "for having created new poetic expressions within the great American song tradition." Passage 10: Etan Boritzer Etan Boritzer( born 1950) is an American writer of children ’s literature who is best known for his book" What is God?" first published in 1989. His best selling" What is?" illustrated children's book series on character education and difficult subjects for children is a popular teaching guide for parents, teachers and child- life professionals. Boritzer gained national critical acclaim after" What is God?" was published in 1989 although the book has caused controversy from religious fundamentalists for its universalist views. The other current books in the" What is?" series include What is Love?, What is Death?, What is Beautiful?, What is Funny?, What is Right?, What is Peace?, What is Money?, What is Dreaming?, What is a Friend?, What is True?, What is a Family?, What is a Feeling?" The series is now also translated into 15 languages. Boritzer was first published in 1963 at the age of 13 when he wrote an essay in his English class at Wade Junior High School in the Bronx, New York on the assassination of John F. Kennedy. His essay was included in a special anthology by New York City public school children compiled and published by the New York City Department of Education. Boritzer now lives in Venice, California and maintains his publishing office there also. He has helped numerous other authors to get published through" How to Get Your Book Published!" programs. Boritzer is also a yoga teacher who teaches regular classes locally and guest- teaches nationally. He is also recognized nationally as an erudite speaker on" The Teachings of the Buddha." Question: When is the performer of song Gates Of Eden (Song) 's birthday? Answer: May 24, 1941
{ "task_name": "2WikiMultihopQA" }
/* * Copyright (c) 2010-2017 Evolveum * * Licensed under the Apache License, Version 2.0 (the "License"); * you may not use this file except in compliance with the License. * You may obtain a copy of the License at * * http://www.apache.org/licenses/LICENSE-2.0 * * Unless required by applicable law or agreed to in writing, software * distributed under the License is distributed on an "AS IS" BASIS, * WITHOUT WARRANTIES OR CONDITIONS OF ANY KIND, either express or implied. * See the License for the specific language governing permissions and * limitations under the License. */ /** * */ package com.evolveum.midpoint.provisioning.impl.dummy; import com.evolveum.icf.dummy.resource.DummyAccount; import com.evolveum.midpoint.prism.PrismObject; import com.evolveum.midpoint.prism.PrismPropertyValue; import com.evolveum.midpoint.prism.delta.ObjectDelta; import com.evolveum.midpoint.prism.delta.PropertyDelta; import com.evolveum.midpoint.prism.match.MatchingRule; import com.evolveum.midpoint.prism.util.PrismAsserts; import com.evolveum.midpoint.provisioning.impl.ProvisioningTestUtil; import com.evolveum.midpoint.schema.constants.SchemaConstants; import com.evolveum.midpoint.schema.internals.InternalMonitor; import com.evolveum.midpoint.schema.internals.InternalOperationClasses; import com.evolveum.midpoint.schema.result.OperationResult; import com.evolveum.midpoint.schema.util.ShadowUtil; import com.evolveum.midpoint.task.api.Task; import com.evolveum.midpoint.test.DummyResourceContoller; import com.evolveum.midpoint.test.util.TestUtil; import com.evolveum.midpoint.util.logging.Trace; import com.evolveum.midpoint.util.logging.TraceManager; import com.evolveum.midpoint.xml.ns._public.common.common_3.ActivationStatusType; import com.evolveum.midpoint.xml.ns._public.common.common_3.ActivationType; import com.evolveum.midpoint.xml.ns._public.common.common_3.OperationProvisioningScriptsType; import com.evolveum.midpoint.xml.ns._public.common.common_3.ResourceType; import com.evolveum.midpoint.xml.ns._public.common.common_3.ShadowKindType; import com.evolveum.midpoint.xml.ns._public.common.common_3.ShadowType; import org.springframework.test.annotation.DirtiesContext; import org.springframework.test.context.ContextConfiguration; import org.testng.annotations.Listeners; import org.testng.annotations.Test; import javax.xml.namespace.QName; import java.io.File; import java.util.Arrays; import java.util.Collection; import java.util.HashSet; import java.util.List; import java.util.Set; import java.util.regex.Matcher; import java.util.regex.Pattern; import static com.evolveum.midpoint.test.DummyResourceContoller.DUMMY_ACCOUNT_ATTRIBUTE_TITLE_NAME; import static com.evolveum.midpoint.test.IntegrationTestTools.display; import static org.testng.AssertJUnit.assertEquals; import static org.testng.AssertJUnit.assertNotNull; import static org.testng.AssertJUnit.assertNull; import static org.testng.AssertJUnit.assertTrue; /** * The test of Provisioning service on the API level. The test is using dummy * resource for speed and flexibility. * * @author Radovan Semancik * @author Pavol Mederly * */ @ContextConfiguration(locations = "classpath:ctx-provisioning-test-main.xml") @DirtiesContext @Listeners({ com.evolveum.midpoint.tools.testng.AlphabeticalMethodInterceptor.class }) public class TestDummyPrioritiesAndReadReplace extends AbstractDummyTest { private static final Trace LOGGER = TraceManager.getTrace(TestDummyPrioritiesAndReadReplace.class); protected String willIcfUid; public static final File TEST_DIR = new File(TEST_DIR_DUMMY, "dummy-priorities-read-replace"); public static final File RESOURCE_DUMMY_FILE = new File(TEST_DIR, "resource-dummy.xml"); @Override protected File getResourceDummyFilename() { return RESOURCE_DUMMY_FILE; } protected MatchingRule<String> getUidMatchingRule() { return null; } @Override public void initSystem(Task initTask, OperationResult initResult) throws Exception { super.initSystem(initTask, initResult); InternalMonitor.setTrace(InternalOperationClasses.CONNECTOR_OPERATIONS, true); // in order to have schema available here resourceType = provisioningService.getObject(ResourceType.class, RESOURCE_DUMMY_OID, null, taskManager.createTaskInstance(), initResult).asObjectable(); } // copied from TestDummy @Test public void test100AddAccount() throws Exception { final String TEST_NAME = "test100AddAccount"; TestUtil.displayTestTile(TEST_NAME); // GIVEN Task task = taskManager.createTaskInstance(TestDummy.class.getName() + "." + TEST_NAME); OperationResult result = new OperationResult(TestDummy.class.getName() + "." + TEST_NAME); syncServiceMock.reset(); PrismObject<ShadowType> account = prismContext.parseObject(getAccountWillFile()); account.checkConsistence(); display("Adding shadow", account); // WHEN String addedObjectOid = provisioningService.addObject(account, null, null, task, result); // THEN result.computeStatus(); display("add object result", result); TestUtil.assertSuccess("addObject has failed (result)", result); assertEquals(ACCOUNT_WILL_OID, addedObjectOid); account.checkConsistence(); PrismObject<ShadowType> accountRepo = repositoryService.getObject(ShadowType.class, ACCOUNT_WILL_OID, null, result); willIcfUid = getIcfUid(accountRepo); ActivationType activationRepo = accountRepo.asObjectable().getActivation(); if (supportsActivation()) { assertNotNull("No activation in "+accountRepo+" (repo)", activationRepo); assertEquals("Wrong activation enableTimestamp in "+accountRepo+" (repo)", ACCOUNT_WILL_ENABLE_TIMESTAMP, activationRepo.getEnableTimestamp()); } else { assertNull("Activation sneaked in (repo)", activationRepo); } syncServiceMock.assertNotifySuccessOnly(); PrismObject<ShadowType> accountProvisioning = provisioningService.getObject(ShadowType.class, ACCOUNT_WILL_OID, null, task, result); display("Account provisioning", accountProvisioning); ShadowType accountTypeProvisioning = accountProvisioning.asObjectable(); display("account from provisioning", accountTypeProvisioning); PrismAsserts.assertEqualsPolyString("Name not equal", ACCOUNT_WILL_USERNAME, accountTypeProvisioning.getName()); assertEquals("Wrong kind (provisioning)", ShadowKindType.ACCOUNT, accountTypeProvisioning.getKind()); assertAttribute(accountProvisioning, SchemaConstants.ICFS_NAME, ACCOUNT_WILL_USERNAME); assertAttribute(accountProvisioning, getUidMatchingRule(), SchemaConstants.ICFS_UID, willIcfUid); ActivationType activationProvisioning = accountTypeProvisioning.getActivation(); if (supportsActivation()) { assertNotNull("No activation in "+accountProvisioning+" (provisioning)", activationProvisioning); assertEquals("Wrong activation administrativeStatus in "+accountProvisioning+" (provisioning)", ActivationStatusType.ENABLED, activationProvisioning.getAdministrativeStatus()); TestUtil.assertEqualsTimestamp("Wrong activation enableTimestamp in "+accountProvisioning+" (provisioning)", ACCOUNT_WILL_ENABLE_TIMESTAMP, activationProvisioning.getEnableTimestamp()); } else { assertNull("Activation sneaked in (provisioning)", activationProvisioning); } assertNull("The _PASSSWORD_ attribute sneaked into shadow", ShadowUtil.getAttributeValues( accountTypeProvisioning, new QName(SchemaConstants.NS_ICF_SCHEMA, "password"))); // Check if the account was created in the dummy resource DummyAccount dummyAccount = getDummyAccountAssert(ACCOUNT_WILL_USERNAME, willIcfUid); assertNotNull("No dummy account", dummyAccount); assertEquals("Username is wrong", ACCOUNT_WILL_USERNAME, dummyAccount.getName()); assertEquals("Fullname is wrong", "Will Turner", dummyAccount.getAttributeValue("fullname")); assertTrue("The account is not enabled", dummyAccount.isEnabled()); assertEquals("Wrong password", "3lizab3th", dummyAccount.getPassword()); // Check if the shadow is still in the repo (e.g. that the consistency or sync haven't removed it) PrismObject<ShadowType> shadowFromRepo = repositoryService.getObject(ShadowType.class, addedObjectOid, null, result); assertNotNull("Shadow was not created in the repository", shadowFromRepo); display("Repository shadow", shadowFromRepo.debugDump()); ProvisioningTestUtil.checkRepoAccountShadow(shadowFromRepo); checkConsistency(accountProvisioning); //assertSteadyResource(); } @Test public void test123ModifyObjectReplace() throws Exception { final String TEST_NAME = "test123ModifyObjectReplace"; TestUtil.displayTestTile(TEST_NAME); Task task = taskManager.createTaskInstance(TestDummyPrioritiesAndReadReplace.class.getName() + "." + TEST_NAME); OperationResult result = task.getResult(); syncServiceMock.reset(); // todo add correct definition ObjectDelta<ShadowType> objectDelta = ObjectDelta.createModificationReplaceProperty(ShadowType.class, ACCOUNT_WILL_OID, dummyResourceCtl.getAttributeFullnamePath(), prismContext, "Pirate Master Will Turner"); PropertyDelta weaponDelta = objectDelta.createPropertyModification(dummyResourceCtl.getAttributeWeaponPath()); weaponDelta.setDefinition( getAttributeDefinition(resourceType, ShadowKindType.ACCOUNT, null, DummyResourceContoller.DUMMY_ACCOUNT_ATTRIBUTE_WEAPON_NAME)); weaponDelta.setValuesToReplace(new PrismPropertyValue<>("Gun")); objectDelta.addModification(weaponDelta); PropertyDelta lootDelta = objectDelta.createPropertyModification(dummyResourceCtl.getAttributeLootPath()); lootDelta.setDefinition( getAttributeDefinition(resourceType, ShadowKindType.ACCOUNT, null, DummyResourceContoller.DUMMY_ACCOUNT_ATTRIBUTE_LOOT_NAME)); lootDelta.setValuesToReplace(new PrismPropertyValue<>(43)); objectDelta.addModification(lootDelta); PropertyDelta titleDelta = objectDelta.createPropertyModification(dummyResourceCtl.getAttributePath(DUMMY_ACCOUNT_ATTRIBUTE_TITLE_NAME)); titleDelta.setDefinition( getAttributeDefinition(resourceType, ShadowKindType.ACCOUNT, null, DummyResourceContoller.DUMMY_ACCOUNT_ATTRIBUTE_TITLE_NAME)); titleDelta.setValuesToReplace(new PrismPropertyValue<>("Pirate Master")); objectDelta.addModification(titleDelta); display("ObjectDelta", objectDelta); objectDelta.checkConsistence(); // WHEN provisioningService.modifyObject(ShadowType.class, objectDelta.getOid(), objectDelta.getModifications(), new OperationProvisioningScriptsType(), null, task, result); // THEN result.computeStatus(); display("modifyObject result", result); TestUtil.assertSuccess(result); objectDelta.checkConsistence(); assertDummyAccountAttributeValues(ACCOUNT_WILL_USERNAME, willIcfUid, DummyResourceContoller.DUMMY_ACCOUNT_ATTRIBUTE_FULLNAME_NAME, "Pirate Master Will Turner"); assertDummyAccountAttributeValues(ACCOUNT_WILL_USERNAME, willIcfUid, DummyResourceContoller.DUMMY_ACCOUNT_ATTRIBUTE_TITLE_NAME, "Pirate Master"); assertDummyAccountAttributeValues(ACCOUNT_WILL_USERNAME, willIcfUid, DummyResourceContoller.DUMMY_ACCOUNT_ATTRIBUTE_LOOT_NAME, 43); assertDummyAccountAttributeValues(ACCOUNT_WILL_USERNAME, willIcfUid, DummyResourceContoller.DUMMY_ACCOUNT_ATTRIBUTE_WEAPON_NAME, "Gun"); // BEWARE: very brittle! List<OperationResult> updatesExecuted = TestUtil.selectSubresults(result, ProvisioningTestUtil.CONNID_CONNECTOR_FACADE_CLASS_NAME + ".update"); assertEquals("Wrong number of updates executed", 3, updatesExecuted.size()); checkAttributesUpdated(updatesExecuted.get(0), "update", DummyResourceContoller.DUMMY_ACCOUNT_ATTRIBUTE_WEAPON_NAME); checkAttributesUpdated(updatesExecuted.get(1), "update", DummyResourceContoller.DUMMY_ACCOUNT_ATTRIBUTE_LOOT_NAME); checkAttributesUpdated(updatesExecuted.get(2), "update", DummyResourceContoller.DUMMY_ACCOUNT_ATTRIBUTE_FULLNAME_NAME, DummyResourceContoller.DUMMY_ACCOUNT_ATTRIBUTE_TITLE_NAME); syncServiceMock.assertNotifySuccessOnly(); //assertSteadyResource(); } private void checkAttributesUpdated(OperationResult operationResult, String operation, String... attributeNames) { assertEquals("Wrong operation name", ProvisioningTestUtil.CONNID_CONNECTOR_FACADE_CLASS_NAME + "." + operation, operationResult.getOperation()); Collection<String> updatedAttributes = parseUpdatedAttributes(operationResult.getParams().get("attributes").toString()); assertEquals("Names of updated attributes do not match", new HashSet<>(Arrays.asList(attributeNames)), updatedAttributes); } // From something like this: [Attribute: {Name=fullname, Value=[Pirate Master Will Turner]},Attribute: {Name=title, Value=[Pirate Master]}] // we would like to get ["fullname", "title"] private Collection<String> parseUpdatedAttributes(String attributes) { Pattern pattern = Pattern.compile("Attribute: \\{Name=(\\w+),"); Matcher matcher = pattern.matcher(attributes); Set<String> retval = new HashSet<>(); while (matcher.find()) { retval.add(matcher.group(1)); } return retval; } @Test public void test150ModifyObjectAddDelete() throws Exception { final String TEST_NAME = "test150ModifyObjectAddDelete"; TestUtil.displayTestTile(TEST_NAME); Task task = taskManager.createTaskInstance(TestDummyPrioritiesAndReadReplace.class.getName() + "." + TEST_NAME); OperationResult result = task.getResult(); syncServiceMock.reset(); // NOT a read replace attribute // todo add correct definition ObjectDelta<ShadowType> objectDelta = ObjectDelta.createModificationReplaceProperty(ShadowType.class, ACCOUNT_WILL_OID, dummyResourceCtl.getAttributeFullnamePath(), prismContext, "Pirate Great Master Will Turner"); // read replace attribute, priority 0 PropertyDelta weaponDelta = objectDelta.createPropertyModification(dummyResourceCtl.getAttributeWeaponPath()); weaponDelta.setDefinition( getAttributeDefinition(resourceType, ShadowKindType.ACCOUNT, null, DummyResourceContoller.DUMMY_ACCOUNT_ATTRIBUTE_WEAPON_NAME)); weaponDelta.addValuesToAdd(new PrismPropertyValue<>("Sword")); weaponDelta.addValuesToDelete(new PrismPropertyValue<>("GUN")); // case-insensitive treatment should work here objectDelta.addModification(weaponDelta); // read replace attribute, priority 1 PropertyDelta lootDelta = objectDelta.createPropertyModification(dummyResourceCtl.getAttributeLootPath()); lootDelta.setDefinition( getAttributeDefinition(resourceType, ShadowKindType.ACCOUNT, null, DummyResourceContoller.DUMMY_ACCOUNT_ATTRIBUTE_LOOT_NAME)); lootDelta.addValuesToAdd(new PrismPropertyValue<>(44)); lootDelta.addValuesToDelete(new PrismPropertyValue<>(43)); objectDelta.addModification(lootDelta); // NOT a read-replace attribute PropertyDelta titleDelta = objectDelta.createPropertyModification(dummyResourceCtl.getAttributePath(DUMMY_ACCOUNT_ATTRIBUTE_TITLE_NAME)); titleDelta.setDefinition( getAttributeDefinition(resourceType, ShadowKindType.ACCOUNT, null, DummyResourceContoller.DUMMY_ACCOUNT_ATTRIBUTE_TITLE_NAME)); titleDelta.addValuesToAdd(new PrismPropertyValue<>("Pirate Great Master")); titleDelta.addValuesToDelete(new PrismPropertyValue<>("Pirate Master")); objectDelta.addModification(titleDelta); // read replace attribute PropertyDelta drinkDelta = objectDelta.createPropertyModification(dummyResourceCtl.getAttributePath(DummyResourceContoller.DUMMY_ACCOUNT_ATTRIBUTE_DRINK_NAME)); drinkDelta.setDefinition( getAttributeDefinition(resourceType, ShadowKindType.ACCOUNT, null, DummyResourceContoller.DUMMY_ACCOUNT_ATTRIBUTE_DRINK_NAME)); drinkDelta.addValuesToAdd(new PrismPropertyValue<>("orange juice")); objectDelta.addModification(drinkDelta); display("ObjectDelta", objectDelta); objectDelta.checkConsistence(); // WHEN provisioningService.modifyObject(ShadowType.class, objectDelta.getOid(), objectDelta.getModifications(), new OperationProvisioningScriptsType(), null, task, result); // THEN result.computeStatus(); display("modifyObject result", result); TestUtil.assertSuccess(result); objectDelta.checkConsistence(); assertDummyAccountAttributeValues(ACCOUNT_WILL_USERNAME, willIcfUid, DummyResourceContoller.DUMMY_ACCOUNT_ATTRIBUTE_FULLNAME_NAME, "Pirate Great Master Will Turner"); assertDummyAccountAttributeValues(ACCOUNT_WILL_USERNAME, willIcfUid, DummyResourceContoller.DUMMY_ACCOUNT_ATTRIBUTE_TITLE_NAME, "Pirate Great Master"); assertDummyAccountAttributeValues(ACCOUNT_WILL_USERNAME, willIcfUid, DummyResourceContoller.DUMMY_ACCOUNT_ATTRIBUTE_LOOT_NAME, 44); assertDummyAccountAttributeValues(ACCOUNT_WILL_USERNAME, willIcfUid, DummyResourceContoller.DUMMY_ACCOUNT_ATTRIBUTE_WEAPON_NAME, "Sword"); assertDummyAccountAttributeValues(ACCOUNT_WILL_USERNAME, willIcfUid, DummyResourceContoller.DUMMY_ACCOUNT_ATTRIBUTE_DRINK_NAME, "orange juice"); // BEWARE: very brittle! List<OperationResult> updatesExecuted = TestUtil.selectSubresults(result, ProvisioningTestUtil.CONNID_CONNECTOR_FACADE_CLASS_NAME + ".update", ProvisioningTestUtil.CONNID_CONNECTOR_FACADE_CLASS_NAME + ".addAttributeValues", ProvisioningTestUtil.CONNID_CONNECTOR_FACADE_CLASS_NAME + ".removeAttributeValues"); assertEquals("Wrong number of updates executed", 5, updatesExecuted.size()); checkAttributesUpdated(updatesExecuted.get(0), "update", DummyResourceContoller.DUMMY_ACCOUNT_ATTRIBUTE_WEAPON_NAME); // prio 0, read-replace checkAttributesUpdated(updatesExecuted.get(1), "update", DummyResourceContoller.DUMMY_ACCOUNT_ATTRIBUTE_LOOT_NAME); // prio 1, read-replace checkAttributesUpdated(updatesExecuted.get(2), "addAttributeValues", DummyResourceContoller.DUMMY_ACCOUNT_ATTRIBUTE_TITLE_NAME); // prio none, not read-replace checkAttributesUpdated(updatesExecuted.get(3), "update", DummyResourceContoller.DUMMY_ACCOUNT_ATTRIBUTE_DRINK_NAME, DummyResourceContoller.DUMMY_ACCOUNT_ATTRIBUTE_FULLNAME_NAME); // prio none, read-replace + real replace checkAttributesUpdated(updatesExecuted.get(4), "removeAttributeValues", DummyResourceContoller.DUMMY_ACCOUNT_ATTRIBUTE_TITLE_NAME); // prio none, not read-replace syncServiceMock.assertNotifySuccessOnly(); //assertSteadyResource(); } }
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
Michel Foucault claims that the contemporary concept of police as a paid and funded functionary of the state was developed by German and French legal scholars and practitioners in Public administration and Statistics in the 17th and early 18th centuries, most notably with Nicolas Delamare's Traité de la Police ("Treatise on the Police"), first published in 1705. The German Polizeiwissenschaft (Science of Police) first theorized by Philipp von Hörnigk a 17th-century Austrian Political economist and civil servant and much more famously by Johann Heinrich Gottlob Justi who produced an important theoretical work known as Cameral science on the formulation of police. Foucault cites Magdalene Humpert author of Bibliographie der Kameralwissenschaften (1937) in which the author makes note of a substantial bibliography was produced of over 4000 pieces of the practice of Polizeiwissenschaft however, this maybe a mistranslation of Foucault's own work the actual source of Magdalene Humpert states over 14,000 items were produced from the 16th century dates ranging from 1520-1850. Question: Which countries' scholars developed the contemporary police concept? Answer: German and French Question: Who wrote the 'Treatise on the Police'? Answer: Nicolas Delamare Question: What was the 'Treatise on the Police' called in French? Answer: Traité de la Police Question: When was the 'Treatise on the Police' published? Answer: 1705 Question: What was von Hornigk's career? Answer: Political economist and civil servant
{ "task_name": "squadv2" }
/* * The Apache Software License, Version 1.1 * * Copyright (c) 1999, 2000 The Apache Software Foundation. All rights * reserved. * * Redistribution and use in source and binary forms, with or without * modification, are permitted provided that the following conditions * are met: * * 1. Redistributions of source code must retain the above copyright * notice, this list of conditions and the following disclaimer. * * 2. Redistributions in binary form must reproduce the above copyright * notice, this list of conditions and the following disclaimer in * the documentation and/or other materials provided with the * distribution. * * 3. The end-user documentation included with the redistribution, if * any, must include the following acknowlegement: * "This product includes software developed by the * Apache Software Foundation (http://www.apache.org/)." * Alternately, this acknowlegement may appear in the software itself, * if and wherever such third-party acknowlegements normally appear. * * 4. The names "Ant" and "Apache Software * Foundation" must not be used to endorse or promote products derived * from this software without prior written permission. For written * permission, please contact [email protected]. * * 5. Products derived from this software may not be called "Apache" * nor may "Apache" appear in their names without prior written * permission of the Apache Group. * * THIS SOFTWARE IS PROVIDED ``AS IS'' AND ANY EXPRESSED OR IMPLIED * WARRANTIES, INCLUDING, BUT NOT LIMITED TO, THE IMPLIED WARRANTIES * OF MERCHANTABILITY AND FITNESS FOR A PARTICULAR PURPOSE ARE * DISCLAIMED. IN NO EVENT SHALL THE APACHE SOFTWARE FOUNDATION OR * ITS CONTRIBUTORS BE LIABLE FOR ANY DIRECT, INDIRECT, INCIDENTAL, * SPECIAL, EXEMPLARY, OR CONSEQUENTIAL DAMAGES (INCLUDING, BUT NOT * LIMITED TO, PROCUREMENT OF SUBSTITUTE GOODS OR SERVICES; LOSS OF * USE, DATA, OR PROFITS; OR BUSINESS INTERRUPTION) HOWEVER CAUSED AND * ON ANY THEORY OF LIABILITY, WHETHER IN CONTRACT, STRICT LIABILITY, * OR TORT (INCLUDING NEGLIGENCE OR OTHERWISE) ARISING IN ANY WAY OUT * OF THE USE OF THIS SOFTWARE, EVEN IF ADVISED OF THE POSSIBILITY OF * SUCH DAMAGE. * ==================================================================== * * This software consists of voluntary contributions made by many * individuals on behalf of the Apache Software Foundation. For more * information on the Apache Software Foundation, please see * <http://www.apache.org/>. */ package org.apache.tools.ant.gui.xml; import org.w3c.dom.Attr; import org.w3c.dom.CDATASection; import org.w3c.dom.Comment; import org.w3c.dom.DOMException; import org.w3c.dom.DOMImplementation; import org.w3c.dom.Document; import org.w3c.dom.DocumentFragment; import org.w3c.dom.DocumentType; import org.w3c.dom.EntityReference; import org.w3c.dom.ProcessingInstruction; import org.w3c.dom.Text; /** * <code>DOMDocument</code> represents an abstraction of * <code>org.w3c.dom.Document</code>. * * @version $Revision: 1.1.1.1 $ * @author Nick Davis<a href="mailto:[email protected]">[email protected]</a> */ public class DOMDocument { private Document _impl; private DOMNodeFactory _factory; private DOMNodeContainer _container; /** true if any node in the document has been modfied */ private boolean _modified = false; /** * Creates new DOMDocument */ public DOMDocument() { } /** * @return the node factory */ public DOMNodeFactory getFactory() { return _factory; } /** * @param factory the node factory */ void setFactory(DOMNodeFactory factory) { _factory = factory; } /** * @return the node container */ public DOMNodeContainer getContainer() { return _container; } /** * @param container the node container */ void setContainer(DOMNodeContainer container) { _container = container; } /** * Sets the node implementation. * * @param impl the <code>org.w3c.dom.Document</code> object */ public void setImpl(Document impl) { _impl = impl; } /** * Pass call to the implementaion * @return the document type */ public DocumentType getDoctype() { return _impl.getDoctype(); } /** * Passes the call to the implementation */ public ProcessingInstruction createProcessingInstruction(String p1,String p2) throws DOMException { return _impl.createProcessingInstruction(p1, p2); } /** * Passes the call to the implementation */ public EntityReference createEntityReference(String p1) throws DOMException { return _impl.createEntityReference(p1); } /** * Passes the call to the implementation */ public Text createTextNode(String p1) { return _impl.createTextNode(p1); } /** * Passes the call to the implementation */ public CDATASection createCDATASection(String p1) throws DOMException { return _impl.createCDATASection(p1); } /** * Passes the call to the implementation and returns an abstraction * of the returned element. * @return a <code>DOMElement</code> object */ public DOMElement getDocumentElement() { return (DOMElement) _factory.createDOMNode(_impl.getDocumentElement()); } /** * Passes the call to the implementation and returns an abstraction * of the returned <code>Implementation</code>. * @return a <code>DOMImplementation</code> object */ public DOMImplementation getImplementation() { return _impl.getImplementation(); } /** * Passes the call to the implementation */ public Attr createAttribute(String p1) throws DOMException { return _impl.createAttribute(p1); } /** * Passes the call to the implementation */ public Comment createComment(String p1) { return _impl.createComment(p1); } /** * Passes the call to the implementation */ public DocumentFragment createDocumentFragment() { return _impl.createDocumentFragment(); } /** * Passes the call to the implementation and returns an abstraction * of the returned <code>NodeList</code>. * @return a <code>DOMNodeList</code> object */ public DOMNodeList getElementsByTagName(String p1) { return new DOMNodeList(_factory, _impl.getElementsByTagName(p1)); } /** * Passes the call to the implementation and returns an abstraction * of the returned <code>Element</code>. * @return a <code>DOMElement</code> object */ public DOMElement createElement(String p1) throws DOMException { return (DOMElement) _factory.createDOMNode(_impl.createElement(p1)); } /** * Passes the call to the implementation and returns an abstraction * of the returned <code>Node</code>. * @return a <code>DOMNode</code> object */ public DOMNode getPreviousSibling() { return _factory.createDOMNode(_impl.getPreviousSibling()); } /** * Passes the call to the implementation. */ public void setNodeValue(String p1) throws DOMException { _impl.setNodeValue(p1); } /** * Passes the call to the implementation. */ public String getNodeValue() throws DOMException { return _impl.getNodeValue(); } /** * Passes the call to the implementation and returns an abstraction * of the returned <code>Node</code>. * @return a <code>DOMNode</code> object */ public DOMNode insertBefore(DOMNode p1, DOMNode p2) throws DOMException { return _factory.createDOMNode( _impl.insertBefore(p1.getImpl(), p2.getImpl())); } /** * Passes the call to the implementation and returns an abstraction * of the returned <code>Node</code>. * @return a <code>DOMNode</code> object */ public DOMNode getParentNode() { return _factory.createDOMNode(_impl.getParentNode()); } /** * Passes the call to the implementation. */ public boolean hasChildNodes() { return _impl.hasChildNodes(); } /** * Passes the call to the implementation. */ public String getNodeName() { return _impl.getNodeName(); } /** * Passes the call to the implementation and returns an abstraction * of the returned <code>NamedNodeMap</code>. * @return a <code>NamedDOMNodeMap</code> object */ public NamedDOMNodeMap getAttributes() { return new NamedDOMNodeMap (_factory, _impl.getAttributes()); } /** * Passes the call to the implementation. */ public short getNodeType() { return _impl.getNodeType(); } /** * Passes the call to the implementation and returns an abstraction * of the returned <code>Node</code>. * @return a <code>DOMNode</code> object */ public DOMNode removeChild(DOMNode p1) throws DOMException { return _factory.createDOMNode( _impl.removeChild(p1.getImpl())); } /** * Passes the call to the implementation and returns an abstraction * of the returned <code>Node</code>. * @return a <code>DOMNode</code> object */ public DOMNode appendChild(DOMNode p1) throws DOMException { return _factory.createDOMNode( _impl.appendChild(p1.getImpl())); } /** * Passes the call to the implementation and returns an abstraction * of the returned <code>Node</code>. * @return a <code>DOMNode</code> object */ public DOMNode getNextSibling() { return _factory.createDOMNode(_impl.getNextSibling()); } /** * Passes the call to the implementation and returns an abstraction * of the returned <code>Node</code>. * @return a <code>DOMNode</code> object */ public DOMNode getLastChild() { return _factory.createDOMNode(_impl.getLastChild()); } /** * Passes the call to the implementation and returns an abstraction * of the returned <code>NodeList</code>. * @return a <code>DOMNodeList</code> object */ public DOMNodeList getChildNodes() { return new DOMNodeList (_factory, _impl.getChildNodes()); } /** * Passes the call to the implementation and returns an abstraction * of the returned <code>Node</code>. * @return a <code>DOMNode</code> object */ public DOMNode getFirstChild() { return _factory.createDOMNode(_impl.getFirstChild()); } /** * Passes the call to the implementation and returns an abstraction * of the returned <code>Node</code>. * @return a <code>DOMNode</code> object */ public DOMNode cloneNode(boolean p1) { return _factory.createDOMNode(_impl.cloneNode(p1)); } /** * Passes the call to the implementation. */ public Document getOwnerDocument() { return _impl.getOwnerDocument(); } /** * Passes the call to the implementation and returns an abstraction * of the returned <code>Node</code>. * @return a <code>DOMNode</code> object */ public DOMNode replaceChild(DOMNode p1, DOMNode p2) throws DOMException { return _factory.createDOMNode( _impl.replaceChild(p1.getImpl(), p2.getImpl())); } /** * @return true if any node in the document has been modified */ public boolean isModified() { return _modified; } /** * Set the modified flag * * @param modified the new value */ public void setModified(boolean modified) { _modified = modified; } }
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
Passage 1: Benjamin Christensen Benjamin Christensen( 28 September 1879 – 2 April 1959) was a Danish film director, screenwriter and an actor both in film and on the stage. As a director he is most well known for the 1922 film" Häxan" and as an actor, he is best known for his performance in the film" Michael"( 1924), in which he plays Claude Zoret, the jilted lover of the film's title character. Passage 2: Ben Cura Ben Cura( born 30 September 1988) is a British- Argentine actor and director of film, television and theatre. Passage 3: Jason Moore (director) Jason Moore( born October 22, 1970) is an American director of film, theatre and television. Passage 4: Ian Barry (director) Ian Barry is an Australian director of film and TV. Passage 5: Hanro Smitsman Hanro Smitsman, born in 1967 in Breda( Netherlands), is a writer and director of film and television. Passage 6: The Bride and the Lover The Bride and the Lover is a 2013 Filipino romantic film directed by Joel Lamangan, starring Lovi Poe, Jennylyn Mercado and Paulo Avelino. Passage 7: Joel Lamangan Joel Lamangan( born September 21, 1952) is a Filipino film director, television director and actor. His award- winning films includes" The Flor Contemplacion StorySidhiDeathrowHubogAishte Imasu 1941 Blue Moon" and" Mano Po". On August 19, 2008, Lamangan directed his first indie movie" Walang Kawala" produced by DMV Entertainment. It stars Polo Ravales and Joseph Bitangcol, with the special participation of Jean Garcia. Joel also directs" Obra" and will soon start shooting Desperadas 2. He started production for the next Sine Novela:" Una Kang Naging Akin" starring Angelika dela Cruz, Wendell Ramos, and Maxene Magalona. In 2013 Elections he ran as congressman for Cavite's 1st District under the Lakas- CMD/ United Nationalist Alliance/ Partido Magdalo. However he backed out in the race. In 2013, Lamangan was named as the artistic director of Gantimpala Theater Foundation. Lamangan will direct an original musical titled" Katipunan: Mga Anak ng Bayan" and it will star actors Sandino Martin and Anna Fegi. The show toured in August and September 2013 around provinces of Manila to celebrate the 150th anniversary of the birth of Philippine hero, Andres Bonifacio. Lamangan is a member of the international Order of DeMolay from Baja Chapter, Cavite City. He was conferred with the highest honor being a DeMolay to the rank of Legion of Honor last November 14, 2015, by the Grand Master Victor Antonio T. Espejo of the Supreme Council Order of DeMolay Philippines for outstanding leadership in his field of endeavor, for service to humanity, for success in fraternal life, including adult service to the Order of DeMolay. The Supreme Council Order of DeMolay is an appendant body of Freemasonry. Passage 8: The Hawk's Nest The Hawk's Nest is a 1928 American film directed by Benjamin Christensen. It is believed to be lost. It was released by First National Pictures and stars husband and wife Milton Sills and Doris Kenyon. Passage 9: Peter Levin Peter Levin is an American director of film, television and theatre. Passage 10: Brian Johnson (special effects artist) Brian Johnson( born 1939 or 1940) is a British designer and director of film and television special effects. Question: Are director of film The Bride and the Lover and director of film The Hawk's Nest both from the same country? Answer: no
{ "task_name": "2WikiMultihopQA" }
import numpy as np import pytest from sklearn.base import clone from sklearn.base import BaseEstimator from sklearn.base import TransformerMixin from sklearn.dummy import DummyRegressor from sklearn.utils._testing import assert_allclose from sklearn.utils._testing import assert_no_warnings from sklearn.preprocessing import FunctionTransformer from sklearn.preprocessing import StandardScaler from sklearn.pipeline import Pipeline from sklearn.linear_model import LinearRegression, OrthogonalMatchingPursuit from sklearn import datasets from sklearn.compose import TransformedTargetRegressor friedman = datasets.make_friedman1(random_state=0) def test_transform_target_regressor_error(): X, y = friedman # provide a transformer and functions at the same time regr = TransformedTargetRegressor(regressor=LinearRegression(), transformer=StandardScaler(), func=np.exp, inverse_func=np.log) with pytest.raises(ValueError, match="'transformer' and functions" " 'func'/'inverse_func' cannot both be set."): regr.fit(X, y) # fit with sample_weight with a regressor which does not support it sample_weight = np.ones((y.shape[0],)) regr = TransformedTargetRegressor(regressor=OrthogonalMatchingPursuit(), transformer=StandardScaler()) with pytest.raises(TypeError, match=r"fit\(\) got an unexpected " "keyword argument 'sample_weight'"): regr.fit(X, y, sample_weight=sample_weight) # func is given but inverse_func is not regr = TransformedTargetRegressor(func=np.exp) with pytest.raises(ValueError, match="When 'func' is provided, " "'inverse_func' must also be provided"): regr.fit(X, y) def test_transform_target_regressor_invertible(): X, y = friedman regr = TransformedTargetRegressor(regressor=LinearRegression(), func=np.sqrt, inverse_func=np.log, check_inverse=True) with pytest.warns(UserWarning, match="The provided functions or" " transformer are not strictly inverse of each other."): regr.fit(X, y) regr = TransformedTargetRegressor(regressor=LinearRegression(), func=np.sqrt, inverse_func=np.log) regr.set_params(check_inverse=False) assert_no_warnings(regr.fit, X, y) def _check_standard_scaled(y, y_pred): y_mean = np.mean(y, axis=0) y_std = np.std(y, axis=0) assert_allclose((y - y_mean) / y_std, y_pred) def _check_shifted_by_one(y, y_pred): assert_allclose(y + 1, y_pred) def test_transform_target_regressor_functions(): X, y = friedman regr = TransformedTargetRegressor(regressor=LinearRegression(), func=np.log, inverse_func=np.exp) y_pred = regr.fit(X, y).predict(X) # check the transformer output y_tran = regr.transformer_.transform(y.reshape(-1, 1)).squeeze() assert_allclose(np.log(y), y_tran) assert_allclose(y, regr.transformer_.inverse_transform( y_tran.reshape(-1, 1)).squeeze()) assert y.shape == y_pred.shape assert_allclose(y_pred, regr.inverse_func(regr.regressor_.predict(X))) # check the regressor output lr = LinearRegression().fit(X, regr.func(y)) assert_allclose(regr.regressor_.coef_.ravel(), lr.coef_.ravel()) def test_transform_target_regressor_functions_multioutput(): X = friedman[0] y = np.vstack((friedman[1], friedman[1] ** 2 + 1)).T regr = TransformedTargetRegressor(regressor=LinearRegression(), func=np.log, inverse_func=np.exp) y_pred = regr.fit(X, y).predict(X) # check the transformer output y_tran = regr.transformer_.transform(y) assert_allclose(np.log(y), y_tran) assert_allclose(y, regr.transformer_.inverse_transform(y_tran)) assert y.shape == y_pred.shape assert_allclose(y_pred, regr.inverse_func(regr.regressor_.predict(X))) # check the regressor output lr = LinearRegression().fit(X, regr.func(y)) assert_allclose(regr.regressor_.coef_.ravel(), lr.coef_.ravel()) @pytest.mark.parametrize("X,y", [friedman, (friedman[0], np.vstack((friedman[1], friedman[1] ** 2 + 1)).T)]) def test_transform_target_regressor_1d_transformer(X, y): # All transformer in scikit-learn expect 2D data. FunctionTransformer with # validate=False lift this constraint without checking that the input is a # 2D vector. We check the consistency of the data shape using a 1D and 2D y # array. transformer = FunctionTransformer(func=lambda x: x + 1, inverse_func=lambda x: x - 1) regr = TransformedTargetRegressor(regressor=LinearRegression(), transformer=transformer) y_pred = regr.fit(X, y).predict(X) assert y.shape == y_pred.shape # consistency forward transform y_tran = regr.transformer_.transform(y) _check_shifted_by_one(y, y_tran) assert y.shape == y_pred.shape # consistency inverse transform assert_allclose(y, regr.transformer_.inverse_transform( y_tran).squeeze()) # consistency of the regressor lr = LinearRegression() transformer2 = clone(transformer) lr.fit(X, transformer2.fit_transform(y)) y_lr_pred = lr.predict(X) assert_allclose(y_pred, transformer2.inverse_transform(y_lr_pred)) assert_allclose(regr.regressor_.coef_, lr.coef_) @pytest.mark.parametrize("X,y", [friedman, (friedman[0], np.vstack((friedman[1], friedman[1] ** 2 + 1)).T)]) def test_transform_target_regressor_2d_transformer(X, y): # Check consistency with transformer accepting only 2D array and a 1D/2D y # array. transformer = StandardScaler() regr = TransformedTargetRegressor(regressor=LinearRegression(), transformer=transformer) y_pred = regr.fit(X, y).predict(X) assert y.shape == y_pred.shape # consistency forward transform if y.ndim == 1: # create a 2D array and squeeze results y_tran = regr.transformer_.transform(y.reshape(-1, 1)).squeeze() else: y_tran = regr.transformer_.transform(y) _check_standard_scaled(y, y_tran) assert y.shape == y_pred.shape # consistency inverse transform assert_allclose(y, regr.transformer_.inverse_transform( y_tran).squeeze()) # consistency of the regressor lr = LinearRegression() transformer2 = clone(transformer) if y.ndim == 1: # create a 2D array and squeeze results lr.fit(X, transformer2.fit_transform(y.reshape(-1, 1)).squeeze()) else: lr.fit(X, transformer2.fit_transform(y)) y_lr_pred = lr.predict(X) assert_allclose(y_pred, transformer2.inverse_transform(y_lr_pred)) assert_allclose(regr.regressor_.coef_, lr.coef_) def test_transform_target_regressor_2d_transformer_multioutput(): # Check consistency with transformer accepting only 2D array and a 2D y # array. X = friedman[0] y = np.vstack((friedman[1], friedman[1] ** 2 + 1)).T transformer = StandardScaler() regr = TransformedTargetRegressor(regressor=LinearRegression(), transformer=transformer) y_pred = regr.fit(X, y).predict(X) assert y.shape == y_pred.shape # consistency forward transform y_tran = regr.transformer_.transform(y) _check_standard_scaled(y, y_tran) assert y.shape == y_pred.shape # consistency inverse transform assert_allclose(y, regr.transformer_.inverse_transform( y_tran).squeeze()) # consistency of the regressor lr = LinearRegression() transformer2 = clone(transformer) lr.fit(X, transformer2.fit_transform(y)) y_lr_pred = lr.predict(X) assert_allclose(y_pred, transformer2.inverse_transform(y_lr_pred)) assert_allclose(regr.regressor_.coef_, lr.coef_) def test_transform_target_regressor_multi_to_single(): X = friedman[0] y = np.transpose([friedman[1], (friedman[1] ** 2 + 1)]) def func(y): out = np.sqrt(y[:, 0] ** 2 + y[:, 1] ** 2) return out[:, np.newaxis] def inverse_func(y): return y tt = TransformedTargetRegressor(func=func, inverse_func=inverse_func, check_inverse=False) tt.fit(X, y) y_pred_2d_func = tt.predict(X) assert y_pred_2d_func.shape == (100, 1) # force that the function only return a 1D array def func(y): return np.sqrt(y[:, 0] ** 2 + y[:, 1] ** 2) tt = TransformedTargetRegressor(func=func, inverse_func=inverse_func, check_inverse=False) tt.fit(X, y) y_pred_1d_func = tt.predict(X) assert y_pred_1d_func.shape == (100, 1) assert_allclose(y_pred_1d_func, y_pred_2d_func) class DummyCheckerArrayTransformer(TransformerMixin, BaseEstimator): def fit(self, X, y=None): assert isinstance(X, np.ndarray) return self def transform(self, X): assert isinstance(X, np.ndarray) return X def inverse_transform(self, X): assert isinstance(X, np.ndarray) return X class DummyCheckerListRegressor(DummyRegressor): def fit(self, X, y, sample_weight=None): assert isinstance(X, list) return super().fit(X, y, sample_weight) def predict(self, X): assert isinstance(X, list) return super().predict(X) def test_transform_target_regressor_ensure_y_array(): # check that the target ``y`` passed to the transformer will always be a # numpy array. Similarly, if ``X`` is passed as a list, we check that the # predictor receive as it is. X, y = friedman tt = TransformedTargetRegressor(transformer=DummyCheckerArrayTransformer(), regressor=DummyCheckerListRegressor(), check_inverse=False) tt.fit(X.tolist(), y.tolist()) tt.predict(X.tolist()) with pytest.raises(AssertionError): tt.fit(X, y.tolist()) with pytest.raises(AssertionError): tt.predict(X) class DummyTransformer(TransformerMixin, BaseEstimator): """Dummy transformer which count how many time fit was called.""" def __init__(self, fit_counter=0): self.fit_counter = fit_counter def fit(self, X, y=None): self.fit_counter += 1 return self def transform(self, X): return X def inverse_transform(self, X): return X @pytest.mark.parametrize("check_inverse", [False, True]) def test_transform_target_regressor_count_fit(check_inverse): # regression test for gh-issue #11618 # check that we only call a single time fit for the transformer X, y = friedman ttr = TransformedTargetRegressor( transformer=DummyTransformer(), check_inverse=check_inverse ) ttr.fit(X, y) assert ttr.transformer_.fit_counter == 1 class DummyRegressorWithExtraFitParams(DummyRegressor): def fit(self, X, y, sample_weight=None, check_input=True): # on the test below we force this to false, we make sure this is # actually passed to the regressor assert not check_input return super().fit(X, y, sample_weight) def test_transform_target_regressor_pass_fit_parameters(): X, y = friedman regr = TransformedTargetRegressor( regressor=DummyRegressorWithExtraFitParams(), transformer=DummyTransformer() ) regr.fit(X, y, check_input=False) assert regr.transformer_.fit_counter == 1 def test_transform_target_regressor_route_pipeline(): X, y = friedman regr = TransformedTargetRegressor( regressor=DummyRegressorWithExtraFitParams(), transformer=DummyTransformer() ) estimators = [ ('normalize', StandardScaler()), ('est', regr) ] pip = Pipeline(estimators) pip.fit(X, y, **{'est__check_input': False}) assert regr.transformer_.fit_counter == 1
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
Passage 1: Thomas Scott (diver) Thomas Scott( 1907- date of death unknown) was an English diver. Passage 2: Albert Thompson (footballer, born 1912) Albert Thompson( born 1912, date of death unknown) was a Welsh footballer. Passage 3: Theodred II (Bishop of Elmham) Theodred II was a medieval Bishop of Elmham. The date of Theodred's consecration unknown, but the date of his death was sometime between 995 and 997. Passage 4: Peter Levin Peter Levin is an American director of film, television and theatre. Passage 5: Věra Chytilová Věra Chytilová (2 February 1929 – 12 March 2014) was an avant-garde Czech film director and pioneer of Czech cinema. Banned by the Czechoslovak government in the 1960s, she is best known for her Czech New Wave film, "SedmikráskyDaisies"). Her subsequent films screened at international film festivals, including "Vlčí bouda" (1987), which screened at the 37th Berlin International Film Festival, "A Hoof Here, a Hoof There" (1989), which screened at the 16th Moscow International Film Festival, and "The Inheritance or Fuckoffguysgoodday" (1992), which screened at the 18th Moscow International Film Festival. For her work, she received the Ordre des Arts et des Lettres, Medal of Merit and the Czech Lion award. Passage 6: Bill Smith (footballer, born 1897) William Thomas Smith( born 9 April 1897, date of death unknown) was an English professional footballer. Passage 7: Ian Barry (director) Ian Barry is an Australian director of film and TV. Passage 8: Etan Boritzer Etan Boritzer( born 1950) is an American writer of children ’s literature who is best known for his book" What is God?" first published in 1989. His best selling" What is?" illustrated children's book series on character education and difficult subjects for children is a popular teaching guide for parents, teachers and child- life professionals. Boritzer gained national critical acclaim after" What is God?" was published in 1989 although the book has caused controversy from religious fundamentalists for its universalist views. The other current books in the" What is?" series include What is Love?, What is Death?, What is Beautiful?, What is Funny?, What is Right?, What is Peace?, What is Money?, What is Dreaming?, What is a Friend?, What is True?, What is a Family?, What is a Feeling?" The series is now also translated into 15 languages. Boritzer was first published in 1963 at the age of 13 when he wrote an essay in his English class at Wade Junior High School in the Bronx, New York on the assassination of John F. Kennedy. His essay was included in a special anthology by New York City public school children compiled and published by the New York City Department of Education. Boritzer now lives in Venice, California and maintains his publishing office there also. He has helped numerous other authors to get published through" How to Get Your Book Published!" programs. Boritzer is also a yoga teacher who teaches regular classes locally and guest- teaches nationally. He is also recognized nationally as an erudite speaker on" The Teachings of the Buddha." Passage 9: The Apple Game The Apple Game is a 1977 Czechoslovak comedy film directed by Věra Chytilová. Passage 10: Harry Wainwright (footballer) Harry Wainwright( born 1899; date of death unknown) was an English footballer. Question: When did the director of film The Apple Game die? Answer: 12 March 2014
{ "task_name": "2WikiMultihopQA" }
/* * @(#)XMLFormatter.java 1.26 05/11/17 * * Copyright 2006 Sun Microsystems, Inc. All rights reserved. * SUN PROPRIETARY/CONFIDENTIAL. Use is subject to license terms. */ package java.util.logging; import java.io.*; import java.nio.charset.Charset; import java.util.*; /** * Format a LogRecord into a standard XML format. * <p> * The DTD specification is provided as Appendix A to the * Java Logging APIs specification. * <p> * The XMLFormatter can be used with arbitrary character encodings, * but it is recommended that it normally be used with UTF-8. The * character encoding can be set on the output Handler. * * @version 1.26, 11/17/05 * @since 1.4 */ public class XMLFormatter extends Formatter { private LogManager manager = LogManager.getLogManager(); // Append a two digit number. private void a2(StringBuffer sb, int x) { if (x < 10) { sb.append('0'); } sb.append(x); } // Append the time and date in ISO 8601 format private void appendISO8601(StringBuffer sb, long millis) { Date date = new Date(millis); sb.append(date.getYear() + 1900); sb.append('-'); a2(sb, date.getMonth() + 1); sb.append('-'); a2(sb, date.getDate()); sb.append('T'); a2(sb, date.getHours()); sb.append(':'); a2(sb, date.getMinutes()); sb.append(':'); a2(sb, date.getSeconds()); } // Append to the given StringBuffer an escaped version of the // given text string where XML special characters have been escaped. // For a null string we append "<null>" private void escape(StringBuffer sb, String text) { if (text == null) { text = "<null>"; } for (int i = 0; i < text.length(); i++) { char ch = text.charAt(i); if (ch == '<') { sb.append("&lt;"); } else if (ch == '>') { sb.append("&gt;"); } else if (ch == '&') { sb.append("&amp;"); } else { sb.append(ch); } } } /** * Format the given message to XML. * @param record the log record to be formatted. * @return a formatted log record */ public String format(LogRecord record) { StringBuffer sb = new StringBuffer(500); sb.append("<record>\n"); sb.append(" <date>"); appendISO8601(sb, record.getMillis()); sb.append("</date>\n"); sb.append(" <millis>"); sb.append(record.getMillis()); sb.append("</millis>\n"); sb.append(" <sequence>"); sb.append(record.getSequenceNumber()); sb.append("</sequence>\n"); String name = record.getLoggerName(); if (name != null) { sb.append(" <logger>"); escape(sb, name); sb.append("</logger>\n"); } sb.append(" <level>"); escape(sb, record.getLevel().toString()); sb.append("</level>\n"); if (record.getSourceClassName() != null) { sb.append(" <class>"); escape(sb, record.getSourceClassName()); sb.append("</class>\n"); } if (record.getSourceMethodName() != null) { sb.append(" <method>"); escape(sb, record.getSourceMethodName()); sb.append("</method>\n"); } sb.append(" <thread>"); sb.append(record.getThreadID()); sb.append("</thread>\n"); if (record.getMessage() != null) { // Format the message string and its accompanying parameters. String message = formatMessage(record); sb.append(" <message>"); escape(sb, message); sb.append("</message>"); sb.append("\n"); } // If the message is being localized, output the key, resource // bundle name, and params. ResourceBundle bundle = record.getResourceBundle(); try { if (bundle != null && bundle.getString(record.getMessage()) != null) { sb.append(" <key>"); escape(sb, record.getMessage()); sb.append("</key>\n"); sb.append(" <catalog>"); escape(sb, record.getResourceBundleName()); sb.append("</catalog>\n"); } } catch (Exception ex) { // The message is not in the catalog. Drop through. } Object parameters[] = record.getParameters(); // Check to see if the parameter was not a messagetext format // or was not null or empty if ( parameters != null && parameters.length != 0 && record.getMessage().indexOf("{") == -1 ) { for (int i = 0; i < parameters.length; i++) { sb.append(" <param>"); try { escape(sb, parameters[i].toString()); } catch (Exception ex) { sb.append("???"); } sb.append("</param>\n"); } } if (record.getThrown() != null) { // Report on the state of the throwable. Throwable th = record.getThrown(); sb.append(" <exception>\n"); sb.append(" <message>"); escape(sb, th.toString()); sb.append("</message>\n"); StackTraceElement trace[] = th.getStackTrace(); for (int i = 0; i < trace.length; i++) { StackTraceElement frame = trace[i]; sb.append(" <frame>\n"); sb.append(" <class>"); escape(sb, frame.getClassName()); sb.append("</class>\n"); sb.append(" <method>"); escape(sb, frame.getMethodName()); sb.append("</method>\n"); // Check for a line number. if (frame.getLineNumber() >= 0) { sb.append(" <line>"); sb.append(frame.getLineNumber()); sb.append("</line>\n"); } sb.append(" </frame>\n"); } sb.append(" </exception>\n"); } sb.append("</record>\n"); return sb.toString(); } /** * Return the header string for a set of XML formatted records. * * @param h The target handler (can be null) * @return a valid XML string */ public String getHead(Handler h) { StringBuffer sb = new StringBuffer(); String encoding; sb.append("<?xml version=\"1.0\""); if (h != null) { encoding = h.getEncoding(); } else { encoding = null; } if (encoding == null) { // Figure out the default encoding. encoding = java.nio.charset.Charset.defaultCharset().name(); } // Try to map the encoding name to a canonical name. try { Charset cs = Charset.forName(encoding); encoding = cs.name(); } catch (Exception ex) { // We hit problems finding a canonical name. // Just use the raw encoding name. } sb.append(" encoding=\""); sb.append(encoding); sb.append("\""); sb.append(" standalone=\"no\"?>\n"); sb.append("<!DOCTYPE log SYSTEM \"logger.dtd\">\n"); sb.append("<log>\n"); return sb.toString(); } /** * Return the tail string for a set of XML formatted records. * * @param h The target handler (can be null) * @return a valid XML string */ public String getTail(Handler h) { return "</log>\n"; } }
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
Passage 1: Huntington Union Free School District The Huntington Union - Free School District is a school district in Huntington, New York. There are eight schools in the district. Students in kindergarten through grade 4 are situated at Flower Hill Primary, Jefferson Primary, Southdown Primary and Washington Primary Schools. The Jack Abrams STEM Magnet School includes students in grades 3-6 from throughout the district. Woodhull Intermediate School houses students in grades 5 and 6. J. Taylor Finley Middle School serves students in grades 7 and 8. Huntington High School serves students in grades 9 through 12. Passage 2: Peters Township High School Peters Township High School is a public high school in McMurray, Pennsylvania, United States. It was built in 1968 and renovated in 1981. In January 2001, a 16-month, $24 million renovation was completed. The high school includes students from grades 9 through 12. It is located about 15 miles south of Pittsburgh. Passage 3: O'Bannon High School Norma C. O'Bannon High School (known as O'Bannon High School) is a public junior and senior high school located in unincorporated Washington County, Mississippi, USA, adjacent to Greenville. The school is part of the Western Line School District. The school includes students in grades 7 through 12. Passage 4: Northern Valley Regional High School at Demarest Northern Valley Regional High School at Demarest is a comprehensive four-year public high school serving students from several municipalities in Bergen County, New Jersey, United States. The high school serves students from the suburban communities of Closter, Demarest and Haworth. The school is one of two high schools that are part of the Northern Valley Regional High School District, the other being Northern Valley Regional High School at Old Tappan, which serves students Harrington Park, Northvale, Norwood and Old Tappan, along with students from Rockleigh, who attend as part of a sending/receiving relationship. Passage 5: Plymouth, New Hampshire Plymouth is a town in Grafton County, New Hampshire, United States, in the White Mountains Region. Plymouth is located at the convergence of the Pemigewasset and Baker rivers. The population was 6,990 at the 2010 census. The town is home to Plymouth State University, Speare Memorial Hospital, and Plymouth Regional High School. Passage 6: Timberlane Regional High School Timberlane Regional High School is located in Plaistow, New Hampshire, and serves as a regional high school for the towns of Atkinson, Danville, Plaistow, and Sandown, New Hampshire. The school was built in 1966 and is a part of the Timberlane Regional School District. Timberlane Regional High School is a co-educational school for grades 9-12. The school has won the 1996, 1997 and 2014 Excellence In Education Award. As of 2005, the school has approximately 1,400 students on roll. The school mascot is the owl. The school is regionally accredited for its award-winning wrestling team, which holds 23 NH State Wrestling Champions titles, as of 2015. Passage 7: Australian International School Singapore The Australian International School (AIS), in Singapore is a co-educational international school in Singapore. The school is owned by Cognita. AIS is made up of three sub-schools; Early Years, an Elementary School and a Secondary School. Early Years is for children aged 18 months to 5 years. The Elementary School includes students in Prep to Year 5. The Secondary School includes Year 6 to Year 12. Passage 8: Waterville Valley, New Hampshire Waterville Valley is a town in Grafton County, New Hampshire, United States. The population was 247 at the 2010 census. Passage 9: Plymouth Regional High School (New Hampshire) Plymouth Regional High School (PRHS) is a public secondary school in Plymouth, New Hampshire, United States. Surrounding towns that attend PRHS are Ashland, Holderness, Campton, Rumney, Wentworth, Warren, Ellsworth, Waterville Valley and Thornton. Bruce Parsons is the current principal. The facility, opened in 1970, is located on Old Ward Bridge Road in Plymouth. It also housed Plymouth Elementary School until 1990. Plymouth Regional was known as Plymouth Area High School until 1991. The school colors are navy blue and white. Passage 10: Warren Hills Regional High School Warren Hills Regional High School is a four-year public high school located on Jackson Valley Road in Washington Township in Warren County, New Jersey, United States, operating as part of the Warren Hills Regional School District. The school offers a comprehensive education for students in ninth through twelfth grades. The student population includes students from Franklin Township, Mansfield Township, Oxford Township, Washington Borough and Washington Township. Question: Plymouth Regional High School includes students from a town in Grafton County, New Hampshire that had a population of 247 in what census year? Answer: 2010
{ "task_name": "hotpotqa" }
import unittest from datetime import datetime from django.test import SimpleTestCase, ignore_warnings from django.utils.datastructures import MultiValueDict from django.utils.deprecation import RemovedInDjango30Warning from django.utils.http import ( base36_to_int, cookie_date, escape_leading_slashes, http_date, int_to_base36, is_safe_url, is_same_domain, parse_etags, parse_http_date, quote_etag, urlencode, urlquote, urlquote_plus, urlsafe_base64_decode, urlsafe_base64_encode, urlunquote, urlunquote_plus, ) class URLEncodeTests(unittest.TestCase): def test_tuples(self): self.assertEqual(urlencode((('a', 1), ('b', 2), ('c', 3))), 'a=1&b=2&c=3') def test_dict(self): result = urlencode({'a': 1, 'b': 2, 'c': 3}) # Dictionaries are treated as unordered. self.assertIn(result, [ 'a=1&b=2&c=3', 'a=1&c=3&b=2', 'b=2&a=1&c=3', 'b=2&c=3&a=1', 'c=3&a=1&b=2', 'c=3&b=2&a=1', ]) def test_dict_containing_sequence_not_doseq(self): self.assertEqual(urlencode({'a': [1, 2]}, doseq=False), 'a=%5B%271%27%2C+%272%27%5D') def test_dict_containing_sequence_doseq(self): self.assertEqual(urlencode({'a': [1, 2]}, doseq=True), 'a=1&a=2') def test_dict_containing_empty_sequence_doseq(self): self.assertEqual(urlencode({'a': []}, doseq=True), '') def test_multivaluedict(self): result = urlencode(MultiValueDict({ 'name': ['Adrian', 'Simon'], 'position': ['Developer'], }), doseq=True) # MultiValueDicts are similarly unordered. self.assertIn(result, [ 'name=Adrian&name=Simon&position=Developer', 'position=Developer&name=Adrian&name=Simon', ]) def test_dict_with_bytes_values(self): self.assertEqual(urlencode({'a': b'abc'}, doseq=True), 'a=abc') def test_dict_with_sequence_of_bytes(self): self.assertEqual(urlencode({'a': [b'spam', b'eggs', b'bacon']}, doseq=True), 'a=spam&a=eggs&a=bacon') def test_dict_with_bytearray(self): self.assertEqual(urlencode({'a': bytearray(range(2))}, doseq=True), 'a=0&a=1') self.assertEqual(urlencode({'a': bytearray(range(2))}, doseq=False), 'a=%5B%270%27%2C+%271%27%5D') def test_generator(self): def gen(): yield from range(2) self.assertEqual(urlencode({'a': gen()}, doseq=True), 'a=0&a=1') self.assertEqual(urlencode({'a': gen()}, doseq=False), 'a=%5B%270%27%2C+%271%27%5D') class Base36IntTests(SimpleTestCase): def test_roundtrip(self): for n in [0, 1, 1000, 1000000]: self.assertEqual(n, base36_to_int(int_to_base36(n))) def test_negative_input(self): with self.assertRaisesMessage(ValueError, 'Negative base36 conversion input.'): int_to_base36(-1) def test_to_base36_errors(self): for n in ['1', 'foo', {1: 2}, (1, 2, 3), 3.141]: with self.assertRaises(TypeError): int_to_base36(n) def test_invalid_literal(self): for n in ['#', ' ']: with self.assertRaisesMessage(ValueError, "invalid literal for int() with base 36: '%s'" % n): base36_to_int(n) def test_input_too_large(self): with self.assertRaisesMessage(ValueError, 'Base36 input too large'): base36_to_int('1' * 14) def test_to_int_errors(self): for n in [123, {1: 2}, (1, 2, 3), 3.141]: with self.assertRaises(TypeError): base36_to_int(n) def test_values(self): for n, b36 in [(0, '0'), (1, '1'), (42, '16'), (818469960, 'django')]: self.assertEqual(int_to_base36(n), b36) self.assertEqual(base36_to_int(b36), n) class IsSafeURLTests(unittest.TestCase): def test_bad_urls(self): bad_urls = ( 'http://example.com', 'http:///example.com', 'https://example.com', 'ftp://example.com', r'\\example.com', r'\\\example.com', r'/\\/example.com', r'\\\example.com', r'\\example.com', r'\\//example.com', r'/\/example.com', r'\/example.com', r'/\example.com', 'http:///example.com', r'http:/\//example.com', r'http:\/example.com', r'http:/\example.com', 'javascript:alert("XSS")', '\njavascript:alert(x)', '\x08//example.com', r'http://otherserver\@example.com', r'http:\\testserver\@example.com', r'http://testserver\me:[email protected]', r'http://testserver\@example.com', r'http:\\testserver\confirm\[email protected]', 'http:999999999', 'ftp:9999999999', '\n', 'http://[2001:cdba:0000:0000:0000:0000:3257:9652/', 'http://2001:cdba:0000:0000:0000:0000:3257:9652]/', ) for bad_url in bad_urls: with self.subTest(url=bad_url): self.assertIs(is_safe_url(bad_url, allowed_hosts={'testserver', 'testserver2'}), False) def test_good_urls(self): good_urls = ( '/view/?param=http://example.com', '/view/?param=https://example.com', '/view?param=ftp://example.com', 'view/?param=//example.com', 'https://testserver/', 'HTTPS://testserver/', '//testserver/', 'http://testserver/[email protected]', '/url%20with%20spaces/', 'path/http:2222222222', ) for good_url in good_urls: with self.subTest(url=good_url): self.assertIs(is_safe_url(good_url, allowed_hosts={'otherserver', 'testserver'}), True) def test_basic_auth(self): # Valid basic auth credentials are allowed. self.assertIs(is_safe_url(r'http://user:pass@testserver/', allowed_hosts={'user:pass@testserver'}), True) def test_no_allowed_hosts(self): # A path without host is allowed. self.assertIs(is_safe_url('/confirm/[email protected]', allowed_hosts=None), True) # Basic auth without host is not allowed. self.assertIs(is_safe_url(r'http://testserver\@example.com', allowed_hosts=None), False) def test_allowed_hosts_str(self): self.assertIs(is_safe_url('http://good.com/good', allowed_hosts='good.com'), True) self.assertIs(is_safe_url('http://good.co/evil', allowed_hosts='good.com'), False) def test_secure_param_https_urls(self): secure_urls = ( 'https://example.com/p', 'HTTPS://example.com/p', '/view/?param=http://example.com', ) for url in secure_urls: with self.subTest(url=url): self.assertIs(is_safe_url(url, allowed_hosts={'example.com'}, require_https=True), True) def test_secure_param_non_https_urls(self): insecure_urls = ( 'http://example.com/p', 'ftp://example.com/p', '//example.com/p', ) for url in insecure_urls: with self.subTest(url=url): self.assertIs(is_safe_url(url, allowed_hosts={'example.com'}, require_https=True), False) class URLSafeBase64Tests(unittest.TestCase): def test_roundtrip(self): bytestring = b'foo' encoded = urlsafe_base64_encode(bytestring) decoded = urlsafe_base64_decode(encoded) self.assertEqual(bytestring, decoded) class URLQuoteTests(unittest.TestCase): def test_quote(self): self.assertEqual(urlquote('Paris & Orl\xe9ans'), 'Paris%20%26%20Orl%C3%A9ans') self.assertEqual(urlquote('Paris & Orl\xe9ans', safe="&"), 'Paris%20&%20Orl%C3%A9ans') def test_unquote(self): self.assertEqual(urlunquote('Paris%20%26%20Orl%C3%A9ans'), 'Paris & Orl\xe9ans') self.assertEqual(urlunquote('Paris%20&%20Orl%C3%A9ans'), 'Paris & Orl\xe9ans') def test_quote_plus(self): self.assertEqual(urlquote_plus('Paris & Orl\xe9ans'), 'Paris+%26+Orl%C3%A9ans') self.assertEqual(urlquote_plus('Paris & Orl\xe9ans', safe="&"), 'Paris+&+Orl%C3%A9ans') def test_unquote_plus(self): self.assertEqual(urlunquote_plus('Paris+%26+Orl%C3%A9ans'), 'Paris & Orl\xe9ans') self.assertEqual(urlunquote_plus('Paris+&+Orl%C3%A9ans'), 'Paris & Orl\xe9ans') class IsSameDomainTests(unittest.TestCase): def test_good(self): for pair in ( ('example.com', 'example.com'), ('example.com', '.example.com'), ('foo.example.com', '.example.com'), ('example.com:8888', 'example.com:8888'), ('example.com:8888', '.example.com:8888'), ('foo.example.com:8888', '.example.com:8888'), ): self.assertIs(is_same_domain(*pair), True) def test_bad(self): for pair in ( ('example2.com', 'example.com'), ('foo.example.com', 'example.com'), ('example.com:9999', 'example.com:8888'), ): self.assertIs(is_same_domain(*pair), False) class ETagProcessingTests(unittest.TestCase): def test_parsing(self): self.assertEqual( parse_etags(r'"" , "etag", "e\\tag", W/"weak"'), ['""', '"etag"', r'"e\\tag"', 'W/"weak"'] ) self.assertEqual(parse_etags('*'), ['*']) # Ignore RFC 2616 ETags that are invalid according to RFC 7232. self.assertEqual(parse_etags(r'"etag", "e\"t\"ag"'), ['"etag"']) def test_quoting(self): self.assertEqual(quote_etag('etag'), '"etag"') # unquoted self.assertEqual(quote_etag('"etag"'), '"etag"') # quoted self.assertEqual(quote_etag('W/"etag"'), 'W/"etag"') # quoted, weak class HttpDateProcessingTests(unittest.TestCase): def test_http_date(self): t = 1167616461.0 self.assertEqual(http_date(t), 'Mon, 01 Jan 2007 01:54:21 GMT') @ignore_warnings(category=RemovedInDjango30Warning) def test_cookie_date(self): t = 1167616461.0 self.assertEqual(cookie_date(t), 'Mon, 01-Jan-2007 01:54:21 GMT') def test_parsing_rfc1123(self): parsed = parse_http_date('Sun, 06 Nov 1994 08:49:37 GMT') self.assertEqual(datetime.utcfromtimestamp(parsed), datetime(1994, 11, 6, 8, 49, 37)) def test_parsing_rfc850(self): parsed = parse_http_date('Sunday, 06-Nov-94 08:49:37 GMT') self.assertEqual(datetime.utcfromtimestamp(parsed), datetime(1994, 11, 6, 8, 49, 37)) def test_parsing_asctime(self): parsed = parse_http_date('Sun Nov 6 08:49:37 1994') self.assertEqual(datetime.utcfromtimestamp(parsed), datetime(1994, 11, 6, 8, 49, 37)) class EscapeLeadingSlashesTests(unittest.TestCase): def test(self): tests = ( ('//example.com', '/%2Fexample.com'), ('//', '/%2F'), ) for url, expected in tests: with self.subTest(url=url): self.assertEqual(escape_leading_slashes(url), expected)
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
# # Licensed to the Apache Software Foundation (ASF) under one or more # contributor license agreements. See the NOTICE file distributed with # this work for additional information regarding copyright ownership. # The ASF licenses this file to You under the Apache License, Version 2.0 # (the "License"); you may not use this file except in compliance with # the License. You may obtain a copy of the License at # # http://www.apache.org/licenses/LICENSE-2.0 # # Unless required by applicable law or agreed to in writing, software # distributed under the License is distributed on an "AS IS" BASIS, # WITHOUT WARRANTIES OR CONDITIONS OF ANY KIND, either express or implied. # See the License for the specific language governing permissions and # limitations under the License. # import datetime import math import os import shutil import tempfile from contextlib import contextmanager from pyspark.sql import SparkSession from pyspark.sql.types import ArrayType, DoubleType, UserDefinedType, Row from pyspark.testing.utils import ReusedPySparkTestCase pandas_requirement_message = None try: from pyspark.sql.pandas.utils import require_minimum_pandas_version require_minimum_pandas_version() except ImportError as e: # If Pandas version requirement is not satisfied, skip related tests. pandas_requirement_message = str(e) pyarrow_requirement_message = None try: from pyspark.sql.pandas.utils import require_minimum_pyarrow_version require_minimum_pyarrow_version() except ImportError as e: # If Arrow version requirement is not satisfied, skip related tests. pyarrow_requirement_message = str(e) test_not_compiled_message = None try: from pyspark.sql.utils import require_test_compiled require_test_compiled() except Exception as e: test_not_compiled_message = str(e) have_pandas = pandas_requirement_message is None have_pyarrow = pyarrow_requirement_message is None test_compiled = test_not_compiled_message is None class UTCOffsetTimezone(datetime.tzinfo): """ Specifies timezone in UTC offset """ def __init__(self, offset=0): self.ZERO = datetime.timedelta(hours=offset) def utcoffset(self, dt): return self.ZERO def dst(self, dt): return self.ZERO class ExamplePointUDT(UserDefinedType): """ User-defined type (UDT) for ExamplePoint. """ @classmethod def sqlType(self): return ArrayType(DoubleType(), False) @classmethod def module(cls): return "pyspark.sql.tests" @classmethod def scalaUDT(cls): return "org.apache.spark.sql.test.ExamplePointUDT" def serialize(self, obj): return [obj.x, obj.y] def deserialize(self, datum): return ExamplePoint(datum[0], datum[1]) class ExamplePoint: """ An example class to demonstrate UDT in Scala, Java, and Python. """ __UDT__ = ExamplePointUDT() def __init__(self, x, y): self.x = x self.y = y def __repr__(self): return "ExamplePoint(%s,%s)" % (self.x, self.y) def __str__(self): return "(%s,%s)" % (self.x, self.y) def __eq__(self, other): return isinstance(other, self.__class__) and other.x == self.x and other.y == self.y class PythonOnlyUDT(UserDefinedType): """ User-defined type (UDT) for ExamplePoint. """ @classmethod def sqlType(self): return ArrayType(DoubleType(), False) @classmethod def module(cls): return "__main__" def serialize(self, obj): return [obj.x, obj.y] def deserialize(self, datum): return PythonOnlyPoint(datum[0], datum[1]) @staticmethod def foo(): pass @property def props(self): return {} class PythonOnlyPoint(ExamplePoint): """ An example class to demonstrate UDT in only Python """ __UDT__ = PythonOnlyUDT() # type: ignore class MyObject(object): def __init__(self, key, value): self.key = key self.value = value class SQLTestUtils(object): """ This util assumes the instance of this to have 'spark' attribute, having a spark session. It is usually used with 'ReusedSQLTestCase' class but can be used if you feel sure the the implementation of this class has 'spark' attribute. """ @contextmanager def sql_conf(self, pairs): """ A convenient context manager to test some configuration specific logic. This sets `value` to the configuration `key` and then restores it back when it exits. """ assert isinstance(pairs, dict), "pairs should be a dictionary." assert hasattr(self, "spark"), "it should have 'spark' attribute, having a spark session." keys = pairs.keys() new_values = pairs.values() old_values = [self.spark.conf.get(key, None) for key in keys] for key, new_value in zip(keys, new_values): self.spark.conf.set(key, new_value) try: yield finally: for key, old_value in zip(keys, old_values): if old_value is None: self.spark.conf.unset(key) else: self.spark.conf.set(key, old_value) @contextmanager def database(self, *databases): """ A convenient context manager to test with some specific databases. This drops the given databases if it exists and sets current database to "default" when it exits. """ assert hasattr(self, "spark"), "it should have 'spark' attribute, having a spark session." try: yield finally: for db in databases: self.spark.sql("DROP DATABASE IF EXISTS %s CASCADE" % db) self.spark.catalog.setCurrentDatabase("default") @contextmanager def table(self, *tables): """ A convenient context manager to test with some specific tables. This drops the given tables if it exists. """ assert hasattr(self, "spark"), "it should have 'spark' attribute, having a spark session." try: yield finally: for t in tables: self.spark.sql("DROP TABLE IF EXISTS %s" % t) @contextmanager def tempView(self, *views): """ A convenient context manager to test with some specific views. This drops the given views if it exists. """ assert hasattr(self, "spark"), "it should have 'spark' attribute, having a spark session." try: yield finally: for v in views: self.spark.catalog.dropTempView(v) @contextmanager def function(self, *functions): """ A convenient context manager to test with some specific functions. This drops the given functions if it exists. """ assert hasattr(self, "spark"), "it should have 'spark' attribute, having a spark session." try: yield finally: for f in functions: self.spark.sql("DROP FUNCTION IF EXISTS %s" % f) @staticmethod def assert_close(a, b): c = [j[0] for j in b] diff = [abs(v - c[k]) < 1e-6 if math.isfinite(v) else v == c[k] for k, v in enumerate(a)] return sum(diff) == len(a) class ReusedSQLTestCase(ReusedPySparkTestCase, SQLTestUtils): @classmethod def setUpClass(cls): super(ReusedSQLTestCase, cls).setUpClass() cls.spark = SparkSession(cls.sc) cls.tempdir = tempfile.NamedTemporaryFile(delete=False) os.unlink(cls.tempdir.name) cls.testData = [Row(key=i, value=str(i)) for i in range(100)] cls.df = cls.spark.createDataFrame(cls.testData) @classmethod def tearDownClass(cls): super(ReusedSQLTestCase, cls).tearDownClass() cls.spark.stop() shutil.rmtree(cls.tempdir.name, ignore_errors=True)
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
Document: He describes it as a “family theme park unsuitable for small children�? – and with the Grim Reaper whooping it up on the dodgems and Cinderella horribly mangled in a pumpkin carriage crash, it is easy to see why. Banksy’s new show, Dismaland, which opened on Thursday on the Weston-super-Mare seafront, is sometimes hilarious, sometimes eye-opening and occasionally breathtakingly shocking. Banksy's Dismaland: 'a theme park unsuitable for children' – in pictures Read more The artist’s biggest project to date had been shrouded in secrecy. Local residents and curious tourists were led to believe that the installations being built in a disused former lido called Tropicana were part of a film set for a Hollywood crime thriller called Grey Fox. The name is a play on Disneyland, but Banksy insisted the show was not a swipe at Mickey and co. “I banned any imagery of Mickey Mouse from the site,�? he said. “It’s a showcase for the best artists I could imagine, apart from the two who turned me down.�? Works by 58 handpicked artists including Damien Hirst and Jenny Holzer have been installed across the 2.5-acre site. Julie Burchill has rewritten Punch & Judy to give it a Jimmy Savile spin. Jimmy Cauty, once part of the KLF, is displaying his version of a fun model village complete with 3,000 riot police in the aftermath of major civil unrest. In one tent would-be anarchists can find out how to unlock the Adshel posters seen at bus stops. For £5 people can buy the tools to break into them, replacing the official posters with any propaganda they please. Is it legal? “It’s not illegal,�? said the vendor. Facebook Twitter Pinterest The Grim Reaper rides the dodgems at Dismaland. Photograph: Yui Mok/PA Across the way is a “pocket money loans�? shop offering money to children at an interest rate of 5,000%. In front of its counter is a small trampet so children can bounce up to read the outrageous small print drawn up by artist Darren Cullen. Cullen said he had met so many people taking out payday loans who were well aware of how ridiculous the payback was. “As the welfare state is retreating the market is filling the gap in a really predatory way. People are being saddled with insane amount of debt for years.�? Like other artists involved, he has never met Banksy, but he was delighted to be part of the show. “This place is brilliant. I only knew the minimum amount before I got here,�? he said, “but it is so cool. It is just amazing having this much sarcasm in one place.�? Facebook Twitter Pinterest The Comrades Advice Bureau, where people are shown how to get into bus stop advertising. Photograph: Alicia Canter for the Guardian Other highlights include the Jeffrey Archer Memorial Fire Pit where visitors can warm themselves around a daily burning of the local lord’s books; a model boat pond with dead bodies and overly crowded boats full of asylum seekers; and a puppet revue show constructed from the contents of Hackney skips. In the moat around the castle is an armour-plated riot control vehicle built to serve in Northern Ireland which is now a children’s slide. Banksy himself has created 10 new works, including the Cinderella crash in a large castle. Visitors walk in to discover the pumpkin carriage crashed, Cinderella and horses dead, and paparazzi madly taking photos. As people leave they will get their own souvenir photograph in front of the carnage. The artist has paid for everything himself but a spokeswoman was unable to say if he was recouping his costs or making a profit. The show will run until 27 September, for 36 days, with 4,000 tickets a day at £3 each all available to buy online at dismaland.co.uk. That amounts to just over £400,000, so it is difficult to see a great profit given the obvious expenses. Weston-super-Mare itself will undoubtedly benefit. The lido, which opened in 1937 and once boasted the highest diving boards in Europe, has been closed since 2000. Facebook Twitter Pinterest Banksy’s Cinderella crash scene. Photograph: David Levene for the Guardian Only four people at the local council knew about the project, one of those its Tory leader, Nigel Ashton. “There was no need for people to know,�? he said, although clearly someone had to say yes. “I gave it a lot of deep thought ... for about two and a half seconds. For a second I thought, ‘who is behind the wind up?’ because you don’t get that lucky. But how do you say no?�? The artist, who maintains his anonymity, called it “a festival of art, amusements and entry-level anarchism. This is an art show for the 99% who’d rather be at Alton Towers.�? There is much to laugh at – the “I am an imbecile�? helium balloons, the back-of-your-head caricature artist – but a big chunk of it is deadly serious and overtly political. Visitors will be welcomed by depressed staff in pink hi-vis jackets, all recruited when they answered a local paper ad for film extras. Even to get in requires going through a cardboard version of airport security, guards insisting that all squid be left behind. Word of the project’s true nature emerged this week and newspapers were initially asked not to report details so as not to “spoil the surprise�?. When a Guardian reporter visited on Tuesday, security guards shooed him away. Facebook Twitter Pinterest A Dismaland worker holding balloons. Photograph: Alicia Canter for the Guardian The first official confirmation of the project was made to the Weston Mercury on Thursday when it reported details of a “locals only�? day on Friday. Banksy told the Mercury: “I hope everyone from Weston will take the opportunity to once more stand in a puddle of murky water eating cold chips to the sound of crying children.�? The first journalists were allowed in on Thursday morning. Ironically, given Banksy’s mania for anonymity, photo ID was insisted upon. Demand for tickets is expected to be wildly high. A Banksy show at Bristol city museum in 2009 attracted more than 300,000 visitors over 12 weeks and was estimated to have generated £10m for the local economy. Facebook Twitter Pinterest Views of Dismaland. Organisers say the show will offer an escape from mindless escapism. What does it all mean? “I guess you’d say it’s a theme park whose big theme is – theme parks should have bigger themes,�? said Banksy. ||||| Play Facebook Twitter Google Plus Embed Banksy's 'Dismaland' Theme Park Exhibition Opens in the UK 0:34 autoplay autoplay Copy this code to your website or blog LONDON — A dystopian theme park masterminded by British artist Banksy said Friday its website had received six million hits, causing error messages for people attempting to buy tickets. The much-hyped "Dismaland" theme park in the English seaside town of Weston-super-Mare, 120 miles west of London, features a decaying castle and model boats full of refugees. People ride a carousel at 'Dismaland' on Thursday. TOBY MELVILLE / Reuters The "bemusement park" promises visitors "an alternative to the sugar-coated tedium of the average family day out," and bills itself wryly as "the UK's most disappointing new visitor attraction!" But as tickets went on sale at noon Friday (7 a.m. ET), people reported receiving error messages when attempting to buy them on the park's website. GALLERY: Banksy's Ironic 'Bemusement Park' Opens Dismaland spokeswoman Jo Brooks told NBC News' U.K. partner ITV News the site had not crashed, but the error was produced by too many people refreshing the page. "People should try again by 12 o'clock," she said before the tickets went on sale. "But don't keep hitting refresh." The park is the latest venture for the secretive British artist, whose identity has remained anonymous despite selling art for millions of dollars to celebrities such as Angelina Jollie and Brad Pitt. "Dismaland" was only open to 1,000 local residents Friday, who were able to gain entry with a utility bill to prove their address. Tickets cost £3 (around $4.70) and the general public will be able to visit from Saturday until September 27. A sculpture at 'Dismaland.' TOBY MELVILLE / Reuters But with online ticket purchases unavailable, a large crowd gathered along the seafront in an attempt to gain entry to the attraction, which is situated on the grounds of a disused outdoor swimming pool. "There's a [line] as far as I can see," Brooks added. ||||| Published on Aug 20, 2015 Banksy has been secretly assembling his own Disneyland-inspired creation in this West Country seaside town, and it's not exactly the happiest place on Earth. Dismaland, which opens to the public Saturday and sits on the 2.5 acre site of the Tropicana lido, is the shadowy artist's first "bemusement park," and it's packed full of subversive artworks. Full story: http://on.mash.to/1UkMyW9 http://www.mashable.com LIKE us on FACEBOOK: http://facebook.com/mashable.video FOLLOW us on TWITTER: http://twitter.com/mashablevideo FOLLOW us on TUMBLR: http://mashable.tumblr.com FOLLOW our INSTAGRAM: http://instagram.com/mashable JOIN our circle on GOOGLE PLUS: http://plus.google.com/+Mashable Subscribe!: http://bit.ly/1ko5eNd Mashable is the leading independent news site for all things tech, social media, and internet culture. http://www.youtube.com/mashable ||||| Friday 21st August – Locals only See local press for details. Book tickets for the next 10 days from Friday 21st. Tickets – how it works Pre-booked Choose a daytime or evening session. Buy a timed ticket here and you’ll receive a secure online ticket you can either print out or take to the door on a mobile device. On the door Tickets can be bought on the day from the cabin on the grass opposite the park. There are a limited number available for immediate entry, the rest are ‘one out one in’ so may be subject to queueing. Open everyday from 22nd August – 27th September 2015. 11am – 6pm with a day ticket 7pm – 11pm with an evening ticket Summary: – Cinderella's carriage has crashed, she and the horses are dead, and the paparazzi are hovering over their bodies, snapping away. That's just one attraction in Dismaland, the new Banksy art show in the English resort town of Weston-super-Mare, the Guardian reports. Nearly 60 artists built what Banksy calls "a festival of art, amusements, and entry-level anarchism" (subtitle: "a family theme park unsuitable for small children"); Banksy himself created 10 of the works, including the Cinderella wreckage. True to Banksy form, the "park" features exhibits that combine black humor and politics: There's a model village with 3,000 riot police after an episode of civil unrest, a shop offering kids "pocket money loans" at a 5,000% interest rate, a fire pit where a "lord" burns books daily, and boats crammed with people seeking asylum. There are some frivolous exhibits, too, including balloons that say "I am an imbecile" and a caricaturist who draws the back of customers' heads. The park, open to the public tomorrow, was shrouded in secrecy, with locals thinking it was a Hollywood film set. Even the staff didn't know: They answered an ad looking for extras for the film. Tickets (up to 4,000 sold daily) cost less than $5, so the Guardian isn't sure Banksy, who funded the show himself, is making a profit or even breaking even based on the money that surely went into the show, which runs through Sept. 27. It seems there's interest in the park: NBC News reports people were having trouble this morning buying tickets online because too many were refreshing the Dismaland website, per a spokeswoman. (Could Banksy actually be a woman?)
{ "task_name": "multi_news" }
After World War II, eastern European countries such as the Soviet Union, Poland, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Romania and Yugoslavia expelled the Germans from their territories. Many of those had inhabited these lands for centuries, developing a unique culture. Germans were also forced to leave the former eastern territories of Germany, which were annexed by Poland (Silesia, Pomerania, parts of Brandenburg and southern part of East Prussia) and the Soviet Union (northern part of East Prussia). Between 12 and 16,5 million ethnic Germans and German citizens were expelled westwards to allied-occupied Germany. Question: With the conclusion of World War 2 what did most Eastern Europe countries do with their German citizens? Answer: expelled the Germans Question: How long did many of the Germans live in the eastern Europe countries before being expelled? Answer: for centuries Question: Approximately how many Germans were expelled from their home after world war II? Answer: 12 and 16,5 million ethnic Germans and German citizens Question: After World War II where were Germans forced to relocate to? Answer: westwards to allied-occupied Germany Question: How many Germans were expelled after WWII? Answer: Between 12 and 16,5 million Question: After what war were Germans expelled from their territories? Answer: World War II Question: Where were Germans that were inhabiting other lands expelled to? Answer: allied-occupied Germany
{ "task_name": "squadv2" }
/** * Copyright (c) Microsoft Corporation. All rights reserved. * Licensed under the MIT License. See License.txt in the project root for * license information. * * Code generated by Microsoft (R) AutoRest Code Generator. */ package com.microsoft.azure.management.loganalytics.v2020_08_01.implementation; import retrofit2.Retrofit; import com.google.common.reflect.TypeToken; import com.microsoft.azure.management.loganalytics.v2020_08_01.DataExportErrorResponseException; import com.microsoft.rest.ServiceCallback; import com.microsoft.rest.ServiceFuture; import com.microsoft.rest.ServiceResponse; import com.microsoft.rest.Validator; import java.io.IOException; import java.util.List; import okhttp3.ResponseBody; import retrofit2.http.Body; import retrofit2.http.GET; import retrofit2.http.Header; import retrofit2.http.Headers; import retrofit2.http.HTTP; import retrofit2.http.Path; import retrofit2.http.PUT; import retrofit2.http.Query; import retrofit2.Response; import rx.functions.Func1; import rx.Observable; /** * An instance of this class provides access to all the operations defined * in DataExports. */ public class DataExportsInner { /** The Retrofit service to perform REST calls. */ private DataExportsService service; /** The service client containing this operation class. */ private OperationalInsightsManagementClientImpl client; /** * Initializes an instance of DataExportsInner. * * @param retrofit the Retrofit instance built from a Retrofit Builder. * @param client the instance of the service client containing this operation class. */ public DataExportsInner(Retrofit retrofit, OperationalInsightsManagementClientImpl client) { this.service = retrofit.create(DataExportsService.class); this.client = client; } /** * The interface defining all the services for DataExports to be * used by Retrofit to perform actually REST calls. */ interface DataExportsService { @Headers({ "Content-Type: application/json; charset=utf-8", "x-ms-logging-context: com.microsoft.azure.management.loganalytics.v2020_08_01.DataExports listByWorkspace" }) @GET("subscriptions/{subscriptionId}/resourcegroups/{resourceGroupName}/providers/Microsoft.OperationalInsights/workspaces/{workspaceName}/dataExports") Observable<Response<ResponseBody>> listByWorkspace(@Path("subscriptionId") String subscriptionId, @Path("resourceGroupName") String resourceGroupName, @Path("workspaceName") String workspaceName, @Query("api-version") String apiVersion, @Header("accept-language") String acceptLanguage, @Header("User-Agent") String userAgent); @Headers({ "Content-Type: application/json; charset=utf-8", "x-ms-logging-context: com.microsoft.azure.management.loganalytics.v2020_08_01.DataExports createOrUpdate" }) @PUT("subscriptions/{subscriptionId}/resourcegroups/{resourceGroupName}/providers/Microsoft.OperationalInsights/workspaces/{workspaceName}/dataExports/{dataExportName}") Observable<Response<ResponseBody>> createOrUpdate(@Path("subscriptionId") String subscriptionId, @Path("resourceGroupName") String resourceGroupName, @Path("workspaceName") String workspaceName, @Path("dataExportName") String dataExportName, @Query("api-version") String apiVersion, @Body DataExportInner parameters, @Header("accept-language") String acceptLanguage, @Header("User-Agent") String userAgent); @Headers({ "Content-Type: application/json; charset=utf-8", "x-ms-logging-context: com.microsoft.azure.management.loganalytics.v2020_08_01.DataExports get" }) @GET("subscriptions/{subscriptionId}/resourcegroups/{resourceGroupName}/providers/Microsoft.OperationalInsights/workspaces/{workspaceName}/dataExports/{dataExportName}") Observable<Response<ResponseBody>> get(@Path("subscriptionId") String subscriptionId, @Path("resourceGroupName") String resourceGroupName, @Path("workspaceName") String workspaceName, @Path("dataExportName") String dataExportName, @Query("api-version") String apiVersion, @Header("accept-language") String acceptLanguage, @Header("User-Agent") String userAgent); @Headers({ "Content-Type: application/json; charset=utf-8", "x-ms-logging-context: com.microsoft.azure.management.loganalytics.v2020_08_01.DataExports delete" }) @HTTP(path = "subscriptions/{subscriptionId}/resourcegroups/{resourceGroupName}/providers/Microsoft.OperationalInsights/workspaces/{workspaceName}/dataExports/{dataExportName}", method = "DELETE", hasBody = true) Observable<Response<ResponseBody>> delete(@Path("subscriptionId") String subscriptionId, @Path("resourceGroupName") String resourceGroupName, @Path("workspaceName") String workspaceName, @Path("dataExportName") String dataExportName, @Query("api-version") String apiVersion, @Header("accept-language") String acceptLanguage, @Header("User-Agent") String userAgent); } /** * Lists the data export instances within a workspace. * * @param resourceGroupName The name of the resource group. The name is case insensitive. * @param workspaceName The name of the workspace. * @throws IllegalArgumentException thrown if parameters fail the validation * @throws DataExportErrorResponseException thrown if the request is rejected by server * @throws RuntimeException all other wrapped checked exceptions if the request fails to be sent * @return the List&lt;DataExportInner&gt; object if successful. */ public List<DataExportInner> listByWorkspace(String resourceGroupName, String workspaceName) { return listByWorkspaceWithServiceResponseAsync(resourceGroupName, workspaceName).toBlocking().single().body(); } /** * Lists the data export instances within a workspace. * * @param resourceGroupName The name of the resource group. The name is case insensitive. * @param workspaceName The name of the workspace. * @param serviceCallback the async ServiceCallback to handle successful and failed responses. * @throws IllegalArgumentException thrown if parameters fail the validation * @return the {@link ServiceFuture} object */ public ServiceFuture<List<DataExportInner>> listByWorkspaceAsync(String resourceGroupName, String workspaceName, final ServiceCallback<List<DataExportInner>> serviceCallback) { return ServiceFuture.fromResponse(listByWorkspaceWithServiceResponseAsync(resourceGroupName, workspaceName), serviceCallback); } /** * Lists the data export instances within a workspace. * * @param resourceGroupName The name of the resource group. The name is case insensitive. * @param workspaceName The name of the workspace. * @throws IllegalArgumentException thrown if parameters fail the validation * @return the observable to the List&lt;DataExportInner&gt; object */ public Observable<List<DataExportInner>> listByWorkspaceAsync(String resourceGroupName, String workspaceName) { return listByWorkspaceWithServiceResponseAsync(resourceGroupName, workspaceName).map(new Func1<ServiceResponse<List<DataExportInner>>, List<DataExportInner>>() { @Override public List<DataExportInner> call(ServiceResponse<List<DataExportInner>> response) { return response.body(); } }); } /** * Lists the data export instances within a workspace. * * @param resourceGroupName The name of the resource group. The name is case insensitive. * @param workspaceName The name of the workspace. * @throws IllegalArgumentException thrown if parameters fail the validation * @return the observable to the List&lt;DataExportInner&gt; object */ public Observable<ServiceResponse<List<DataExportInner>>> listByWorkspaceWithServiceResponseAsync(String resourceGroupName, String workspaceName) { if (this.client.subscriptionId() == null) { throw new IllegalArgumentException("Parameter this.client.subscriptionId() is required and cannot be null."); } if (resourceGroupName == null) { throw new IllegalArgumentException("Parameter resourceGroupName is required and cannot be null."); } if (workspaceName == null) { throw new IllegalArgumentException("Parameter workspaceName is required and cannot be null."); } if (this.client.apiVersion() == null) { throw new IllegalArgumentException("Parameter this.client.apiVersion() is required and cannot be null."); } return service.listByWorkspace(this.client.subscriptionId(), resourceGroupName, workspaceName, this.client.apiVersion(), this.client.acceptLanguage(), this.client.userAgent()) .flatMap(new Func1<Response<ResponseBody>, Observable<ServiceResponse<List<DataExportInner>>>>() { @Override public Observable<ServiceResponse<List<DataExportInner>>> call(Response<ResponseBody> response) { try { ServiceResponse<PageImpl<DataExportInner>> result = listByWorkspaceDelegate(response); List<DataExportInner> items = null; if (result.body() != null) { items = result.body().items(); } ServiceResponse<List<DataExportInner>> clientResponse = new ServiceResponse<List<DataExportInner>>(items, result.response()); return Observable.just(clientResponse); } catch (Throwable t) { return Observable.error(t); } } }); } private ServiceResponse<PageImpl<DataExportInner>> listByWorkspaceDelegate(Response<ResponseBody> response) throws DataExportErrorResponseException, IOException, IllegalArgumentException { return this.client.restClient().responseBuilderFactory().<PageImpl<DataExportInner>, DataExportErrorResponseException>newInstance(this.client.serializerAdapter()) .register(200, new TypeToken<PageImpl<DataExportInner>>() { }.getType()) .registerError(DataExportErrorResponseException.class) .build(response); } /** * Create or update a data export. * * @param resourceGroupName The name of the resource group. The name is case insensitive. * @param workspaceName The name of the workspace. * @param dataExportName The data export rule name. * @param parameters The parameters required to create or update a data export. * @throws IllegalArgumentException thrown if parameters fail the validation * @throws DataExportErrorResponseException thrown if the request is rejected by server * @throws RuntimeException all other wrapped checked exceptions if the request fails to be sent * @return the DataExportInner object if successful. */ public DataExportInner createOrUpdate(String resourceGroupName, String workspaceName, String dataExportName, DataExportInner parameters) { return createOrUpdateWithServiceResponseAsync(resourceGroupName, workspaceName, dataExportName, parameters).toBlocking().single().body(); } /** * Create or update a data export. * * @param resourceGroupName The name of the resource group. The name is case insensitive. * @param workspaceName The name of the workspace. * @param dataExportName The data export rule name. * @param parameters The parameters required to create or update a data export. * @param serviceCallback the async ServiceCallback to handle successful and failed responses. * @throws IllegalArgumentException thrown if parameters fail the validation * @return the {@link ServiceFuture} object */ public ServiceFuture<DataExportInner> createOrUpdateAsync(String resourceGroupName, String workspaceName, String dataExportName, DataExportInner parameters, final ServiceCallback<DataExportInner> serviceCallback) { return ServiceFuture.fromResponse(createOrUpdateWithServiceResponseAsync(resourceGroupName, workspaceName, dataExportName, parameters), serviceCallback); } /** * Create or update a data export. * * @param resourceGroupName The name of the resource group. The name is case insensitive. * @param workspaceName The name of the workspace. * @param dataExportName The data export rule name. * @param parameters The parameters required to create or update a data export. * @throws IllegalArgumentException thrown if parameters fail the validation * @return the observable to the DataExportInner object */ public Observable<DataExportInner> createOrUpdateAsync(String resourceGroupName, String workspaceName, String dataExportName, DataExportInner parameters) { return createOrUpdateWithServiceResponseAsync(resourceGroupName, workspaceName, dataExportName, parameters).map(new Func1<ServiceResponse<DataExportInner>, DataExportInner>() { @Override public DataExportInner call(ServiceResponse<DataExportInner> response) { return response.body(); } }); } /** * Create or update a data export. * * @param resourceGroupName The name of the resource group. The name is case insensitive. * @param workspaceName The name of the workspace. * @param dataExportName The data export rule name. * @param parameters The parameters required to create or update a data export. * @throws IllegalArgumentException thrown if parameters fail the validation * @return the observable to the DataExportInner object */ public Observable<ServiceResponse<DataExportInner>> createOrUpdateWithServiceResponseAsync(String resourceGroupName, String workspaceName, String dataExportName, DataExportInner parameters) { if (this.client.subscriptionId() == null) { throw new IllegalArgumentException("Parameter this.client.subscriptionId() is required and cannot be null."); } if (resourceGroupName == null) { throw new IllegalArgumentException("Parameter resourceGroupName is required and cannot be null."); } if (workspaceName == null) { throw new IllegalArgumentException("Parameter workspaceName is required and cannot be null."); } if (dataExportName == null) { throw new IllegalArgumentException("Parameter dataExportName is required and cannot be null."); } if (this.client.apiVersion() == null) { throw new IllegalArgumentException("Parameter this.client.apiVersion() is required and cannot be null."); } if (parameters == null) { throw new IllegalArgumentException("Parameter parameters is required and cannot be null."); } Validator.validate(parameters); return service.createOrUpdate(this.client.subscriptionId(), resourceGroupName, workspaceName, dataExportName, this.client.apiVersion(), parameters, this.client.acceptLanguage(), this.client.userAgent()) .flatMap(new Func1<Response<ResponseBody>, Observable<ServiceResponse<DataExportInner>>>() { @Override public Observable<ServiceResponse<DataExportInner>> call(Response<ResponseBody> response) { try { ServiceResponse<DataExportInner> clientResponse = createOrUpdateDelegate(response); return Observable.just(clientResponse); } catch (Throwable t) { return Observable.error(t); } } }); } private ServiceResponse<DataExportInner> createOrUpdateDelegate(Response<ResponseBody> response) throws DataExportErrorResponseException, IOException, IllegalArgumentException { return this.client.restClient().responseBuilderFactory().<DataExportInner, DataExportErrorResponseException>newInstance(this.client.serializerAdapter()) .register(200, new TypeToken<DataExportInner>() { }.getType()) .register(201, new TypeToken<DataExportInner>() { }.getType()) .registerError(DataExportErrorResponseException.class) .build(response); } /** * Gets a data export instance. * * @param resourceGroupName The name of the resource group. The name is case insensitive. * @param workspaceName The name of the workspace. * @param dataExportName The data export rule name. * @throws IllegalArgumentException thrown if parameters fail the validation * @throws DataExportErrorResponseException thrown if the request is rejected by server * @throws RuntimeException all other wrapped checked exceptions if the request fails to be sent * @return the DataExportInner object if successful. */ public DataExportInner get(String resourceGroupName, String workspaceName, String dataExportName) { return getWithServiceResponseAsync(resourceGroupName, workspaceName, dataExportName).toBlocking().single().body(); } /** * Gets a data export instance. * * @param resourceGroupName The name of the resource group. The name is case insensitive. * @param workspaceName The name of the workspace. * @param dataExportName The data export rule name. * @param serviceCallback the async ServiceCallback to handle successful and failed responses. * @throws IllegalArgumentException thrown if parameters fail the validation * @return the {@link ServiceFuture} object */ public ServiceFuture<DataExportInner> getAsync(String resourceGroupName, String workspaceName, String dataExportName, final ServiceCallback<DataExportInner> serviceCallback) { return ServiceFuture.fromResponse(getWithServiceResponseAsync(resourceGroupName, workspaceName, dataExportName), serviceCallback); } /** * Gets a data export instance. * * @param resourceGroupName The name of the resource group. The name is case insensitive. * @param workspaceName The name of the workspace. * @param dataExportName The data export rule name. * @throws IllegalArgumentException thrown if parameters fail the validation * @return the observable to the DataExportInner object */ public Observable<DataExportInner> getAsync(String resourceGroupName, String workspaceName, String dataExportName) { return getWithServiceResponseAsync(resourceGroupName, workspaceName, dataExportName).map(new Func1<ServiceResponse<DataExportInner>, DataExportInner>() { @Override public DataExportInner call(ServiceResponse<DataExportInner> response) { return response.body(); } }); } /** * Gets a data export instance. * * @param resourceGroupName The name of the resource group. The name is case insensitive. * @param workspaceName The name of the workspace. * @param dataExportName The data export rule name. * @throws IllegalArgumentException thrown if parameters fail the validation * @return the observable to the DataExportInner object */ public Observable<ServiceResponse<DataExportInner>> getWithServiceResponseAsync(String resourceGroupName, String workspaceName, String dataExportName) { if (this.client.subscriptionId() == null) { throw new IllegalArgumentException("Parameter this.client.subscriptionId() is required and cannot be null."); } if (resourceGroupName == null) { throw new IllegalArgumentException("Parameter resourceGroupName is required and cannot be null."); } if (workspaceName == null) { throw new IllegalArgumentException("Parameter workspaceName is required and cannot be null."); } if (dataExportName == null) { throw new IllegalArgumentException("Parameter dataExportName is required and cannot be null."); } if (this.client.apiVersion() == null) { throw new IllegalArgumentException("Parameter this.client.apiVersion() is required and cannot be null."); } return service.get(this.client.subscriptionId(), resourceGroupName, workspaceName, dataExportName, this.client.apiVersion(), this.client.acceptLanguage(), this.client.userAgent()) .flatMap(new Func1<Response<ResponseBody>, Observable<ServiceResponse<DataExportInner>>>() { @Override public Observable<ServiceResponse<DataExportInner>> call(Response<ResponseBody> response) { try { ServiceResponse<DataExportInner> clientResponse = getDelegate(response); return Observable.just(clientResponse); } catch (Throwable t) { return Observable.error(t); } } }); } private ServiceResponse<DataExportInner> getDelegate(Response<ResponseBody> response) throws DataExportErrorResponseException, IOException, IllegalArgumentException { return this.client.restClient().responseBuilderFactory().<DataExportInner, DataExportErrorResponseException>newInstance(this.client.serializerAdapter()) .register(200, new TypeToken<DataExportInner>() { }.getType()) .registerError(DataExportErrorResponseException.class) .build(response); } /** * Deletes the specified data export in a given workspace.. * * @param resourceGroupName The name of the resource group. The name is case insensitive. * @param workspaceName The name of the workspace. * @param dataExportName The data export rule name. * @throws IllegalArgumentException thrown if parameters fail the validation * @throws DataExportErrorResponseException thrown if the request is rejected by server * @throws RuntimeException all other wrapped checked exceptions if the request fails to be sent */ public void delete(String resourceGroupName, String workspaceName, String dataExportName) { deleteWithServiceResponseAsync(resourceGroupName, workspaceName, dataExportName).toBlocking().single().body(); } /** * Deletes the specified data export in a given workspace.. * * @param resourceGroupName The name of the resource group. The name is case insensitive. * @param workspaceName The name of the workspace. * @param dataExportName The data export rule name. * @param serviceCallback the async ServiceCallback to handle successful and failed responses. * @throws IllegalArgumentException thrown if parameters fail the validation * @return the {@link ServiceFuture} object */ public ServiceFuture<Void> deleteAsync(String resourceGroupName, String workspaceName, String dataExportName, final ServiceCallback<Void> serviceCallback) { return ServiceFuture.fromResponse(deleteWithServiceResponseAsync(resourceGroupName, workspaceName, dataExportName), serviceCallback); } /** * Deletes the specified data export in a given workspace.. * * @param resourceGroupName The name of the resource group. The name is case insensitive. * @param workspaceName The name of the workspace. * @param dataExportName The data export rule name. * @throws IllegalArgumentException thrown if parameters fail the validation * @return the {@link ServiceResponse} object if successful. */ public Observable<Void> deleteAsync(String resourceGroupName, String workspaceName, String dataExportName) { return deleteWithServiceResponseAsync(resourceGroupName, workspaceName, dataExportName).map(new Func1<ServiceResponse<Void>, Void>() { @Override public Void call(ServiceResponse<Void> response) { return response.body(); } }); } /** * Deletes the specified data export in a given workspace.. * * @param resourceGroupName The name of the resource group. The name is case insensitive. * @param workspaceName The name of the workspace. * @param dataExportName The data export rule name. * @throws IllegalArgumentException thrown if parameters fail the validation * @return the {@link ServiceResponse} object if successful. */ public Observable<ServiceResponse<Void>> deleteWithServiceResponseAsync(String resourceGroupName, String workspaceName, String dataExportName) { if (this.client.subscriptionId() == null) { throw new IllegalArgumentException("Parameter this.client.subscriptionId() is required and cannot be null."); } if (resourceGroupName == null) { throw new IllegalArgumentException("Parameter resourceGroupName is required and cannot be null."); } if (workspaceName == null) { throw new IllegalArgumentException("Parameter workspaceName is required and cannot be null."); } if (dataExportName == null) { throw new IllegalArgumentException("Parameter dataExportName is required and cannot be null."); } if (this.client.apiVersion() == null) { throw new IllegalArgumentException("Parameter this.client.apiVersion() is required and cannot be null."); } return service.delete(this.client.subscriptionId(), resourceGroupName, workspaceName, dataExportName, this.client.apiVersion(), this.client.acceptLanguage(), this.client.userAgent()) .flatMap(new Func1<Response<ResponseBody>, Observable<ServiceResponse<Void>>>() { @Override public Observable<ServiceResponse<Void>> call(Response<ResponseBody> response) { try { ServiceResponse<Void> clientResponse = deleteDelegate(response); return Observable.just(clientResponse); } catch (Throwable t) { return Observable.error(t); } } }); } private ServiceResponse<Void> deleteDelegate(Response<ResponseBody> response) throws DataExportErrorResponseException, IOException, IllegalArgumentException { return this.client.restClient().responseBuilderFactory().<Void, DataExportErrorResponseException>newInstance(this.client.serializerAdapter()) .register(200, new TypeToken<Void>() { }.getType()) .register(404, new TypeToken<Void>() { }.getType()) .registerError(DataExportErrorResponseException.class) .build(response); } }
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
// Copyright (c) Microsoft. All rights reserved. // Licensed under the MIT license. See LICENSE file in the project root for full license information. namespace System.Security.Cryptography.X509Certificates { using Microsoft.Win32; using System; using System.IO; using System.Runtime.CompilerServices; using System.Runtime.InteropServices; using System.Runtime.Serialization; using System.Security; using System.Security.Permissions; using System.Security.Util; using System.Text; using System.Runtime.Versioning; using System.Globalization; using System.Diagnostics.Contracts; [System.Runtime.InteropServices.ComVisible(true)] public enum X509ContentType { Unknown = 0x00, Cert = 0x01, SerializedCert = 0x02, Pfx = 0x03, Pkcs12 = Pfx, SerializedStore = 0x04, Pkcs7 = 0x05, Authenticode = 0x06 } // DefaultKeySet, UserKeySet and MachineKeySet are mutually exclusive [Serializable] [Flags] [System.Runtime.InteropServices.ComVisible(true)] public enum X509KeyStorageFlags { DefaultKeySet = 0x00, UserKeySet = 0x01, MachineKeySet = 0x02, Exportable = 0x04, UserProtected = 0x08, PersistKeySet = 0x10 } [Serializable] [System.Runtime.InteropServices.ComVisible(true)] public class X509Certificate : IDisposable, IDeserializationCallback, ISerializable { private const string m_format = "X509"; private string m_subjectName; private string m_issuerName; private byte[] m_serialNumber; private byte[] m_publicKeyParameters; private byte[] m_publicKeyValue; private string m_publicKeyOid; private byte[] m_rawData; private byte[] m_thumbprint; private DateTime m_notBefore; private DateTime m_notAfter; [System.Security.SecurityCritical] // auto-generated private SafeCertContextHandle m_safeCertContext; private bool m_certContextCloned = false; // // public constructors // [System.Security.SecuritySafeCritical] // auto-generated private void Init() { m_safeCertContext = SafeCertContextHandle.InvalidHandle; } public X509Certificate () { Init(); } public X509Certificate (byte[] data):this() { if ((data != null) && (data.Length != 0)) LoadCertificateFromBlob(data, null, X509KeyStorageFlags.DefaultKeySet); } public X509Certificate (byte[] rawData, string password):this() { #if FEATURE_LEGACYNETCF if ((rawData != null) && (rawData.Length != 0)) { #endif LoadCertificateFromBlob(rawData, password, X509KeyStorageFlags.DefaultKeySet); #if FEATURE_LEGACYNETCF } #endif } #if FEATURE_X509_SECURESTRINGS public X509Certificate (byte[] rawData, SecureString password):this() { LoadCertificateFromBlob(rawData, password, X509KeyStorageFlags.DefaultKeySet); } #endif // FEATURE_X509_SECURESTRINGS public X509Certificate (byte[] rawData, string password, X509KeyStorageFlags keyStorageFlags):this() { #if FEATURE_LEGACYNETCF if ((rawData != null) && (rawData.Length != 0)) { #endif LoadCertificateFromBlob(rawData, password, keyStorageFlags); #if FEATURE_LEGACYNETCF } #endif } #if FEATURE_X509_SECURESTRINGS public X509Certificate (byte[] rawData, SecureString password, X509KeyStorageFlags keyStorageFlags):this() { LoadCertificateFromBlob(rawData, password, keyStorageFlags); } #endif // FEATURE_X509_SECURESTRINGS #if FEATURE_CORECLR [System.Security.SecurityCritical] // auto-generated #else [System.Security.SecuritySafeCritical] #endif public X509Certificate (string fileName):this() { LoadCertificateFromFile(fileName, null, X509KeyStorageFlags.DefaultKeySet); } #if FEATURE_CORECLR [System.Security.SecurityCritical] // auto-generated #else [System.Security.SecuritySafeCritical] #endif public X509Certificate (string fileName, string password):this() { LoadCertificateFromFile(fileName, password, X509KeyStorageFlags.DefaultKeySet); } #if FEATURE_X509_SECURESTRINGS [System.Security.SecuritySafeCritical] // auto-generated public X509Certificate (string fileName, SecureString password):this() { LoadCertificateFromFile(fileName, password, X509KeyStorageFlags.DefaultKeySet); } #endif // FEATURE_X509_SECURESTRINGS #if FEATURE_CORECLR [System.Security.SecurityCritical] // auto-generated #else [System.Security.SecuritySafeCritical] #endif public X509Certificate (string fileName, string password, X509KeyStorageFlags keyStorageFlags):this() { LoadCertificateFromFile(fileName, password, keyStorageFlags); } #if FEATURE_X509_SECURESTRINGS [System.Security.SecuritySafeCritical] // auto-generated public X509Certificate (string fileName, SecureString password, X509KeyStorageFlags keyStorageFlags):this() { LoadCertificateFromFile(fileName, password, keyStorageFlags); } #endif // FEATURE_X509_SECURESTRINGS // Package protected constructor for creating a certificate from a PCCERT_CONTEXT [System.Security.SecurityCritical] // auto-generated_required #if !FEATURE_CORECLR [SecurityPermissionAttribute(SecurityAction.InheritanceDemand, Flags=SecurityPermissionFlag.UnmanagedCode)] #endif public X509Certificate (IntPtr handle):this() { if (handle == IntPtr.Zero) throw new ArgumentException(Environment.GetResourceString("Arg_InvalidHandle"), "handle"); Contract.EndContractBlock(); X509Utils._DuplicateCertContext(handle, ref m_safeCertContext); } [System.Security.SecuritySafeCritical] // auto-generated public X509Certificate (X509Certificate cert):this() { if (cert == null) throw new ArgumentNullException("cert"); Contract.EndContractBlock(); if (cert.m_safeCertContext.pCertContext != IntPtr.Zero) { m_safeCertContext = cert.GetCertContextForCloning(); m_certContextCloned = true; } } public X509Certificate (SerializationInfo info, StreamingContext context):this() { byte[] rawData = (byte[]) info.GetValue("RawData", typeof(byte[])); if (rawData != null) LoadCertificateFromBlob(rawData, null, X509KeyStorageFlags.DefaultKeySet); } #if FEATURE_CORECLR [System.Security.SecurityCritical] // auto-generated #endif public static X509Certificate CreateFromCertFile (string filename) { return new X509Certificate(filename); } public static X509Certificate CreateFromSignedFile (string filename) { return new X509Certificate(filename); } [System.Runtime.InteropServices.ComVisible(false)] public IntPtr Handle { [System.Security.SecurityCritical] // auto-generated_required #if !FEATURE_CORECLR [SecurityPermissionAttribute(SecurityAction.InheritanceDemand, Flags=SecurityPermissionFlag.UnmanagedCode)] #endif get { return m_safeCertContext.pCertContext; } } [System.Security.SecuritySafeCritical] // auto-generated [Obsolete("This method has been deprecated. Please use the Subject property instead. http://go.microsoft.com/fwlink/?linkid=14202")] public virtual string GetName() { ThrowIfContextInvalid(); return X509Utils._GetSubjectInfo(m_safeCertContext, X509Constants.CERT_NAME_RDN_TYPE, true); } [System.Security.SecuritySafeCritical] // auto-generated [Obsolete("This method has been deprecated. Please use the Issuer property instead. http://go.microsoft.com/fwlink/?linkid=14202")] public virtual string GetIssuerName() { ThrowIfContextInvalid(); return X509Utils._GetIssuerName(m_safeCertContext, true); } [System.Security.SecuritySafeCritical] // auto-generated public virtual byte[] GetSerialNumber() { ThrowIfContextInvalid(); if (m_serialNumber == null) m_serialNumber = X509Utils._GetSerialNumber(m_safeCertContext); return (byte[]) m_serialNumber.Clone(); } public virtual string GetSerialNumberString() { return SerialNumber; } [System.Security.SecuritySafeCritical] // auto-generated public virtual byte[] GetKeyAlgorithmParameters() { ThrowIfContextInvalid(); if (m_publicKeyParameters == null) m_publicKeyParameters = X509Utils._GetPublicKeyParameters(m_safeCertContext); return (byte[]) m_publicKeyParameters.Clone(); } [System.Security.SecuritySafeCritical] // auto-generated public virtual string GetKeyAlgorithmParametersString() { ThrowIfContextInvalid(); return Hex.EncodeHexString(GetKeyAlgorithmParameters()); } [System.Security.SecuritySafeCritical] // auto-generated public virtual string GetKeyAlgorithm() { ThrowIfContextInvalid(); if (m_publicKeyOid == null) m_publicKeyOid = X509Utils._GetPublicKeyOid(m_safeCertContext); return m_publicKeyOid; } [System.Security.SecuritySafeCritical] // auto-generated public virtual byte[] GetPublicKey() { ThrowIfContextInvalid(); if (m_publicKeyValue == null) m_publicKeyValue = X509Utils._GetPublicKeyValue(m_safeCertContext); return (byte[]) m_publicKeyValue.Clone(); } public virtual string GetPublicKeyString() { return Hex.EncodeHexString(GetPublicKey()); } [System.Security.SecuritySafeCritical] // auto-generated public virtual byte[] GetRawCertData() { return RawData; } public virtual string GetRawCertDataString() { return Hex.EncodeHexString(GetRawCertData()); } public virtual byte[] GetCertHash() { SetThumbprint(); return (byte[]) m_thumbprint.Clone(); } public virtual string GetCertHashString() { SetThumbprint(); return Hex.EncodeHexString(m_thumbprint); } public virtual string GetEffectiveDateString() { return NotBefore.ToString(); } public virtual string GetExpirationDateString() { return NotAfter.ToString(); } [System.Runtime.InteropServices.ComVisible(false)] public override bool Equals (Object obj) { if (!(obj is X509Certificate)) return false; X509Certificate other = (X509Certificate) obj; return this.Equals(other); } [System.Security.SecuritySafeCritical] // auto-generated public virtual bool Equals (X509Certificate other) { if (other == null) return false; if (m_safeCertContext.IsInvalid) return other.m_safeCertContext.IsInvalid; if (!this.Issuer.Equals(other.Issuer)) return false; if (!this.SerialNumber.Equals(other.SerialNumber)) return false; return true; } [System.Security.SecuritySafeCritical] // auto-generated public override int GetHashCode() { if (m_safeCertContext.IsInvalid) return 0; SetThumbprint(); int value = 0; for (int i = 0; i < m_thumbprint.Length && i < 4; ++i) { value = value << 8 | m_thumbprint[i]; } return value; } public override string ToString() { return ToString(false); } [System.Security.SecuritySafeCritical] // auto-generated public virtual string ToString (bool fVerbose) { if (fVerbose == false || m_safeCertContext.IsInvalid) return GetType().FullName; StringBuilder sb = new StringBuilder(); // Subject sb.Append("[Subject]" + Environment.NewLine + " "); sb.Append(this.Subject); // Issuer sb.Append(Environment.NewLine + Environment.NewLine + "[Issuer]" + Environment.NewLine + " "); sb.Append(this.Issuer); // Serial Number sb.Append(Environment.NewLine + Environment.NewLine + "[Serial Number]" + Environment.NewLine + " "); sb.Append(this.SerialNumber); // NotBefore sb.Append(Environment.NewLine + Environment.NewLine + "[Not Before]" + Environment.NewLine + " "); sb.Append(FormatDate(this.NotBefore)); // NotAfter sb.Append(Environment.NewLine + Environment.NewLine + "[Not After]" + Environment.NewLine + " "); sb.Append(FormatDate(this.NotAfter)); // Thumbprint sb.Append(Environment.NewLine + Environment.NewLine + "[Thumbprint]" + Environment.NewLine + " "); sb.Append(this.GetCertHashString()); sb.Append(Environment.NewLine); return sb.ToString(); } /// <summary> /// Convert a date to a string. /// /// Some cultures, specifically using the Um-AlQura calendar cannot convert dates far into /// the future into strings. If the expiration date of an X.509 certificate is beyond the range /// of one of these these cases, we need to fall back to a calendar which can express the dates /// </summary> protected static string FormatDate(DateTime date) { CultureInfo culture = CultureInfo.CurrentCulture; if (!culture.DateTimeFormat.Calendar.IsValidDay(date.Year, date.Month, date.Day, 0)) { // The most common case of culture failing to work is in the Um-AlQuara calendar. In this case, // we can fall back to the Hijri calendar, otherwise fall back to the invariant culture. if (culture.DateTimeFormat.Calendar is UmAlQuraCalendar) { culture = culture.Clone() as CultureInfo; culture.DateTimeFormat.Calendar = new HijriCalendar(); } else { culture = CultureInfo.InvariantCulture; } } return date.ToString(culture); } public virtual string GetFormat() { return m_format; } public string Issuer { [System.Security.SecuritySafeCritical] // auto-generated get { ThrowIfContextInvalid(); if (m_issuerName == null) m_issuerName = X509Utils._GetIssuerName(m_safeCertContext, false); return m_issuerName; } } public string Subject { [System.Security.SecuritySafeCritical] // auto-generated get { ThrowIfContextInvalid(); if (m_subjectName == null) m_subjectName = X509Utils._GetSubjectInfo(m_safeCertContext, X509Constants.CERT_NAME_RDN_TYPE, false); return m_subjectName; } } #if FEATURE_CORECLR [System.Security.SecuritySafeCritical] // auto-generated #else [System.Security.SecurityCritical] #endif // auto-generated_required [System.Runtime.InteropServices.ComVisible(false)] #pragma warning disable 618 [PermissionSetAttribute(SecurityAction.InheritanceDemand, Unrestricted=true)] #pragma warning restore 618 public virtual void Import(byte[] rawData) { Reset(); LoadCertificateFromBlob(rawData, null, X509KeyStorageFlags.DefaultKeySet); } #if FEATURE_CORECLR [System.Security.SecuritySafeCritical] // auto-generated #else [System.Security.SecurityCritical] #endif // auto-generated_required [System.Runtime.InteropServices.ComVisible(false)] #pragma warning disable 618 [PermissionSetAttribute(SecurityAction.InheritanceDemand, Unrestricted=true)] #pragma warning restore 618 public virtual void Import(byte[] rawData, string password, X509KeyStorageFlags keyStorageFlags) { Reset(); LoadCertificateFromBlob(rawData, password, keyStorageFlags); } #if FEATURE_X509_SECURESTRINGS [System.Security.SecurityCritical] // auto-generated_required #pragma warning disable 618 [PermissionSetAttribute(SecurityAction.InheritanceDemand, Unrestricted=true)] #pragma warning restore 618 public virtual void Import(byte[] rawData, SecureString password, X509KeyStorageFlags keyStorageFlags) { Reset(); LoadCertificateFromBlob(rawData, password, keyStorageFlags); } #endif // FEATURE_X509_SECURESTRINGS [System.Security.SecurityCritical] // auto-generated_required [System.Runtime.InteropServices.ComVisible(false)] #pragma warning disable 618 [PermissionSetAttribute(SecurityAction.InheritanceDemand, Unrestricted=true)] #pragma warning restore 618 public virtual void Import(string fileName) { Reset(); LoadCertificateFromFile(fileName, null, X509KeyStorageFlags.DefaultKeySet); } [System.Security.SecurityCritical] // auto-generated_required [System.Runtime.InteropServices.ComVisible(false)] #pragma warning disable 618 [PermissionSetAttribute(SecurityAction.InheritanceDemand, Unrestricted=true)] #pragma warning restore 618 public virtual void Import(string fileName, string password, X509KeyStorageFlags keyStorageFlags) { Reset(); LoadCertificateFromFile(fileName, password, keyStorageFlags); } #if FEATURE_X509_SECURESTRINGS [System.Security.SecurityCritical] // auto-generated_required #pragma warning disable 618 [PermissionSetAttribute(SecurityAction.InheritanceDemand, Unrestricted=true)] #pragma warning restore 618 public virtual void Import(string fileName, SecureString password, X509KeyStorageFlags keyStorageFlags) { Reset(); LoadCertificateFromFile(fileName, password, keyStorageFlags); } #endif // FEATURE_X509_SECURESTRINGS [System.Security.SecuritySafeCritical] // auto-generated [System.Runtime.InteropServices.ComVisible(false)] public virtual byte[] Export(X509ContentType contentType) { return ExportHelper(contentType, null); } [System.Security.SecuritySafeCritical] // auto-generated [System.Runtime.InteropServices.ComVisible(false)] public virtual byte[] Export(X509ContentType contentType, string password) { return ExportHelper(contentType, password); } #if FEATURE_X509_SECURESTRINGS [System.Security.SecuritySafeCritical] // auto-generated public virtual byte[] Export(X509ContentType contentType, SecureString password) { return ExportHelper(contentType, password); } #endif // FEATURE_X509_SECURESTRINGS [System.Security.SecurityCritical] // auto-generated_required [System.Runtime.InteropServices.ComVisible(false)] #pragma warning disable 618 [PermissionSetAttribute(SecurityAction.InheritanceDemand, Unrestricted=true)] #pragma warning restore 618 public virtual void Reset () { m_subjectName = null; m_issuerName = null; m_serialNumber = null; m_publicKeyParameters = null; m_publicKeyValue = null; m_publicKeyOid = null; m_rawData = null; m_thumbprint = null; m_notBefore = DateTime.MinValue; m_notAfter = DateTime.MinValue; if (!m_safeCertContext.IsInvalid) { // Free the current certificate handle if (!m_certContextCloned) { m_safeCertContext.Dispose(); } m_safeCertContext = SafeCertContextHandle.InvalidHandle; } m_certContextCloned = false; } public void Dispose() { Dispose(true); } [System.Security.SecuritySafeCritical] protected virtual void Dispose(bool disposing) { if (disposing) { Reset(); } } #if FEATURE_SERIALIZATION /// <internalonly/> [System.Security.SecurityCritical] // auto-generated_required void ISerializable.GetObjectData (SerializationInfo info, StreamingContext context) { if (m_safeCertContext.IsInvalid) info.AddValue("RawData", null); else info.AddValue("RawData", this.RawData); } /// <internalonly/> void IDeserializationCallback.OnDeserialization(Object sender) {} #endif // // internal. // internal SafeCertContextHandle CertContext { [System.Security.SecurityCritical] // auto-generated get { return m_safeCertContext; } } /// <summary> /// Returns the SafeCertContextHandle. Use this instead of the CertContext property when /// creating another X509Certificate object based on this one to ensure the underlying /// cert context is not released at the wrong time. /// </summary> [System.Security.SecurityCritical] internal SafeCertContextHandle GetCertContextForCloning() { m_certContextCloned = true; return m_safeCertContext; } // // private methods. // [System.Security.SecurityCritical] // auto-generated private void ThrowIfContextInvalid() { if (m_safeCertContext.IsInvalid) throw new CryptographicException(Environment.GetResourceString("Cryptography_InvalidHandle"), "m_safeCertContext"); } private DateTime NotAfter { [System.Security.SecuritySafeCritical] // auto-generated get { ThrowIfContextInvalid(); if (m_notAfter == DateTime.MinValue) { Win32Native.FILE_TIME fileTime = new Win32Native.FILE_TIME(); X509Utils._GetDateNotAfter(m_safeCertContext, ref fileTime); m_notAfter = DateTime.FromFileTime(fileTime.ToTicks()); } return m_notAfter; } } private DateTime NotBefore { [System.Security.SecuritySafeCritical] // auto-generated get { ThrowIfContextInvalid(); if (m_notBefore == DateTime.MinValue) { Win32Native.FILE_TIME fileTime = new Win32Native.FILE_TIME(); X509Utils._GetDateNotBefore(m_safeCertContext, ref fileTime); m_notBefore = DateTime.FromFileTime(fileTime.ToTicks()); } return m_notBefore; } } private byte[] RawData { [System.Security.SecurityCritical] // auto-generated get { ThrowIfContextInvalid(); if (m_rawData == null) m_rawData = X509Utils._GetCertRawData(m_safeCertContext); return (byte[]) m_rawData.Clone(); } } private string SerialNumber { [System.Security.SecuritySafeCritical] // auto-generated get { ThrowIfContextInvalid(); if (m_serialNumber == null) m_serialNumber = X509Utils._GetSerialNumber(m_safeCertContext); return Hex.EncodeHexStringFromInt(m_serialNumber); } } [System.Security.SecuritySafeCritical] // auto-generated private void SetThumbprint () { ThrowIfContextInvalid(); if (m_thumbprint == null) m_thumbprint = X509Utils._GetThumbprint(m_safeCertContext); } [System.Security.SecurityCritical] // auto-generated private byte[] ExportHelper (X509ContentType contentType, object password) { switch(contentType) { case X509ContentType.Cert: break; #if FEATURE_CORECLR case (X509ContentType)0x02 /* X509ContentType.SerializedCert */: case (X509ContentType)0x03 /* X509ContentType.Pkcs12 */: throw new CryptographicException(Environment.GetResourceString("Cryptography_X509_InvalidContentType"), new NotSupportedException()); #else // FEATURE_CORECLR case X509ContentType.SerializedCert: break; case X509ContentType.Pkcs12: KeyContainerPermission kp = new KeyContainerPermission(KeyContainerPermissionFlags.Open | KeyContainerPermissionFlags.Export); kp.Demand(); break; #endif // FEATURE_CORECLR else default: throw new CryptographicException(Environment.GetResourceString("Cryptography_X509_InvalidContentType")); } #if !FEATURE_CORECLR IntPtr szPassword = IntPtr.Zero; byte[] encodedRawData = null; SafeCertStoreHandle safeCertStoreHandle = X509Utils.ExportCertToMemoryStore(this); RuntimeHelpers.PrepareConstrainedRegions(); try { szPassword = X509Utils.PasswordToHGlobalUni(password); encodedRawData = X509Utils._ExportCertificatesToBlob(safeCertStoreHandle, contentType, szPassword); } finally { if (szPassword != IntPtr.Zero) Marshal.ZeroFreeGlobalAllocUnicode(szPassword); safeCertStoreHandle.Dispose(); } if (encodedRawData == null) throw new CryptographicException(Environment.GetResourceString("Cryptography_X509_ExportFailed")); return encodedRawData; #else // !FEATURE_CORECLR return RawData; #endif // !FEATURE_CORECLR } [System.Security.SecuritySafeCritical] // auto-generated private void LoadCertificateFromBlob (byte[] rawData, object password, X509KeyStorageFlags keyStorageFlags) { if (rawData == null || rawData.Length == 0) throw new ArgumentException(Environment.GetResourceString("Arg_EmptyOrNullArray"), "rawData"); Contract.EndContractBlock(); X509ContentType contentType = X509Utils.MapContentType(X509Utils._QueryCertBlobType(rawData)); #if !FEATURE_CORECLR if (contentType == X509ContentType.Pkcs12 && (keyStorageFlags & X509KeyStorageFlags.PersistKeySet) == X509KeyStorageFlags.PersistKeySet) { KeyContainerPermission kp = new KeyContainerPermission(KeyContainerPermissionFlags.Create); kp.Demand(); } #endif // !FEATURE_CORECLR uint dwFlags = X509Utils.MapKeyStorageFlags(keyStorageFlags); IntPtr szPassword = IntPtr.Zero; RuntimeHelpers.PrepareConstrainedRegions(); try { szPassword = X509Utils.PasswordToHGlobalUni(password); X509Utils._LoadCertFromBlob(rawData, szPassword, dwFlags, #if FEATURE_CORECLR false, #else // FEATURE_CORECLR (keyStorageFlags & X509KeyStorageFlags.PersistKeySet) == 0 ? false : true, #endif // FEATURE_CORECLR else ref m_safeCertContext); } finally { if (szPassword != IntPtr.Zero) Marshal.ZeroFreeGlobalAllocUnicode(szPassword); } } [System.Security.SecurityCritical] // auto-generated private void LoadCertificateFromFile (string fileName, object password, X509KeyStorageFlags keyStorageFlags) { if (fileName == null) throw new ArgumentNullException("fileName"); Contract.EndContractBlock(); string fullPath = Path.GetFullPathInternal(fileName); new FileIOPermission (FileIOPermissionAccess.Read, fullPath).Demand(); X509ContentType contentType = X509Utils.MapContentType(X509Utils._QueryCertFileType(fileName)); #if !FEATURE_CORECLR if (contentType == X509ContentType.Pkcs12 && (keyStorageFlags & X509KeyStorageFlags.PersistKeySet) == X509KeyStorageFlags.PersistKeySet) { KeyContainerPermission kp = new KeyContainerPermission(KeyContainerPermissionFlags.Create); kp.Demand(); } #endif // !FEATURE_CORECLR uint dwFlags = X509Utils.MapKeyStorageFlags(keyStorageFlags); IntPtr szPassword = IntPtr.Zero; RuntimeHelpers.PrepareConstrainedRegions(); try { szPassword = X509Utils.PasswordToHGlobalUni(password); X509Utils._LoadCertFromFile(fileName, szPassword, dwFlags, #if FEATURE_CORECLR false, #else // FEATURE_CORECLR (keyStorageFlags & X509KeyStorageFlags.PersistKeySet) == 0 ? false : true, #endif // FEATURE_CORECLR else ref m_safeCertContext); } finally { if (szPassword != IntPtr.Zero) Marshal.ZeroFreeGlobalAllocUnicode(szPassword); } } #if FEATURE_LEGACYNETCF protected internal String CreateHexString(byte[] sArray) { return Hex.EncodeHexString(sArray); } #endif } }
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Passage 1: Peter Levin Peter Levin is an American director of film, television and theatre. Passage 2: The Far Side of Jericho The Far Side of Jericho is a 2006 film directed by Tim Hunter. It stars Patrick Bergin and Lawrence Pressman. Passage 3: Peter Weir Peter Lindsay Weir, AM (born 21 August 1944) is an Australian film director. He was a leading figure in the Australian New Wave cinema movement (1970–1990), with films such as the mystery drama "Picnic at Hanging Rock" (1975), the supernatural thriller "The Last Wave" (1977) and the historical drama "Gallipoli" (1981). The climax of Weir's early career was the $6 million multi-national production " The Year of Living Dangerously" (1983). After the success of "The Year of Living Dangerously", Weir directed a diverse group of American and international films covering most genres—many of them major box office hits—including Academy Award-nominated films such as the thriller "Witness" (1985), the drama "Dead Poets Society" (1989), the romantic comedy "Green Card" (1990), the social science fiction comedy-drama "The Truman Show" (1998) and the financially-disappointing epic historical drama (2003). For his work on these five films, Weir personally accrued six Academy Award nominations as either a director, writer or producer. Since 2003, Weir's productivity has declined, having directed only one subsequent feature, the critically acclaimed box-office flop " The Way Back" (2010). Passage 4: On the Far Side of the Tunnel On the Far Side of the Tunnel is a 1994 Spanish drama film directed by Jaime de Armiñán. It was entered into the 44th Berlin International Film Festival. Passage 5: Dana Blankstein Dana Blankstein- Cohen( born March 3, 1981) is the director of the Israeli Academy of Film and Television. She is a film director, and an Israeli culture entrepreneur. Passage 6: Ian Barry (director) Ian Barry is an Australian director of film and TV. Passage 7: Michael Govan Michael Govan( born 1963) is the director of the Los Angeles County Museum of Art since 2006. Prior to this, Govan worked as the director of the Dia Art Foundation in New York City. Passage 8: Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World is a 2003 American epic period war-drama film co-written, produced and directed by Peter Weir, set in the Napoleonic Wars. The film's plot and characters are adapted from three novels in author Patrick O'Brian's Aubrey–Maturin series, which includes 20 completed novels of Jack Aubrey's naval career. The film stars Russell Crowe as Jack Aubrey, captain in the Royal Navy, and Paul Bettany as Dr. Stephen Maturin, the ship's surgeon. The film, which cost $150 million to make, was a co-production of 20th Century Fox, Miramax Films, Universal Pictures, and Samuel Goldwyn Films, and released on November 14, 2003. The film grossed $212 million worldwide. The film was critically well received. At the 76th Academy Awards, the film was nominated for 10 Oscars, including Best Picture and Best Director. It won in two categories, Best Cinematography and Best Sound Editing and lost in all other categories to . Passage 9: Lowell E. Jacoby Vice Admiral Lowell Edwin Jacoby, USN( born August 28, 1945) was the 14th director of the Defense Intelligence Agency. Previously he was Director for Intelligence( J- 2) Joint Staff in the Office of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff from 1999 to 2002, and the Director of Naval Intelligence and commander, Office of Naval Intelligence from 1997 to 1999. He was the Director for Intelligence, U.S. Pacific Command from 1994 to 1997 and Commander, Joint Intelligence Center, Pacific from 1992 to 1994. He was Assistant Chief of Staff, Intelligence, U.S. Pacific Fleet from 1990 to 1992. Passage 10: Gary Larson Gary Larson( born August 14, 1950) is an American cartoonist. He is the creator of" The Far Side", a single- panel cartoon series that was syndicated internationally to more than 1,900 newspapers for fifteen years. The series ended with Larson's retirement on January 1, 1995, though in September 2019 his website alluded to a" new online era of' The Far Side.'" His twenty- three books of collected cartoons have combined sales of more than forty- five million copies. Question: What nationality is the director of film Master And Commander: The Far Side Of The World? Answer: Australian
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Passage 1: Harry Johnson (wrestler) Harry Johnson( 1903- date of death unknown) was an English wrestler. Passage 2: Thomas Scott (diver) Thomas Scott( 1907- date of death unknown) was an English diver. Passage 3: Fred Bradley (rower) Frederick Bradley( 1908- date of death unknown) was an English rower. Passage 4: Albert Thompson (footballer, born 1912) Albert Thompson( born 1912, date of death unknown) was a Welsh footballer. Passage 5: Etan Boritzer Etan Boritzer( born 1950) is an American writer of children ’s literature who is best known for his book" What is God?" first published in 1989. His best selling" What is?" illustrated children's book series on character education and difficult subjects for children is a popular teaching guide for parents, teachers and child- life professionals. Boritzer gained national critical acclaim after" What is God?" was published in 1989 although the book has caused controversy from religious fundamentalists for its universalist views. The other current books in the" What is?" series include What is Love?, What is Death?, What is Beautiful?, What is Funny?, What is Right?, What is Peace?, What is Money?, What is Dreaming?, What is a Friend?, What is True?, What is a Family?, What is a Feeling?" The series is now also translated into 15 languages. Boritzer was first published in 1963 at the age of 13 when he wrote an essay in his English class at Wade Junior High School in the Bronx, New York on the assassination of John F. Kennedy. His essay was included in a special anthology by New York City public school children compiled and published by the New York City Department of Education. Boritzer now lives in Venice, California and maintains his publishing office there also. He has helped numerous other authors to get published through" How to Get Your Book Published!" programs. Boritzer is also a yoga teacher who teaches regular classes locally and guest- teaches nationally. He is also recognized nationally as an erudite speaker on" The Teachings of the Buddha." Passage 6: Bill Smith (footballer, born 1897) William Thomas Smith( born 9 April 1897, date of death unknown) was an English professional footballer. Passage 7: Theodred II (Bishop of Elmham) Theodred II was a medieval Bishop of Elmham. The date of Theodred's consecration unknown, but the date of his death was sometime between 995 and 997. Passage 8: Harry Wainwright (footballer) Harry Wainwright( born 1899; date of death unknown) was an English footballer. Passage 9: Vespasiano I Gonzaga Vespasiano I Gonzaga (6 December 1531 – 26 February 1591) was an Italian nobleman, diplomat, writer, military engineer and condottiero. He is remembered as a patron of the arts and the founder of Sabbioneta, a town in Lombardy designed according to the Renaissance principles of the "ideal city". He was born in Fondi, a Colonna fief in the southern Latium, the son of Isabella Colonna and the condottiero Louis Gonzaga, lord of Palazzolo, a member of a cadet branch of the House of Gonzaga, Dukes of Mantua. Soon orphaned, he was educated under his aunt Giulia Gonzaga, who had moved to Naples to escape attempts from other members of the Colonna family to kill Vespasiano in order to obtain the fiefs he had inherited from his mother. At the age of eleven he was sent to the Spanish royal court to complete his education under King Philip II of Spain, to whom he was distantly related through mutual descent from Kings of Aragon. The latter found in Vespasiano one of his most faithful advisers, and made him a Grandee of Spain and then Viceroy of Navarre and Valencia. In 1556 he started his major project, the construction of a new, ideal city between Mantua and Parma which he christened "SabbionetaSandy"), as it was to rise on the sandy banks of the Po River. The project was finished in 1591. Sabbioneta had been declared an autonomous Duchy in 1577, thanks to the personal support of Vespasiano's friend Rudolf II of Habsburg, whom he had met in the Spanish court. He died at Sabbioneta in 1591. Passage 10: Isabella Colonna Isabella Colonna (1513 - 1570) was an Italian noblewoman, a member of the Colonna family. Question: When did Vespasiano I Gonzaga's mother die? Answer: 1570
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Passage 1: Craig (given name) Craig is an English-language masculine given name of an ultimately Celtic derivation. The name has two origins. In some cases it can originate from a nickname, derived from the Scottish Gaelic word "creag", meaning "rock," similar to Peter. In other cases, the given name originates from the Scottish surname "Craig", which is also derived from the same Scottish Gaelic word. Cognate forms of "creag" include the Irish "creig", Manx "creg", and Welsh "craig". The English word "crag" also shares an origin with these Celtic words. The given name "Craig" is popular in Scotland, and is used throughout the English speaking world, though in North America it is often pronounced with a short vowel sound, as in "egg", while the British pronunciation sounds like the diphthong in "brain". Passage 2: Steph Steph is often a short form of the masculine given name Stephen and its other variants, or the feminine given name Stephanie. People named Steph include: Passage 3: A Scientific Support for Darwinism A Scientific Support for Darwinism ("And For Public Schools Not To Teach "Intelligent Design" As Science") was a four-day, word-of-mouth petition of scientists in support of evolution. Inspired by Project Steve, it was initiated in 2005 by archaeologist R. Joe Brandon to produce a public response to the Discovery Institute's 2001 petition "A Scientific Dissent From Darwinism". Passage 4: Asem Asim (also spelled Aasim, Asim, Asem Arabic: عاصم‎ ‎ "‘āṣim ") is a male given name of Arabic origin, which means "protector, guardian, defender." This same word also means "a word, a message" in Akan, spoken by Akans and by inhabitants of Suriname. Asem is also a female given name of Kazakh origin, which means "beauty, beautiful, refined, graceful, elegant, excellent, splendid, magnificent." It is not related to the Indian given name Asim. Passage 5: Albin (given name) Albin ("EL-bin") is a masculine Polish, Scandinavian, and Slovenian given name, from the Roman cognate "Albinus", derived from the Latin "albus", meaning "white" or "bright". This name may also be a last name. In Estonia, France, Hungary, Poland, Slovakia, and Sweden March 1 is Albin's Name day. There are variant spellings, including "Albinas", a male given name in Lithuania; "Aubin", a French masculine given name; and "Albina", an Ancient Roman, Czech, Galician, Italian, Polish, Slovak, and Slovenian feminine given name. Albin is uncommon as a surname. People with the given name Albin include: Passage 6: Luca (given name) Luca (pronounced "LOO-kah" also spelt Louca, Luka, Louka, Lucca) is a given name used predominantly for males, mainly in Latin America, Italy, Germany and Romania. It is derived from the Latin name Lucas, which itself is derived from the Latin word "lux" (light). It may also come from the Latin word "lucus" meaning "sacred wood" (a cognate of lucere). The name is common among Christians as a result of Luke the Evangelist. Similarly, the name Luka is also commonly found as a male given name in Eastern Europe and particularly the Balkans with the name sharing the same origin. Luca is also a Hungarian and Croatian female given name, but pronounced differently as "LOO-tsah" the equivalent of the English name Lucy. Passage 7: Project Steve Project Steve is a list of scientists with the given name Stephen/Steven or a variation thereof (e.g., Stephanie, Stefan, Esteban, etc.) who "support evolution". It was originally created by the National Center for Science Education as a "tongue-in-cheek parody" of creationist attempts to collect a list of scientists who "doubt evolution," such as the Answers in Genesis' list of scientists who accept the biblical account of the Genesis creation narrative or the Discovery Institute's "A Scientific Dissent From Darwinism". The list pokes fun at such endeavors to make it clear that, "We did not wish to mislead the public into thinking that scientific issues are decided by who has the longer list of scientists!" It also honors Stephen Jay Gould. Passage 8: Stephen I of Croatia Stephen I Krešimirović (Croatian: "Stjepan I Krešimirović" ) (c. 988 – 1058) was a King of Croatia from c. 1030 until 1058 and a member of House of Trpimirović, first of the Krešimirović branch. Stephen I was the first Croatian king whose given name was "Stephen" (""Stjepan""), as Držislav added the name Stephen at his coronation. His ban was Stephen Prasca. Passage 9: Graham (given name) Graham ( ) is a masculine given name in the English language. According to some sources, it comes from an Old English word meaning "grey home". According to other sources, it comes from the surname "Graham", which in turn is an Anglo-French form of the name of the town of Grantham, in Lincolnshire, England. The settlement is recorded in the 11th century "Domesday Book" variously as "Grantham", "Grandham", "Granham" and "Graham". This place name is thought to be derived from the Old English elements "grand", possibly meaning "gravel", and "ham", meaning "hamlet" the English word given to small settlements of smaller size than villages. In the 12th century the surname was taken from England to Scotland by Sir William de Graham, who founded Clan Graham. Variant spellings of the forename are "Grahame" and "Graeme". The forename "Graham" is considered to be an English and Scottish given name. Its origin as a surname has led to its occasional use as a female given name, as for example in the case of Graham Cockburn, a daughter of Henry Cockburn, Lord Cockburn. Passage 10: Dylan (name) Dylan is a Welsh male given name. It is derived from the word "llanw", meaning "tide" or "flow" and the intensifying prefix "dy-". Dylan ail Don was a character in Welsh mythology, but the popularity of Dylan as a given name in modern times arises from its use by poet Dylan Thomas. Its use as a surname stems from the adoption of the name by Bob Dylan. In Wales it was the most popular Welsh name given to baby boys in 2010. Question: What is the name given to a list of scientists with the given name stephen or variations of this which inspired a four day, word of mouth petition of scientists in support of Darwinism? Answer: Project Steve
{ "task_name": "hotpotqa" }
package mezz.jei.plugins.vanilla.anvil; import mezz.jei.api.constants.VanillaTypes; import mezz.jei.api.recipe.vanilla.IJeiAnvilRecipe; import mezz.jei.api.recipe.vanilla.IVanillaRecipeFactory; import mezz.jei.api.runtime.IIngredientManager; import mezz.jei.util.ErrorUtil; import net.minecraft.client.Minecraft; import net.minecraft.tags.ItemTags; import net.minecraft.world.entity.player.Inventory; import net.minecraft.world.entity.player.Player; import net.minecraft.world.inventory.AnvilMenu; import net.minecraft.world.item.ArmorMaterials; import net.minecraft.world.item.Item; import net.minecraft.world.item.ItemStack; import net.minecraft.world.item.Items; import net.minecraft.world.item.Tiers; import net.minecraft.world.item.crafting.Ingredient; import net.minecraft.world.item.enchantment.Enchantment; import net.minecraft.world.item.enchantment.EnchantmentHelper; import net.minecraftforge.registries.ForgeRegistries; import org.apache.logging.log4j.LogManager; import org.apache.logging.log4j.Logger; import java.util.List; import java.util.Map; import java.util.stream.IntStream; import java.util.stream.Stream; public final class AnvilRecipeMaker { private static final Logger LOGGER = LogManager.getLogger(); private static final ItemStack ENCHANTED_BOOK = new ItemStack(Items.ENCHANTED_BOOK); private AnvilRecipeMaker() { } public static List<IJeiAnvilRecipe> getAnvilRecipes(IVanillaRecipeFactory vanillaRecipeFactory, IIngredientManager ingredientManager) { return Stream.concat( getRepairRecipes(vanillaRecipeFactory), getBookEnchantmentRecipes(vanillaRecipeFactory, ingredientManager) ) .toList(); } private static final class EnchantmentData { private final Enchantment enchantment; private final List<ItemStack> enchantedBooks; private EnchantmentData(Enchantment enchantment) { this.enchantment = enchantment; this.enchantedBooks = getEnchantedBooks(enchantment); } public List<ItemStack> getEnchantedBooks(ItemStack ingredient) { Item item = ingredient.getItem(); return enchantedBooks.stream() .filter(enchantedBook -> item.isBookEnchantable(ingredient, enchantedBook)) .toList(); } public Enchantment getEnchantment() { return enchantment; } private static List<ItemStack> getEnchantedBooks(Enchantment enchantment) { return IntStream.rangeClosed(1, enchantment.getMaxLevel()) .mapToObj(level -> { ItemStack bookEnchant = ENCHANTED_BOOK.copy(); EnchantmentHelper.setEnchantments(Map.of(enchantment, level), bookEnchant); return bookEnchant; }) .toList(); } } private static Stream<IJeiAnvilRecipe> getBookEnchantmentRecipes( IVanillaRecipeFactory vanillaRecipeFactory, IIngredientManager ingredientManager ) { List<EnchantmentData> enchantmentDatas = ForgeRegistries.ENCHANTMENTS .getValues() .stream() .map(EnchantmentData::new) .toList(); return ingredientManager.getAllIngredients(VanillaTypes.ITEM) .stream() .filter(ItemStack::isEnchantable) .flatMap(ingredient -> getBookEnchantmentRecipes(vanillaRecipeFactory, enchantmentDatas, ingredient)); } private static Stream<IJeiAnvilRecipe> getBookEnchantmentRecipes( IVanillaRecipeFactory vanillaRecipeFactory, List<EnchantmentData> enchantmentDatas, ItemStack ingredient ) { return enchantmentDatas.stream() .filter(data -> data.getEnchantment().canEnchant(ingredient)) .map(data -> data.getEnchantedBooks(ingredient)) .filter(enchantedBooks -> !enchantedBooks.isEmpty()) .map(enchantedBooks -> { List<ItemStack> outputs = getEnchantedIngredients(ingredient, enchantedBooks); return vanillaRecipeFactory.createAnvilRecipe(ingredient, enchantedBooks, outputs); }); } private static List<ItemStack> getEnchantedIngredients(ItemStack ingredient, List<ItemStack> enchantedBooks) { return enchantedBooks.stream() .map(enchantedBook -> getEnchantedIngredient(ingredient, enchantedBook)) .toList(); } private static ItemStack getEnchantedIngredient(ItemStack ingredient, ItemStack enchantedBook) { ItemStack enchantedIngredient = ingredient.copy(); Map<Enchantment, Integer> bookEnchantments = EnchantmentHelper.getEnchantments(enchantedBook); EnchantmentHelper.setEnchantments(bookEnchantments, enchantedIngredient); return enchantedIngredient; } private static class RepairData { private final Ingredient repairIngredient; private final List<ItemStack> repairables; public RepairData(Ingredient repairIngredient, ItemStack... repairables) { this.repairIngredient = repairIngredient; this.repairables = List.of(repairables); } public Ingredient getRepairIngredient() { return repairIngredient; } public List<ItemStack> getRepairables() { return repairables; } } private static Stream<RepairData> getRepairData() { return Stream.of( new RepairData(Tiers.WOOD.getRepairIngredient(), new ItemStack(Items.WOODEN_SWORD), new ItemStack(Items.WOODEN_PICKAXE), new ItemStack(Items.WOODEN_AXE), new ItemStack(Items.WOODEN_SHOVEL), new ItemStack(Items.WOODEN_HOE) ), new RepairData(Ingredient.of(ItemTags.PLANKS), new ItemStack(Items.SHIELD) ), new RepairData(Tiers.STONE.getRepairIngredient(), new ItemStack(Items.STONE_SWORD), new ItemStack(Items.STONE_PICKAXE), new ItemStack(Items.STONE_AXE), new ItemStack(Items.STONE_SHOVEL), new ItemStack(Items.STONE_HOE) ), new RepairData(ArmorMaterials.LEATHER.getRepairIngredient(), new ItemStack(Items.LEATHER_HELMET), new ItemStack(Items.LEATHER_CHESTPLATE), new ItemStack(Items.LEATHER_LEGGINGS), new ItemStack(Items.LEATHER_BOOTS) ), new RepairData(Tiers.IRON.getRepairIngredient(), new ItemStack(Items.IRON_SWORD), new ItemStack(Items.IRON_PICKAXE), new ItemStack(Items.IRON_AXE), new ItemStack(Items.IRON_SHOVEL), new ItemStack(Items.IRON_HOE) ), new RepairData(ArmorMaterials.IRON.getRepairIngredient(), new ItemStack(Items.IRON_HELMET), new ItemStack(Items.IRON_CHESTPLATE), new ItemStack(Items.IRON_LEGGINGS), new ItemStack(Items.IRON_BOOTS) ), new RepairData(ArmorMaterials.CHAIN.getRepairIngredient(), new ItemStack(Items.CHAINMAIL_HELMET), new ItemStack(Items.CHAINMAIL_CHESTPLATE), new ItemStack(Items.CHAINMAIL_LEGGINGS), new ItemStack(Items.CHAINMAIL_BOOTS) ), new RepairData(Tiers.GOLD.getRepairIngredient(), new ItemStack(Items.GOLDEN_SWORD), new ItemStack(Items.GOLDEN_PICKAXE), new ItemStack(Items.GOLDEN_AXE), new ItemStack(Items.GOLDEN_SHOVEL), new ItemStack(Items.GOLDEN_HOE) ), new RepairData(ArmorMaterials.GOLD.getRepairIngredient(), new ItemStack(Items.GOLDEN_HELMET), new ItemStack(Items.GOLDEN_CHESTPLATE), new ItemStack(Items.GOLDEN_LEGGINGS), new ItemStack(Items.GOLDEN_BOOTS) ), new RepairData(Tiers.DIAMOND.getRepairIngredient(), new ItemStack(Items.DIAMOND_SWORD), new ItemStack(Items.DIAMOND_PICKAXE), new ItemStack(Items.DIAMOND_AXE), new ItemStack(Items.DIAMOND_SHOVEL), new ItemStack(Items.DIAMOND_HOE) ), new RepairData(ArmorMaterials.DIAMOND.getRepairIngredient(), new ItemStack(Items.DIAMOND_HELMET), new ItemStack(Items.DIAMOND_CHESTPLATE), new ItemStack(Items.DIAMOND_LEGGINGS), new ItemStack(Items.DIAMOND_BOOTS) ), new RepairData(Tiers.NETHERITE.getRepairIngredient(), new ItemStack(Items.NETHERITE_SWORD), new ItemStack(Items.NETHERITE_AXE), new ItemStack(Items.NETHERITE_HOE), new ItemStack(Items.NETHERITE_SHOVEL), new ItemStack(Items.NETHERITE_PICKAXE) ), new RepairData(ArmorMaterials.NETHERITE.getRepairIngredient(), new ItemStack(Items.NETHERITE_BOOTS), new ItemStack(Items.NETHERITE_HELMET), new ItemStack(Items.NETHERITE_LEGGINGS), new ItemStack(Items.NETHERITE_CHESTPLATE) ), new RepairData(Ingredient.of(Items.PHANTOM_MEMBRANE), new ItemStack(Items.ELYTRA) ), new RepairData(ArmorMaterials.TURTLE.getRepairIngredient(), new ItemStack(Items.TURTLE_HELMET) ) ); } private static Stream<IJeiAnvilRecipe> getRepairRecipes(IVanillaRecipeFactory vanillaRecipeFactory) { return getRepairData() .flatMap(repairData -> getRepairRecipes(repairData, vanillaRecipeFactory)); } private static Stream<IJeiAnvilRecipe> getRepairRecipes(RepairData repairData, IVanillaRecipeFactory vanillaRecipeFactory) { Ingredient repairIngredient = repairData.getRepairIngredient(); List<ItemStack> repairables = repairData.getRepairables(); List<ItemStack> repairMaterials = List.of(repairIngredient.getItems()); return repairables.stream() .mapMulti((itemStack, consumer) -> { ItemStack damagedThreeQuarters = itemStack.copy(); damagedThreeQuarters.setDamageValue(damagedThreeQuarters.getMaxDamage() * 3 / 4); ItemStack damagedHalf = itemStack.copy(); damagedHalf.setDamageValue(damagedHalf.getMaxDamage() / 2); IJeiAnvilRecipe repairWithSame = vanillaRecipeFactory.createAnvilRecipe(List.of(damagedThreeQuarters), List.of(damagedThreeQuarters), List.of(damagedHalf)); consumer.accept(repairWithSame); if (!repairMaterials.isEmpty()) { ItemStack damagedFully = itemStack.copy(); damagedFully.setDamageValue(damagedFully.getMaxDamage()); IJeiAnvilRecipe repairWithMaterial = vanillaRecipeFactory.createAnvilRecipe(List.of(damagedFully), repairMaterials, List.of(damagedThreeQuarters)); consumer.accept(repairWithMaterial); } }); } public static int findLevelsCost(ItemStack leftStack, ItemStack rightStack) { Player player = Minecraft.getInstance().player; if (player == null) { return -1; } Inventory fakeInventory = new Inventory(player); try { AnvilMenu repair = new AnvilMenu(0, fakeInventory); repair.slots.get(0).set(leftStack); repair.slots.get(1).set(rightStack); return repair.getCost(); } catch (RuntimeException e) { String left = ErrorUtil.getItemStackInfo(leftStack); String right = ErrorUtil.getItemStackInfo(rightStack); LOGGER.error("Could not get anvil level cost for: ({} and {}).", left, right, e); return -1; } } }
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
// Licensed to the .NET Foundation under one or more agreements. // The .NET Foundation licenses this file to you under the MIT license. // See the LICENSE file in the project root for more information. using System.Collections.Generic; using Xunit; namespace System.Text.Tests { public class UTF8EncodingEncode { public static IEnumerable<object[]> Encode_TestData() { // All ASCII chars for (char c = char.MinValue; c <= 0x7F; c++) { yield return new object[] { c.ToString(), 0, 1, new byte[] { (byte)c } }; yield return new object[] { "a" + c.ToString() + "b", 1, 1, new byte[] { (byte)c } }; yield return new object[] { "a" + c.ToString() + "b", 2, 1, new byte[] { 98 } }; yield return new object[] { "a" + c.ToString() + "b", 0, 3, new byte[] { 97, (byte)c, 98 } }; } // Misc ASCII and Unicode strings yield return new object[] { "FooBA\u0400R", 0, 7, new byte[] { 70, 111, 111, 66, 65, 208, 128, 82 } }; yield return new object[] { "\u00C0nima\u0300l", 0, 7, new byte[] { 195, 128, 110, 105, 109, 97, 204, 128, 108 } }; yield return new object[] { "Test\uD803\uDD75Test", 0, 10, new byte[] { 84, 101, 115, 116, 240, 144, 181, 181, 84, 101, 115, 116 } }; yield return new object[] { "\u0130", 0, 1, new byte[] { 196, 176 } }; yield return new object[] { "\uD803\uDD75\uD803\uDD75\uD803\uDD75", 0, 6, new byte[] { 240, 144, 181, 181, 240, 144, 181, 181, 240, 144, 181, 181 } }; yield return new object[] { "za\u0306\u01FD\u03B2\uD8FF\uDCFF", 0, 7, new byte[] { 122, 97, 204, 134, 199, 189, 206, 178, 241, 143, 179, 191 } }; yield return new object[] { "za\u0306\u01FD\u03B2\uD8FF\uDCFF", 4, 3, new byte[] { 206, 178, 241, 143, 179, 191 } }; yield return new object[] { "\u0023\u0025\u03a0\u03a3", 1, 2, new byte[] { 37, 206, 160 } }; yield return new object[] { "\u00C5", 0, 1, new byte[] { 0xC3, 0x85 } }; yield return new object[] { "\u0065\u0065\u00E1\u0065\u0065\u8000\u00E1\u0065\uD800\uDC00\u8000\u00E1\u0065\u0065\u0065", 0, 15, new byte[] { 0x65, 0x65, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0x65, 0x65, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0x65, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65 } }; yield return new object[] { "\u00A4\u00D0aR|{AnGe\u00A3\u00A4", 0, 12, new byte[] { 0xC2, 0xA4, 0xC3, 0x90, 0x61, 0x52, 0x7C, 0x7B, 0x41, 0x6E, 0x47, 0x65, 0xC2, 0xA3, 0xC2, 0xA4 } }; // Control codes yield return new object[] { "\u001F\u0010\u0000\u0009", 0, 4, new byte[] { 0x1F, 0x10, 0x00, 0x09 } }; // Long ASCII strings yield return new object[] { "eeeee", 0, 5, new byte[] { 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65 } }; yield return new object[] { "e\u00E1eee", 0, 5, new byte[] { 0x65, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65 } }; yield return new object[] { "\u0065\u8000\u0065\u0065\u0065", 0, 5, new byte[] { 0x65, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65 } }; yield return new object[] { "\u0065\uD800\uDC00\u0065\u0065\u0065", 0, 6, new byte[] { 0x65, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65 } }; yield return new object[] { "eeeeeeeeeeeeeee", 0, 15, new byte[] { 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65 } }; yield return new object[] { "eeeeee\u00E1eeeeeeee", 0, 15, new byte[] { 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65 } }; yield return new object[] { "\u0065\u0065\u0065\u0065\u0065\u0065\u8000\u0065\u0065\u0065\u0065\u0065\u0065\u0065\u0065", 0, 15, new byte[] { 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65 } }; yield return new object[] { "\u0065\u0065\u0065\u0065\u0065\u0065\uD800\uDC00\u0065\u0065\u0065\u0065\u0065\u0065\u0065\u0065", 0, 16, new byte[] { 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65, 0x65 } }; // 2 bytes yield return new object[] { "\u00E1", 0, 1, new byte[] { 0xC3, 0xA1 } }; yield return new object[] { "\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1", 0, 5, new byte[] { 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1 } }; yield return new object[] { "\u00E1e\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1", 0, 5, new byte[] { 0xC3, 0xA1, 0x65, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1 } }; yield return new object[] { "\u00E1\u8000\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1", 0, 5, new byte[] { 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1 } }; yield return new object[] { "\u00E1\uD800\uDC00\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1", 0, 6, new byte[] { 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1 } }; yield return new object[] { "\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1", 0, 15, new byte[] { 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1 } }; yield return new object[] { "\u00E1\u00E1e\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1", 0, 15, new byte[] { 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0x65, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1 } }; yield return new object[] { "\u00E1\u00E1\u8000\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1", 0, 15, new byte[] { 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1 } }; yield return new object[] { "\u00E1\u00E1\uD800\uDC00\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1\u00E1", 0, 16, new byte[] { 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xC3, 0xA1 } }; // 3 bytes yield return new object[] { "\u8000", 0, 1, new byte[] { 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80 } }; yield return new object[] { "\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000", 0, 4, new byte[] { 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80 } }; yield return new object[] { "\u8000\u0065\u8000\u8000", 0, 4, new byte[] { 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0x65, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80 } }; yield return new object[] { "\u8000\u00E1\u8000\u8000", 0, 4, new byte[] { 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80 } }; yield return new object[] { "\u8000\uD800\uDC00\u8000\u8000", 0, 5, new byte[] { 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80 } }; yield return new object[] { "\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000", 0, 15, new byte[] { 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80 } }; yield return new object[] { "\u8000\u8000\u8000\u0065\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000", 0, 15, new byte[] { 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0x65, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80 } }; yield return new object[] { "\u8000\u8000\u8000\u00E1\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000", 0, 15, new byte[] { 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80 } }; yield return new object[] { "\u8000\u8000\u8000\uD800\uDC00\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000\u8000", 0, 16, new byte[] { 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80 } }; // Surrogate pairs yield return new object[] { "\uD800\uDC00", 0, 2, new byte[] { 240, 144, 128, 128 } }; yield return new object[] { "a\uD800\uDC00b", 0, 4, new byte[] { 97, 240, 144, 128, 128, 98 } }; yield return new object[] { "\uDB80\uDC00", 0, 2, new byte[] { 0xF3, 0xB0, 0x80, 0x80 } }; yield return new object[] { "\uD800\uDFFF", 0, 2, new byte[] { 0xF0, 0x90, 0x8F, 0xBF } }; yield return new object[] { "\uDBFF\uDC00", 0, 2, new byte[] { 0xF4, 0x8F, 0xB0, 0x80 } }; yield return new object[] { "\uDBFF\uDFFF", 0, 2, new byte[] { 0xF4, 0x8F, 0xBF, 0xBF } }; yield return new object[] { "\uD800\uDC00\uD800\uDC00\uD800\uDC00", 0, 6, new byte[] { 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80 } }; yield return new object[] { "\uD800\uDC00\u0065\uD800\uDC00", 0, 5, new byte[] { 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0x65, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80 } }; yield return new object[] { "\uD800\uDC00\u00E1\uD800\uDC00", 0, 5, new byte[] { 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80 } }; yield return new object[] { "\uD800\uDC00\u8000\uD800\uDC00", 0, 5, new byte[] { 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80 } }; yield return new object[] { "\uD800\uDC00\uD800\uDC00\uD800\uDC00\uD800\uDC00\uD800\uDC00\uD800\uDC00\uD800\uDC00\uD800\uDC00", 0, 16, new byte[] { 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80 } }; yield return new object[] { "\uD800\uDC00\u0065\uD800\uDC00\uD800\uDC00\uD800\uDC00\uD800\uDC00\uD800\uDC00\uD800\uDC00", 0, 15, new byte[] { 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0x65, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80 } }; yield return new object[] { "\uD800\uDC00\u00E1\uD800\uDC00\uD800\uDC00\uD800\uDC00\uD800\uDC00\uD800\uDC00\uD800\uDC00", 0, 15, new byte[] { 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0xC3, 0xA1, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80 } }; yield return new object[] { "\uD800\uDC00\u8000\uD800\uDC00\uD800\uDC00\uD800\uDC00\uD800\uDC00\uD800\uDC00\uD800\uDC00", 0, 15, new byte[] { 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0xE8, 0x80, 0x80, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80, 0xF0, 0x90, 0x80, 0x80 } }; // U+FDD0 - U+FDEF yield return new object[] { "\uFDD0\uFDEF", 0, 2, new byte[] { 0xEF, 0xB7, 0x90, 0xEF, 0xB7, 0xAF } }; // BOM yield return new object[] { "\uFEFF\u0041", 0, 2, new byte[] { 0xEF, 0xBB, 0xBF, 0x41 } }; // High BMP non-chars yield return new object[] { "\uFFFD", 0, 1, new byte[] { 239, 191, 189 } }; yield return new object[] { "\uFFFE", 0, 1, new byte[] { 239, 191, 190 } }; yield return new object[] { "\uFFFF", 0, 1, new byte[] { 239, 191, 191 } }; // Empty strings yield return new object[] { string.Empty, 0, 0, new byte[0] }; yield return new object[] { "abc", 3, 0, new byte[0] }; yield return new object[] { "abc", 0, 0, new byte[0] }; } [Theory] [MemberData(nameof(Encode_TestData))] public void Encode(string chars, int index, int count, byte[] expected) { EncodingHelpers.Encode( new UTF8Encoding(encoderShouldEmitUTF8Identifier: true, throwOnInvalidBytes: false), chars, index, count, expected); EncodingHelpers.Encode( new UTF8Encoding(encoderShouldEmitUTF8Identifier: false, throwOnInvalidBytes: false), chars, index, count, expected); EncodingHelpers.Encode( new UTF8Encoding(encoderShouldEmitUTF8Identifier: false, throwOnInvalidBytes: true), chars, index, count, expected); EncodingHelpers.Encode( new UTF8Encoding(encoderShouldEmitUTF8Identifier: true, throwOnInvalidBytes: true), chars, index, count, expected); } public static IEnumerable<object[]> Encode_InvalidChars_TestData() { byte[] unicodeReplacementBytes1 = new byte[] { 239, 191, 189 }; // Lone high surrogate yield return new object[] { "\uD800", 0, 1, unicodeReplacementBytes1 }; yield return new object[] { "\uDD75", 0, 1, unicodeReplacementBytes1 }; yield return new object[] { "\uDBFF", 0, 1, unicodeReplacementBytes1 }; // Lone low surrogate yield return new object[] { "\uDC00", 0, 1, unicodeReplacementBytes1 }; yield return new object[] { "\uDC00", 0, 1, unicodeReplacementBytes1 }; // Surrogate pair out of range yield return new object[] { "\uD800\uDC00", 0, 1, unicodeReplacementBytes1 }; yield return new object[] { "\uD800\uDC00", 1, 1, unicodeReplacementBytes1 }; // Invalid surrogate pair yield return new object[] { "\u0041\uD800\uE000", 0, 3, new byte[] { 0x41, 0xEF, 0xBF, 0xBD, 0xEE, 0x80, 0x80 } }; yield return new object[] { "\uD800\u0041\uDC00", 0, 3, new byte[] { 0xEF, 0xBF, 0xBD, 0x41, 0xEF, 0xBF, 0xBD } }; yield return new object[] { "\uD800\u0041\u0042\u07FF\u0043\uDC00", 0, 6, new byte[] { 0xEF, 0xBF, 0xBD, 0x41, 0x42, 0xDF, 0xBF, 0x43, 0xEF, 0xBF, 0xBD } }; // Mixture of ASCII, valid Unicode and invalid unicode yield return new object[] { "\uDD75\uDD75\uD803\uDD75\uDD75\uDD75\uDD75\uD803\uD803\uD803\uDD75\uDD75\uDD75\uDD75", 0, 14, new byte[] { 239, 191, 189, 239, 191, 189, 240, 144, 181, 181, 239, 191, 189, 239, 191, 189, 239, 191, 189, 239, 191, 189, 239, 191, 189, 240, 144, 181, 181, 239, 191, 189, 239, 191, 189, 239, 191, 189 } }; yield return new object[] { "Test\uD803Test", 0, 9, new byte[] { 84, 101, 115, 116, 239, 191, 189, 84, 101, 115, 116 } }; yield return new object[] { "Test\uDD75Test", 0, 9, new byte[] { 84, 101, 115, 116, 239, 191, 189, 84, 101, 115, 116 } }; yield return new object[] { "TestTest\uDD75", 0, 9, new byte[] { 84, 101, 115, 116, 84, 101, 115, 116, 239, 191, 189 } }; yield return new object[] { "TestTest\uD803", 0, 9, new byte[] { 84, 101, 115, 116, 84, 101, 115, 116, 239, 191, 189 } }; byte[] unicodeReplacementBytes2 = new byte[] { 239, 191, 189, 239, 191, 189 }; yield return new object[] { "\uD800\uD800", 0, 2, unicodeReplacementBytes2 }; // High, high yield return new object[] { "\uDC00\uD800", 0, 2, unicodeReplacementBytes2 }; // Low, high yield return new object[] { "\uDC00\uDC00", 0, 2, unicodeReplacementBytes2 }; // Low, low } [Fact] public static unsafe void GetBytes_ValidASCIIUnicode() { Encoding encoding = Encoding.UTF8; // Bytes has enough capacity to accomodate result string s = "T\uD83D\uDE01est"; Assert.Equal(4, encoding.GetBytes(s, 0, 2, new byte[4], 0)); Assert.Equal(5, encoding.GetBytes(s, 0, 3, new byte[5], 0)); Assert.Equal(6, encoding.GetBytes(s, 0, 4, new byte[6], 0)); Assert.Equal(7, encoding.GetBytes(s, 0, 5, new byte[7], 0)); char[] c = s.ToCharArray(); Assert.Equal(4, encoding.GetBytes(c, 0, 2, new byte[4], 0)); Assert.Equal(5, encoding.GetBytes(c, 0, 3, new byte[5], 0)); Assert.Equal(6, encoding.GetBytes(c, 0, 4, new byte[6], 0)); Assert.Equal(7, encoding.GetBytes(c, 0, 5, new byte[7], 0)); byte[] b = new byte[8]; fixed (char* pChar = c) fixed (byte* pByte = b) { Assert.Equal(4, encoding.GetBytes(pChar, 2, pByte, 4)); Assert.Equal(5, encoding.GetBytes(pChar, 3, pByte, 5)); Assert.Equal(6, encoding.GetBytes(pChar, 4, pByte, 6)); Assert.Equal(7, encoding.GetBytes(pChar, 5, pByte, 7)); } } [Fact] public static unsafe void GetBytes_InvalidASCIIUnicode() { Encoding encoding = Encoding.UTF8; // Bytes does not have enough capacity to accomodate result string s = "T\uD83D\uDE01est"; AssertExtensions.Throws<ArgumentException>("bytes", () => encoding.GetBytes(s, 0, 2, new byte[3], 0)); AssertExtensions.Throws<ArgumentException>("bytes", () => encoding.GetBytes(s, 0, 3, new byte[4], 0)); AssertExtensions.Throws<ArgumentException>("bytes", () => encoding.GetBytes(s, 0, 4, new byte[5], 0)); AssertExtensions.Throws<ArgumentException>("bytes", () => encoding.GetBytes(s, 0, 5, new byte[6], 0)); char[] c = s.ToCharArray(); AssertExtensions.Throws<ArgumentException>("bytes", () => encoding.GetBytes(c, 0, 2, new byte[3], 0)); AssertExtensions.Throws<ArgumentException>("bytes", () => encoding.GetBytes(c, 0, 3, new byte[4], 0)); AssertExtensions.Throws<ArgumentException>("bytes", () => encoding.GetBytes(c, 0, 4, new byte[5], 0)); AssertExtensions.Throws<ArgumentException>("bytes", () => encoding.GetBytes(c, 0, 5, new byte[6], 0)); byte[] b = new byte[8]; AssertExtensions.Throws<ArgumentException>("bytes", () => FixedEncodingHelper(c, 2, b, 3)); AssertExtensions.Throws<ArgumentException>("bytes", () => FixedEncodingHelper(c, 3, b, 4)); AssertExtensions.Throws<ArgumentException>("bytes", () => FixedEncodingHelper(c, 4, b, 5)); AssertExtensions.Throws<ArgumentException>("bytes", () => FixedEncodingHelper(c, 5, b, 6)); } private static unsafe void FixedEncodingHelper(char[] c, int charCount, byte[] b, int byteCount) { Encoding encoding = Encoding.UTF8; fixed (char* pChar = c) fixed (byte* pByte = b) { Assert.Equal(byteCount, encoding.GetBytes(pChar, charCount, pByte, byteCount)); } } [Theory] [MemberData(nameof(Encode_InvalidChars_TestData))] public void Encode_InvalidChars(string chars, int index, int count, byte[] expected) { EncodingHelpers.Encode( new UTF8Encoding(encoderShouldEmitUTF8Identifier: true, throwOnInvalidBytes: false), chars, index, count, expected); EncodingHelpers.Encode( new UTF8Encoding(encoderShouldEmitUTF8Identifier: false, throwOnInvalidBytes: false), chars, index, count, expected); NegativeEncodingTests.Encode_Invalid( new UTF8Encoding(encoderShouldEmitUTF8Identifier: false, throwOnInvalidBytes: true), chars, index, count); NegativeEncodingTests.Encode_Invalid( new UTF8Encoding(encoderShouldEmitUTF8Identifier: true, throwOnInvalidBytes: true), chars, index, count); } } }
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
Passage 1: Katatonia Katatonia is a Swedish metal band formed in Stockholm in 1991 by Jonas Renkse and Anders Nyström. The band started as a studio-only project for the duo, as an outlet for the band's love of death metal. Increasing popularity lead them to add more band members for live performances, though outside of the band's founders, the lineup was constantly changing, revolving door of musicians throughout the 1990s, notably including Mikael Åkerfeldt of the band Opeth for a period. After two death/doom albums, "Dance of December Souls" (1993) and "Brave Murder Day" (1996), problems with Renkse's vocal cords coupled with new musical influences lead the band away from the screamed vocals of death metal to a more traditional, melodic form of heavy metal music. The band released two more albums, "Discouraged Ones" (1998) and "Tonight's Decision" (1999), before settling into a stable quintet lineup for all of 2000's. The band released four more albums with said lineup - "Last Fair Deal Gone Down" (2001), "Viva Emptiness" (2003), "The Great Cold Distance" (2006), and "Night Is the New Day" (2009), with the band slowly moving away from their metal sound while adding more progressive rock sounds to their work over time. While lineup changes started up again into the 2010s, Renkse and Nyström persisted, and the band continued to release music, including "Dead End Kings" (2012) and their most recent, their tenth studio album, "The Fall of Hearts", released on May 20, 2016. Passage 2: Anders Nyström Anders Nyström (born April 22, 1975), also known as Blakkheim (or formerly Blackheim) is a Swedish guitarist. Passage 3: Anders Nyström (actor) Anders Nyström (born 8 February 1933 in Stockholm) is a Swedish actor. Passage 4: Polyrically Uncorrect Polyrically Uncorrect is the tenth studio album, and fourteenth album release overall, by American country music parodist Cledus T. Judd. It was released on June 30, 2009 via E1 Music. It includes the singles "Waitin' on Obama", "Garth Must Be Busy" and "(If I Had) Kellie Pickler's Boobs". The album includes guest vocals from Ashton Shepherd, Ronnie Dunn, Jamey Johnson, Terry Eldredge (of The Grascals), Colt Ford and Daryle Singletary. Chris Neal of "Country Weekly" gave the album three stars out of five, citing the Ronnie Dunn collaboration as a standout track. Passage 5: The Fall of Hearts The Fall of Hearts is the tenth studio album by Swedish metal band Katatonia. It was released on May 20, 2016. The album, mostly written and produced by founding members Jonas Renkse and Anders Nyström, was the first to also feature new members Daniel Moilanen and Roger Öjersson. The album moved in a more progressive rock direction than prior albums, and was generally well received by critics. Two singles were released in promotion of the album, "Old Heart Falls", and "Serein". Passage 6: Ronnie Dunn (album) Ronnie Dunn is the debut solo studio album from country music artist Ronnie Dunn. The album was released on June 7, 2011, via Arista Nashville. The album is Dunn's first release of music in nearly 25 years; he released three singles in the 1980s without issuing an album. Passage 7: Bleed Red "Bleed Red" is a song written by Tommy Lee James and Andrew Dorff, and recorded by American country music singer Ronnie Dunn. The song is Dunn's first solo release after Brooks & Dunn disbanded in 2010. "Bleed Red" was released to country radio on January 31, 2011. It is intended to be the lead-off single from Dunn's first solo album, "Ronnie Dunn". He had previously released three singles: "It's Written All Over Your Face", "She Put the Sad in All His Songs", and "Jessie"; with the first two singles charting to number 59 on the U.S. "Billboard" Hot Country Singles & Tracks (now Hot Country Songs) chart. Passage 8: Ronnie Dunn Ronnie Gene Dunn (born June 1, 1953) is an American country music singer-songwriter and record executive. In 2011, Dunn began working as a solo artist following the breakup of Brooks & Dunn. He released his self-titled debut album for Arista Nashville on June 7, 2011, reaching the Top 10 with its lead-off single "Bleed Red". In 2013, after leaving Arista Nashville in 2012, Dunn founded Little Will-E Records. On April 8, 2014, Ronnie Dunn released his second solo album, "Peace, Love, and Country Music" through his own Little Will-E Records. Passage 9: Peace, Love, and Country Music Peace, Love, and Country Music is the second solo studio album by country music artist Ronnie Dunn. The album was released on April 8, 2014 via Dunn's own record label Little Will-E Records. "Peace, Love, and Country Music" is Dunn's first solo release since 2011's "Ronnie Dunn" released on Arista Nashville. Passage 10: Diabolical Masquerade Diabolical Masquerade was a Swedish one-man black metal band with progressive influences. The band was formed in 1993 in Stockholm as side project of Anders Nyström (aka Blakkheim), known for his work as the guitarist of Katatonia. Question: Who has more scope of profession, Ronnie Dunn or Anders Nyström? Answer: Ronnie Gene Dunn
{ "task_name": "hotpotqa" }
Passage 1: Edward Killy Edward Killy( January 26, 1903 – July 2, 1981) was an American director, assistant director and production manager in films and television. He was one of the few individuals to be nominated for the short- lived Academy Award for Best Assistant Director. During his 30- year career he worked on over 75 films and television shows. Passage 2: Outlaws of the Orient Outlaws of the Orient is a 1937 film directed by Ernest B. Schoedsack. Passage 3: Marry the Girl (1935 film) Marry the Girl is a 1935 British comedy film directed by Maclean Rogers, who wrote the script. It is a screen adaption of the original 1930 Aldwych farce" Marry the Girl", written by George Arthurs and Arthur Miller. Nine of the twelve Aldwych plays had been adapted for film by 1935, with some of the leading roles played by members of the original stage company. Eight of these films were directed by Tom Walls and one by Jack Raymond. The production companies for the earlier films in the series were British& Dominions Film Corporation and Gaumont British. " Marry the Girl", however, was filmed by British Lion Films with none of the original stars, except for Winifred Shotter reprising her stage role. It was made at Beaconsfield Studios with sets designed by Norman G. Arnold. Passage 4: Patrick Dearen Patrick March Dearen( born May 1, 1951) is an author of 20 books of Western fiction and history. His newest release, the 2012 novel," To Hell or the Pecos", is set along a desolate, 79- mile section of the Butterfield Trail in the Pecos River country of West Texas. " To Hell or the Pecos" is the 2014 winner of the Elmer Kelton Book Award from the West Texas Historical Association. Passage 5: West of the Pecos (1945 film) West of the Pecos is a 1945 American Western film directed by Edward Killy and starring Robert Mitchum and Barbara Hale. It is the second film version of Zane Grey's novel, previously made in 1934 and also titled" West of the Pecos" starring Richard Dix. It is no relation to the 1922 silent film of the same name. Passage 6: William C. McGann William C. McGann( April 15, 1893 – November 15, 1977) was an American film director. He directed 52 films between 1930 and 1942. He was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and died in Los Angeles, California. Passage 7: West of the Pecos (1934 film) West of the Pecos is a 1934 American western film directed by Phil Rosen and starring Richard Dix and Martha Sleeper. The film is thought to be lost. The screenplay was written Milton Krims and John Twist, who adapted the serial of the same name by Zane Grey, appearing beginning in" The American Magazine" in 1931 and later as the 1937 novel. It was remade as" West of the Pecos in 1945. Passage 8: Mr. Muggs Rides Again Mr. Muggs Rides Again is a 1945 film starring" The East Side Kids". Passage 9: Marry the Girl (1937 film) Marry the Girl is a 1937 American romantic comedy film directed by William C. McGann. The 68 minute film, set at a newspaper syndicate, was written by Sig Herzig and Pat C. Flick, shot by cinematographer Arthur L. Todd, and was produced by Bryan Foy and Jack L. Warner under the Warner Bros. banner. Passage 10: Quick Money Quick Money is a 1937 film. It lost$ 37,000. Question: Do both films Marry The Girl (1937 Film) and West Of The Pecos (1945 Film) have the directors that share the same nationality? Answer: yes
{ "task_name": "2WikiMultihopQA" }
Passage 1: World population Six of the Earth's seven continents are permanently inhabited on a large scale. Asia is the most populous continent, with its 4.3 billion inhabitants accounting for 60% of the world population. The world's two most populated countries, China and India, together constitute about 37% of the world's population. Africa is the second most populated continent, with around 1 billion people, or 15% of the world's population. Europe's 733 million people make up 12% of the world's population as of 2012, while the Latin American and Caribbean regions are home to around 600 million (9%). Northern America, primarily consisting of the United States and Canada, has a population of around 352 million (5%), and Oceania, the least - populated region, has about 35 million inhabitants (0.5%). Though it is not permanently inhabited by any fixed population, Antarctica has a small, fluctuating international population based mainly in polar science stations. This population tends to rise in the summer months and decrease significantly in winter, as visiting researchers return to their home countries. Passage 2: National Pan-Hellenic Council National Pan-Hellenic Council Data Established 1930 Members 9 Continent North America Country United States Headquarters Decatur, Georgia Organization type Coalition of members Passage 3: Africa Africa is the world's second largest and second most - populous continent (behind Asia in both categories). At about 30.3 million km (11.7 million square miles) including adjacent islands, it covers 6% of Earth's total surface area and 20% of its land area. With 1.2 billion people as of 2016, it accounts for about 16% of the world's human population. The continent is surrounded by the Mediterranean Sea to the north, the Isthmus of Suez and the Red Sea to the northeast, the Indian Ocean to the southeast and the Atlantic Ocean to the west. The continent includes Madagascar and various archipelagos. It contains 54 fully recognised sovereign states (countries), nine territories and two de facto independent states with limited or no recognition. The majority of the continent and its countries are in the Northern Hemisphere, with a substantial portion and number of countries in the Southern Hemisphere. Passage 4: Master of Wine Until 1983, the examination was limited to United Kingdom wine importers, merchants and retailers. The first non-UK Master of Wine was awarded in 1988. As of October 2017, there are 369 MWs in the world, living in 29 countries. The MWs are spread across 5 continents, wherein UK has 208 MWs, USA has 45 MWs, Australia has 24 MWs and France only has 16 MWs. There are 9 countries with 1 MW each on the list. Passage 5: Kembibit Kembibit is one of the woredas in the Oromia Region of Ethiopia. Part of the Semien Shewa Zone, Kembibit is bordered on the south by Berehna Aleltu, on the west by Wuchalena Jido, on the north by Abichuna Gne'a, and on the east by the Amhara Region. The administrative center of this woreda is Sheno; other towns in Kembibit include Hamus Gebeya, and Kotu. Passage 6: Antarctica Antarctica has no indigenous population and there is no evidence that it was seen by humans until the 19th century. However, belief in the existence of a Terra Australis—a vast continent in the far south of the globe to "balance" the northern lands of Europe, Asia and North Africa—had existed since the times of Ptolemy (1st century AD), who suggested the idea to preserve the symmetry of all known landmasses in the world. Even in the late 17th century, after explorers had found that South America and Australia were not part of the fabled "Antarctica", geographers believed that the continent was much larger than its actual size. Passage 7: List of island countries This is a list of island countries. An island is a land mass (smaller than a continent) that is surrounded by water. Many island countries are spread over an archipelago, as is the case with the Federated States of Micronesia and the Indonesia (which consists of thousands of islands). Others consist of a single island, such as Nauru, or part of an island, such as Haiti. Although Australia is designated as a continent, it is often referred to as an island, as it has no land borders. Some declared island countries are not universally recognized as politically independent, such as Northern Cyprus. Some states, such as Taiwan, officially claim to hold continental territories but are de facto limited to control over islands. Passage 8: Canadian Airlines Canadian Airlines International Ltd. (stylized as Canadin Airlines or Canadiairline that operated from 1987 until 2001. The airline was Canada's second largest airline after Air Canada, and carried more than 11.9 million passengers to over 160 destinations in 17 countries on five continents at its height in 1996. Canadian Airlines served 105 destinations in Canada, more than any other airline. Canadian Airlines was also a founding member of the Oneworld airline alliance. Passage 9: Africa Africa is the world's second - largest and second-most - populous continent (the first being Asia). At about 30.3 million km (11.7 million square miles) including adjacent islands, it covers 6% of Earth's total surface area and 20.4% of its total land area. With 1.2 billion people as of 2016, it accounts for about 16% of the world's human population. The continent is surrounded by the Mediterranean Sea to the north, both the Suez Canal and the Red Sea along the Sinai Peninsula to the northeast, the Indian Ocean to the southeast and the Atlantic Ocean to the west. The continent includes Madagascar and various archipelagos. It contains 54 fully recognised sovereign states (countries), nine territories and two de facto independent states with limited or no recognition. Passage 10: Somalis Ancient rock paintings in Somalia which date back to 5000 years have been found in the northern part of the country, depicting early life in the territory. The most famous of these is the Laas Geel complex, which contains some of the earliest known rock art on the African continent and features many elaborate pastoralist sketches of animal and human figures. In other places, such as the northern Dhambalin region, a depiction of a man on a horse is postulated as being one of the earliest known examples of a mounted huntsman. Passage 11: Kotu Island Kotu is an island in Lulunga district, in the Ha'apai islands of Tonga. As of 1992, there was one village on the island with a population of approximately 200 people. Passage 12: Peter Guttman (photographer) Peter Guttman is an American author, photographer, lecturer, television personality and adventurer who has traveled on assignment through over 230 countries and seven continents. Passage 13: Modern history At the time of the Berlin Conference, Africa contained one-fifth of the world’s population living in one-quarter of the world’s land area. However, from Europe's perspective, they were dividing an unknown continent. European countries established a few coastal colonies in Africa by the mid-nineteenth century, which included Cape Colony (Great Britain), Angola (Portugal), and Algeria (France), but until the late nineteenth century Europe largely traded with free African states without feeling the need for territorial possession. Until the 1880s most of Africa remained unchartered, with western maps from the period generally showing blank spaces for the continent’s interior. Passage 14: Tonga Tonga's foreign policy has been described by Matangi Tonga as "Look East"—specifically, as establishing closer diplomatic and economic relations with Asia (which actually lies to the north-west of the Pacific kingdom). Tonga retains cordial relations with the United States. Although it remains on good terms with the United Kingdom, the two countries do not maintain particularly close relations, and the United Kingdom closed its High Commission in Tonga in 2006. Tonga's relations with Oceania's regional powers, Australia and New Zealand, are good. Passage 15: Iridomyrmex anceps Iridomyrmex anceps is an ant species of the genus "Iridomyrmex". It has a very large distribution in multiple continents, but it is mainly distributed in northern Australia. Some specimens were found in multiple islands, and some were even found and collected in the United Arab Emirates. Passage 16: Big3 BIG3 BIG3 official logo Sport Basketball Founded January 11, 2017; 19 months ago (2017 - 01 - 11) Founder Ice Cube Jeff Kwatinetz Inaugural season 2017 Commissioner Clyde Drexler No. of teams 8 Country United States Headquarters Los Angeles, California Venue (s) 10 Continent FIBA Americas (Americas) Most recent champion (s) Power (1st title) Most titles Power (1 title) Trilogy (1 title) TV partner (s) Fox, FS1 Official website BIG3.com Passage 17: Biblioteca Ayacucho The Biblioteca Ayacucho ("Ayacucho Library") is an editorial entity of the government of Venezuela, founded on September 10, 1974. It is managed by the "Fundación Biblioteca Ayacucho". Its name, "Ayacucho", comes from the intention to honor the definitive and crucial Battle of Ayacucho that took place December 9, 1824 between Spain and the territories of the Americas, prior to the full independence of the continent. Passage 18: World population Six of the Earth's seven continents are permanently inhabited on a large scale. Asia is the most populous continent, with its 4.54 billion inhabitants accounting for 60% of the world population. The world's two most populated countries, China and India, together constitute about 37% of the world's population. Africa is the second most populated continent, with around 1.28 billion people, or 16% of the world's population. Europe's 742 million people make up 10% of the world's population as of 2018, while the Latin American and Caribbean regions are home to around 651 million (9%). Northern America, primarily consisting of the United States and Canada, has a population of around 363 million (5%), and Oceania, the least - populated region, has about 41 million inhabitants (0.5%). Though it is not permanently inhabited by any fixed population, Antarctica has a small, fluctuating international population based mainly in polar science stations. This population tends to rise in the summer months and decrease significantly in winter, as visiting researchers return to their home countries. Passage 19: Central America Central America (Spanish: América Central, Centroamérica) is the southernmost, isthmian portion of the North American continent, which connects with the South American continent on the southeast. Central America is bordered by Mexico to the north, Colombia to the southeast, the Caribbean Sea to the east, and the Pacific Ocean to the west. Central America consists of seven countries: Belize, Costa Rica, El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua, and Panama. The combined population of Central America is between 41,739,000 (2009 estimate) and 42,688,190 (2012 estimate). Passage 20: South America Brazil is the largest country in South America, encompassing around half of the continent's land area and population. The remaining countries and territories are divided among three regions: The Andean States, the Guianas and the Southern Cone. Question: What continent is the country that encompasses Kotu located? Answer: Oceania
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Document: The best method known to reduce breast cancer mortality is early detection. Detection of breast cancer is accomplished through a combination of self-examination, physical examination by a physician, and mammography. Of these methods, mammography is the single most effective tool for detection of early-stage breast cancer. The use of mammography as a tool for detecting early or potential breast cancer continues to increase. The proportion of women aged 50 and older who had received mammograms in the previous year increased from 26 percent in 1987 to 54 percent in 1993, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Since 1992, at least 23 million mammograms have been performed in the United States annually. The consequences of substandard mammograms can be very serious. If the image shows an abnormality when none exists, a woman may go through unnecessary and costly follow-up procedures, such as ultrasound or biopsies. If the image is too poor to show an abnormality that is actually present, a woman may lose the chance to stop the cancer’s spread. To help ensure the quality of images and their interpretation, MQSA required FDA to implement both an accreditation and an inspection process for mammography facilities. For the accreditation process, FDA established standards that included requirements for personnel qualifications, equipment performance, and quality assurance recordkeeping. These standards were based on those used by the American College of Radiology (ACR), a private, nonprofit professional association of radiologists, and have been endorsed by industry and government experts. As of July 1996, almost 10,000 facilities had been accredited and had received an FDA certificate to that effect. MQSA inspection authority provides FDA with another means to ensure that facilities comply with standards on a day-to-day operating basis. While for the vast majority of facilities accreditation application and review are accomplished through the mail, all inspections are conducted on site. During an inspection, MQSA inspectors conduct various equipment tests and review the facility’s records on personnel qualifications, quality controls, and quality assurance as well as mammography reports. FDA, which has contracted with virtually all states and territories to conduct inspections, began its first annual inspections of the nation’s mammography facilities in January 1995. It established an extensive program for training inspectors, and as of April 1996, about 220 state and FDA personnel had become certified to perform MQSA inspections. The majority of the personnel chosen to become MQSA inspectors had 5 or more years of prior experience in radiological health. FDA uses its own inspectors to conduct follow-up inspections, monitor the performance of state inspectors, and conduct inspections in states that either did not contract with FDA or lacked enough FDA-certified inspectors to do all the inspections. FDA’s field offices are responsible for following up on inspection violations and enforcing facility compliance. For the most serious violations, FDA’s field offices issue a warning letter informing the facility of the seriousness of the violation. The facility must begin correcting its problem immediately and report the corrective action taken in writing to FDA within 15 work days of receipt of the letter. In some cases, FDA conducts a follow-up inspection of the facility to ensure that the problem is corrected. If the facility fails to correct a problem, FDA can take other enforcement actions, such as imposing a Directed Plan of Correction; assessing a civil penalty of up to $10,000 per day or per failure; or suspending or revoking a facility’s FDA certificate, which prevents a facility from operating lawfully. First-year inspections of mammography facilities showed that a significant number of facilities were not in full compliance with mammography standards. So far, second-year inspections have shown a considerable reduction in the proportion of facilities cited for violations—an indication that the inspection process is having positive results. However, inspection results vary considerably from state to state. It is not clear how much these differences reflect actual differences in the levels of quality in mammography facilities and how much they reflect varying approaches to conducting inspections and reporting the results. To gain a true picture of the full effect of the inspection process, more consistent reporting of violations is needed. FDA’s automated inspection database contained first-year inspection results for 9,186 facilities as of June 20, 1996. Of these, 6,177 showed one or more violations of the standards. As table 1 shows, 1,849 facilities (or 20 percent) had violations that were serious enough to require the facility to provide FDA with a formal response as to the corrective actions taken. Of these, 214 facilities had violations that ranked in the most serious (or “level 1”) category, requiring FDA to send the facility a warning letter. The most serious violations found in these inspections were mainly personnel related: 88 percent of the level 1 violations were for personnel who did not fully meet FDA’s qualification standards (see app. I for a further breakdown of the types of level 1 violations). Level 2 violations involved a greater mix of personnel-related and equipment-related problems, and the majority of level 3 violations involved missing or incomplete quality assurance records and test results as well as medical physicist survey problems. By June 20, 1996, FDA’s database contained the results of 1,503 second-year inspections. We compared the results of first-year and second-year inspections for these 1,503 facilities and found a substantial decrease in all three categories in the proportion of facilities cited for violations (see fig. 1). Another measure of facilities’ improvement in compliance is the extent of repeat violations, that is, violations identified in the first year’s inspection that are identified again when the facility is reinspected the following year. Facilities had a better record in not repeating the more severe violations than they did with minor findings. More specifically, our analysis of the 1,503 facilities showed the following: None of the 50 facilities whose highest level of violation was at the level 1 category during the first-year inspection repeated one or more of the same violations in the second inspection. Six percent of the 345 facilities whose highest level of violation was at the level 2 category during the first-year inspection repeated one or more of the same violations in the second inspection. Twelve percent of the 669 facilities whose highest level of violation was at the level 3 category during the first-year inspection repeated one or more of the same violations in the second inspection. Our analysis of inspection results showed considerable state-by-state variation in the degree to which facilities were cited for violations of MQSA standards. For example,14 states cited no facilities for level 1 violations, while 6 states cited 5 to 12 percent of the facilities inspected for level 1 violations (see app. II for state-by-state results). We were unable to determine the reason for these differences. It may be, for example, that facilities in low-violation states really were much better at complying with standards than facilities in high-violation states. Alternatively, the differences may have been related to variations in the way inspectors conducted their inspections. In the eight states in which we observed inspections, we saw several differences in inspection practices that affected the number of violations reported. The two main differences follow. First, inspectors’ adherence to time limits for resolving problems of missing documents was inconsistent. FDA’s current procedures allow inspectors to delay submitting their inspection reports for 5 to 30 days in order to resolve problems of missing documents. This delay is intended to avoid citing facilities for not having certain records available on site. For example, when a facility claims that its personnel meet MQSA qualification requirements but does not have the required documentation at hand, FDA guidelines instruct inspectors to either delay the transmission of the inspection report or note the “claimed items” in the inspection record. These open items are to be resolved within 30 days, at which time the inspection report is to be finalized. However, we found hundreds of cases in the inspection report database that contained open items longer than 30 days—many for over 6 months. Several inspectors we interviewed said they were not aware of the 30-day limit for resolving pending items. On the other hand, inspectors in two states we visited said they would not wait more than 5 days under any circumstances before submitting a report that a facility was in violation. Thus, a facility in one state might be reported as being in violation, while a facility with the same problem in another state would not. These differences may have resulted in inconsistent reporting of violations; moreover, these inconsistencies make it difficult to determine the full effect of the inspection process. Second, while FDA’s policy is to cite facilities for all violations even if problems are corrected on the spot, we found that inspectors do not always adhere to this policy. For example, we observed that an inspector did not cite a facility that failed its darkroom fog test—normally a level 2 violation—because the facility immediately corrected the problem. Further, FDA’s procedures instruct inspectors to note on-the-spot corrections in the “remarks” section of the inspection software. We observed two inspections on site that involved on-the-spot corrections, but we did not see these inspectors documenting them in the remarks section. We do not question the merit of giving inspectors time to resolve such problems as missing documents or giving facilities opportunities to correct their problems immediately. However, not documenting violations consistently creates problems in forming an accurate picture of what the inspection process is accomplishing. FDA officials told us that they had begun a program in February 1996 to review inspector performance and that, as of October 31, 1996, 65 percent of all inspectors had been audited. FDA officials expect that, when fully implemented, the audit program will help ensure that policies are consistently applied. We agree that the audit program will help identify some inconsistent inspection practices; however, we believe the inspection results should also be monitored to ensure that open items are resolved in a timely manner and that on-the-spot corrections are identified. Although many factors can affect the quality of mammography images, one key factor is the condition of mammography equipment. We identified a need for FDA to clarify the procedures it requires for a major equipment test that evaluates image quality and to follow up when test results suggest problems with the quality of the images being produced. One of the most important aspects of the inspection process is testing mammography equipment by evaluating what is called a “phantom image.” In this procedure, the inspector uses the facility’s mammography equipment to take an X-ray image of a plastic block containing 16 test objects. This block is X-rayed as though it were a breast to determine how many of the test objects can be seen on the image. The inspector evaluates aspects of the performance of the facility’s imaging system by scoring the number of objects that can be seen. We found two questions that need to be answered with regard to evaluating phantom images. What is the impact of inconsistent phantom image scoring? FDA’s current inspection procedures instruct inspectors to score the phantom images under viewing conditions at the facilities. However, differences in inspectors’ experience and in facilities’ viewing conditions may influence the phantom image scores. For greater uniformity in scoring the images, two states we visited go beyond FDA’s standards by having their inspectors score phantom images using standardized viewing conditions (that is, away from the facility), having two or more persons read the images to ensure more consistent scoring, or both. FDA officials told us that the impact of these variations in procedure on the accuracy of image evaluation is unknown and that they are studying the problem. How should large image receptors be evaluated? FDA procedures currently require that phantom images be checked using the receptor that is more commonly used by the facility. Since facilities use small image receptors for most mammograms, these receptors are typically tested during an inspection. Although facilities may use large image receptors for some women, FDA does not require that the large image receptor be tested and does not have specific criteria for evaluating the phantom images of the large receptor. Inconsistent phantom image scoring and lack of standards for evaluating large image receptors can affect inspection results, as can be seen in the example of a 1995 inspection of a large mobile mammography facility headquartered in North Carolina and operating in five states. The facility is reported to perform over 20,000 mammograms a year. A state inspector cited the facility for multiple problems based on the viewing conditions at the facility and images from the small receptor. Although it was not required by FDA, the inspector also evaluated the phantom images from the large image receptor and noted in the remarks section of the inspection report that, for three of four mammography units, these images did not pass the review. An FDA inspector conducted a follow-up inspection, also using the viewing conditions at the facility and images from both the small and large image receptors. This inspector cited the facility for many violations related to both the small and large image receptors. Finally, four reviewers at FDA headquarters examined these same images away from the facility and together found fewer violations related to both the small and large image receptors than the state inspector and the FDA inspector had found. The reviewers, however, did confirm the serious violations related to the large image receptor that were found by the state inspector and the FDA inspector. Although this facility was cited for serious violations related to the large image receptor as a result of the follow-up inspection, FDA officials told us that, because of the lack of inspection criteria, imposing strong sanctions on the basis of phantom image failures from the large receptor could prove problematic. According to FDA, standards for testing the large receptor have not yet been developed because the technical issues relating to the receptor have not yet been resolved by the scientific and medical community. We discussed this case with senior FDA officials, who said that they plan to both provide additional training and guidance to minimize the variability in phantom image scoring and study the development of standards for evaluating images from the large image receptor. Another issue raised by the inspections of the facility discussed above is how to proceed if the phantom image test suggests serious problems with image quality. FDA views phantom image failures as early indications of potential problems deserving further investigation. FDA’s procedures allow facilities with serious phantom image failures to continue performing mammograms while FDA investigates and the facility corrects problems. During the course of our work, we heard varying opinions on the risk of allowing facilities with serious phantom image failures to continue doing mammograms. Some people we spoke with believe the risk of patients’ getting poor mammograms from facilities with serious phantom image failures is high enough that the facilities should not be allowed to do any mammograms until their problems are corrected and those corrections are verified by a reinspection. Several states, including California, Illinois, and Michigan, have rules empowering inspectors to immediately stop facilities with level 1 phantom image failures from doing additional mammograms. However, others (including FDA officials in charge of the MQSA program) do not believe that such drastic action should be taken on the basis of phantom image test results alone. They assert that phantom image failures are an indicator of possible image system problems but are not conclusive evidence that actual mammograms are faulty. At the time of our review, FDA did not have a follow-up system in place for reviewing the actual mammograms (called “clinical images”) of facilities with serious phantom image violations to ensure that they were not producing poor mammograms. However, in the case of the mobile facility discussed earlier, FDA did ask ACR to conduct two reviews of the clinical images produced by the facility because of image quality concerns. The more comprehensive review was conducted in July 1996, subsequent to our inquiry about FDA’s handling of the case. This review selected a total of 28 sets of images from five units operated by the facility for three different time frames over a 1-year period. In early September 1996, ACR completed the review and found most of these clinical images of unacceptable quality. On the basis of these results, FDA obtained the facility’s agreement to discontinue performing mammography until its radiologic technologists and its radiologist obtained additional training approved by FDA and ACR, which they did the following week. In addition, at FDA’s request, ACR is planning to review another sample of clinical images produced by the facility to determine to what extent patients should be notified of past quality problems at the facility. This case clearly demonstrates the need for a procedure to review clinical images when there is sufficient evidence to suggest problems with the quality of a facility’s mammograms. Without the criteria and process in place for determining when and how follow-up review of clinical images should be conducted and patient notification should be carried out, there is no assurance that patients are protected from the risk of receiving poor mammograms. FDA officials agreed that there is a need to incorporate a follow-up clinical image review process. In its proposed final regulation dated April 3, 1996, FDA has included a provision that specifically provides FDA with authority to require clinical image review and patient notification if FDA finds that image quality at a facility has been severely compromised. Although FDA has made progress in bringing facilities into compliance with mammography standards, it lacks procedures to enforce timely correction of all deficiencies found during inspections. One major problem involves the need to develop criteria for defining conditions constituting a serious risk to human health and determining when severe sanctions are warranted. Other problems that also merit attention relate to determining whether a stronger approach is needed to resolve repeated level 3 violations and establishing an effective information system for follow-up on inspection results. FDA is developing such an information system. MQSA provides FDA a broad range of sanctions to impose against noncomplying facilities, but it emphasizes bringing facilities into compliance through those sanctions that are less severe, such as imposing a Directed Plan of Correction. FDA has the authority to impose stronger sanctions, such as an immediate suspension of a facility’s FDA certificate, if it determines that the facility’s operation presents a serious risk to human health. Since the implementation of MQSA, FDA has never done so. We found evidence that FDA needs to define those circumstances in which such actions are warranted. In dealing with the continuing problems at the mobile facility discussed earlier, there was considerable internal debate at FDA about the level of action that should be taken. Inspections of the facility beginning in June 1995 had disclosed serious violations. (See app. III for a chronology of key events surrounding the resolution of quality assurance problems at the facility.) Several state and FDA field personnel involved in the case told us they thought the severity of violations warranted an immediate suspension of the facility’s certificate and had made such a recommendation. FDA officials decided against suspending the facility’s certificate because they thought the evidence of health risk was not clear and compelling enough to do so. In September 1996, when ACR’s review of clinical images eventually confirmed that the quality of the mammograms was unacceptable, FDA obtained the facility’s agreement to discontinue performing mammography until facility personnel received more training. Because of the agreement, FDA did not have to go through the process of imposing an immediate suspension of the facility’s certificate. Nevertheless, this incident points to the need for having criteria in place to impose such a sanction to protect patients, if necessary, from continuing to receive poor mammograms. We believe—and FDA officials agreed—that timely imposition of an appropriate sanction is in part dependent on (1) criteria for when conditions constitute a serious risk to human health, justifying immediate suspension of operations, and (2) a process for discontinuing mammography services until the problems are corrected. Another matter that also merits attention from FDA is whether more serious follow-up is needed for facilities with multiple or repeated level 3 violations. Current policy for facilities whose most serious violations are in the level 3 category requires no reporting on the facility’s part and no follow-up on the part of FDA until the next year’s inspection. However, of the facilities that had gone through two inspections, 18 percent of those whose most serious violation was in the level 3 category during the first year had five or more such violations, and 12 percent repeated one or more of the same violations in the next year. Several state inspectors we interviewed expressed concern that current procedures do not call for stronger action against such facilities. Inspectors from one state told us that their state regulations allow them to impose more serious penalties for recurring level 3 violations. Some inspectors also told us that even though level 3 violations were generally considered less serious, some level 3 violations—such as a facility’s failure to take corrective action when called for in the medical physicist’s survey report—are serious enough that they should be corrected as soon as possible to maintain quality assurance. We did not evaluate the appropriateness of FDA’s classification of the various levels of violations. Because of the concerns expressed by the inspectors and the extent of multiple and repeat violations noted above, however, we believe that FDA should evaluate its classification of level 3 violations and the enforcement actions taken on them. If FDA believes these violations are important and need to be corrected, it could raise the violation level for facilities with multiple or repeated violations, which would ensure formal follow-up. However, if FDA views some of these violations as insignificant or having little effect on mammography, it may choose not to classify them as violations. FDA generally delegates inspection responsibility through contracts with states but remains responsible for follow-up and enforcement when violations are reported. For level 1 violations, FDA’s field offices are responsible for validating inspection results and issuing a warning letter that requires the facility to respond within 15 work days. For level 2 violations, no warning letters are sent, but facilities are required to respond in writing within 30 work days of the receipt of an inspection report. Since June 1995, FDA has been working with contractors to develop an automated compliance system that would supply its field offices with computer-based information to manage this compliance effort. Development problems have delayed the system, which is now projected to be operational early in 1997. In the meantime, FDA has been relying on field offices to maintain their own tracking systems. Our reviews at three of FDA’s field offices showed that these interim systems were inadequate. Staff responsible for compliance follow-up had no direct access to inspection databases and were relying either on the state inspectors or on FDA headquarters to send them copies of inspection reports showing level 1 and level 2 violations that needed to be tracked. Staff said that sometimes they did not receive reports from headquarters until 2 to 3 months after the inspections and that state inspectors did not always send reports on level 2 cases. As a result, field office staff often received facility responses on corrective actions taken for level 2 violations before they even knew that violations had been cited. None of the three offices maintained case logs or prepared any status reports on their tracking efforts or the timeliness of facility responses. Problems in these makeshift systems have stymied our attempts to determine how quickly and completely violations were being corrected. To determine whether field offices were sending out warning letters in a timely manner and whether facilities were correcting their deficiencies within required time frames, at our request, FDA headquarters in April 1996 sent all of its field offices a list of all level 1 and level 2 violations cited in their jurisdictions and asked them to compile data on facility response times for corrective actions. Field offices had difficulty responding with complete information. FDA headquarters had initially told us that these data would be available in early June, but at the time that we completed our field work, discrepancies still remained unresolved. We conducted an on-site file review at one FDA field office in August and September 1996 and found that the office had incomplete documentation for 13 of the 40 cases with level 2 violations cited between July 1, 1995, and June 20, 1996. In one case, documentation was absent altogether. We also found problems with the timeliness of follow-up on level 1 violations. For example, while FDA guidelines require a field office to issue a warning letter for a level 1 violation within 15 to 30 business days after the inspection, the office we reviewed took up to 132 business days. Also, although FDA procedures require a facility to respond within 15 business days of receiving the warning letter, in two of the eight level 1 cases that we reviewed the facilities did not respond within the required time frame, and one case file contained no record of a facility response. These findings highlight the importance of completing and implementing the automated compliance system as soon as possible. Until field offices have ready access to up-to-date information, it will be difficult for them to conduct effective follow-up and enforcement for facilities that violate the standards. The results of the current inspection program of mammography facilities appear to be generally positive. Establishing this comprehensive inspection program has been a substantial effort on FDA’s part and, as mammography facilities move into their second year of inspections, violations of mammography standards are declining. Despite these encouraging results, at the time of our review, we found indications that certain aspects of the inspection program needed attention. First, to ensure an accurate picture of how many problems were found and how well the inspection program was working, violations would need to be more consistently recorded. In addition, even though serious violations do not occur often, when they do, they have the potential for posing a serious health risk to those women affected. To ensure high quality mammography, FDA must be vigilant in its efforts to confirm that facilities promptly and adequately correct violations. As a result, FDA would need to provide an expeditious means to follow up, including notifying patients, when serious problems affecting image quality were indicated. Finally, improvements would be needed in systems and procedures for monitoring facilities with violations and for ensuring that they corrected deficiencies. We recommend that FDA take action in the following areas: Strengthening the inspection reporting process. To better reflect the extent to which inspections detect compliance problems, FDA needs to monitor its inspection results more closely to ensure that its procedures for resolving open items and documenting on-the-spot corrections are consistently followed. Strengthening procedures for assessing image quality and protecting patients. To minimize the variability in how phantom images are scored, additional training and guidance should be provided, including guidance for evaluating phantom images using the large image receptor. Also, to minimize patients’ risk of poor quality mammograms, the final implementing regulations should include the criteria and process for requiring follow-up clinical image reviews and, when necessary, patient notification when inspections detect violations, such as serious phantom image failures, that could severely compromise image quality. Ensuring that violations are corrected in a timely manner. Several steps are needed here. First, to help ensure that appropriate action is taken when serious problems are discovered, procedures need to be developed for (1) determining when the health risk is serious enough to justify immediate suspension of certification and (2) implementing the suspension. Second, to help ensure better performance from facilities that exhibit lingering, though less serious, deficiencies, the classification and enforcement policy on level 3 violations needs reevaluation to determine if additional follow-up is needed on facilities with multiple and repeated level 3 violations. Third, so that compliance personnel can have access to complete, up-to-date information on violations reported, all necessary steps need to be taken to ensure that the compliance tracking system currently under development is completed as soon as possible. In commenting on a draft of this report, FDA generally agreed with our recommendations and cited specific program enhancements and corrective actions it had recently undertaken. FDA was, however, critical of our draft on several accounts. FDA said that the scope of our work did not address some aspects of MQSA requirements and that the draft did not adequately reflect many of FDA’s accomplishments in implementing MQSA. Moreover, FDA believed the report did not recognize changes FDA had made to improve those aspects of the inspection program that we had found in need of attention. FDA cited recent actions it had taken, including (1) establishing procedures and guidance for clinical image reviews, sanctions for failure to comply with standards, and procedures for follow-up on repeated level 3 violations; (2) implementing an inspector audit program that had evaluated 65 percent of inspectors as of October 31, 1996; and (3) making a commitment to fully implement its automated compliance tracking system in January 1997. FDA expressed concern that not acknowledging these actions would create an inaccurate impression that the program was fraught with problems, which could undermine the public confidence in mammography. Concerning the scope of our work, this report is not intended as a vehicle for commenting on implementation of MQSA as a whole; it deals only with FDA’s inspection program. However, we think that the report speaks both to FDA’s accomplishments related to the inspection program and to those problems that we found—and that FDA has now moved to correct. The main reason that FDA’s recent actions were not reflected in the original draft was that they occurred about the same time or, in most cases, after we had provided FDA the draft for comment. We generally consider FDA’s subsequent actions and approaches to our recommendations to be responsive and believe that, if properly implemented, they should strengthen the inspection program. We recognize FDA’s concern about the importance of promoting public confidence in mammography, and, in fact, our recommendations to promote timely compliance with MQSA were made with that objective in mind. While we generally concur with FDA’s approaches for addressing our recommendations, we continue to believe that opportunity exists for FDA to improve its reporting process. We recognize that FDA has acted to implement the inspector audit program, but we believe that FDA still needs to monitor its inspection results to ensure timely follow-up on “open items” and accurate reporting of on-the-spot corrections. As a result, we have clarified our recommendation on strengthening the inspection reporting process accordingly. FDA also provided technical comments, which we considered and incorporated where appropriate, and cited several other areas of the report that it thought needed clarification. The full text of FDA’s comments, accompanied by our response, is contained in appendix IV. We also received comments from the North Carolina facility that we cited in the report. The facility stated that our report addressed many of its concerns with the MQSA program. It also commented that its case demonstrates the need for an organized approach to evaluation and for all involved agencies to agree upon an appropriate standard for clinical image evaluation. The facility asserted that FDA’s process lacks these critical elements and that the facility was being held to unreasonable standards. As a result, in October 1996, the facility appealed its Directed Plan of Correction to FDA. We have updated the chronology of FDA’s enforcement actions regarding the facility to reflect the facility’s appeal and the subsequent denial of the appeal by FDA (see app. III). We are sending copies of this report to the Secretary of Health and Human Services, the Commissioner of the Food and Drug Administration, the Director of the Office of Management and Budget, and other interested parties. We will also make copies available to others upon request. Please contact me at (202) 512-7119 if you or your staff have any questions. Major contributors to this report are listed in appendix V. Personnel do not meet FDA’s qualification standards Processor quality control charts not available No survey conducted by medical physicist Mammography records improperly maintained or recorded Self-referred system inadequate or not in place Less than one-half of 1 percent. Percentage of facilities with no violations (continued) Initial inspection revealed 1 level 1 violation for phantom image failure, 2 level 2 violations for phantom image failure, 1 level 2 violation for processor quality control problems, and 31 level 3 violations for various other problems. ACR’s clinical image review for one unit found mammograms acceptable and resulted in ACR accreditation for that unit. FDA issued its warning letter to the facility for the violations found in June 1995. The facility responded by submitting new phantom images and a processor quality control chart for review. FDA notified the facility that its response was inadequate because it did not identify the machine on which the phantom images were taken and it did not include proper paperwork for the processor. ACR clinical image review for another unit found mammograms acceptable, and ACR accreditation was granted for that unit. ACR, at FDA’s request, performed a clinical image review of one set of mammograms for each of two units. The facility responded to FDA’s 11/13/95 letter by sending new phantom images and processor quality control charts. FDA notified the facility that the 11/30/95 response was adequate. FDA did a follow-up reinspection and found 5 level 1 and 7 level 2 phantom image failures using the large image receptor, 11 level 2 phantom image failures using the small image receptor, and numerous other level 2 and level 3 violations. ACR notified the facility and FDA that the clinical images reviewed on 11/20/95 were acceptable. FDA imposed a Directed Plan of Correction requiring the facility to (1) have a medical physicist complete a survey of all units within 30 days, (2) correct problems identified in the survey within 15 business days, (3) perform phantom image evaluation weekly and submit results to FDA monthly, and (4) perform other quality control tests. FDA and state officials met with the facility’s management to discuss the Directed Plan of Correction and to review progress. FDA reinspected the facility and found one level 2 violation involving dark room fog and two level 3 violations in other areas, but no phantom image failures for either large or small image receptors. FDA directed the facility to select a total of 28 sets of clinical images from three time periods between July 1995 and June 1996 for ACR review. ACR review found most of the clinical images were unacceptable. FDA imposed an amended Directed Plan of Correction and obtained agreement from the facility to discontinue performing mammography with the resident radiologic technologists and interpreting physician until they were retrained. All but one of the facility’s radiologic technologists and the interpreting physician completed training, and a new FDA- and ACR-approved technologist was added to the facility’s staff. The facility reopened and reestablished mammography services. FDA notified the facility that ACR would conduct additional clinical image reviews of (1) a sample of clinical images after the personnel had resumed performing mammography for about 1 month and (2) all mammograms taken between June 6, 1996, and September 9, 1996. The facility appealed FDA’s amended Directed Plan of Correction. FDA denied the facility’s appeal. The following are GAO’s additional comments on the letter received from the Food and Drug Administration dated November 18, 1996. FDA commented that the draft report did not discuss the inherent limitations of the phantom image test or the lack of scientific consensus on a test for the large image receptor. While our draft report correctly reflected FDA’s view that the phantom image test is only an indicator of image problems, we agreed to add clarifying information to recognize limitations suggested by FDA. Similarly, we have added clarification to recognize that, according to FDA, developing a standard for the large image receptor would require additional scientific testing. While we recognize that developing guidance for the large image receptor will take time, FDA is in a position to continue to provide leadership in conducting experiments and in building a scientific consensus on a particular test method. FDA commented that our method of presenting aggregate data on the extent of all violations detected during the first and second years of inspections tended to give too much weight to level 3 violations, which FDA characterized as minor. While our report points out that all level 3 violations are not universally regarded as minor, we agree with FDA that aggregating all levels of violations could potentially be misleading. As a result, we have eliminated the aggregate totals from our final report. While FDA acknowledged that there have been some start-up problems with the timely follow-up of violations, it asserted that it now has all necessary procedures in place to follow up on violations. We believe that the lack of an adequate compliance follow-up system has been an ongoing problem. Our contacts with FDA field offices, one as recent as late September 1996, showed the lack of a systematic approach to follow up on previous inspection violations. We agree with FDA, however, that the establishment of its automated Compliance Tracking System has significant potential to alleviate the problems with follow-up. FDA commented that variation among the states in the number of violations reported would be expected because some states had well-developed mammography programs before MQSA and, as a result, presumably would have had fewer violations than other states. In addition, FDA stated that some states may have imposed stricter standards than those provided by MQSA. We agree that there could be variation in frequency of violations among the states attributable to the states’ pre-MQSA experiences with mammography standards. However, the violation data, in our view, are not reported in a consistent enough fashion to sustain such analysis of variation. Moreover, whether states have higher standards than MQSA should not affect violation data if they are correctly reported by the states. States that establish and enforce higher standards than MQSA should, according to FDA’s own guidance, enforce these standards outside of the MQSA process. FDA also commented that our draft report did not accurately reflect the circumstances surrounding FDA’s enforcement in the case of the North Carolina facility. We believe our draft report provided an adequate summary of the key facts in the North Carolina case sufficient to justify our recommendations for additional enforcement procedures, guidance, and training. We note that, after reviewing our draft report, FDA took action to implement our recommendations. However, since FDA believes that additional facts are relevant to the discussion, we have added them to our final report. Specifically, we have (1) added a footnote to the body of the report to explain more fully how FDA reached its conclusion that it would not suspend the facility operation; (2) amended the appendix that contains the chronology of events related to the facility; and (3) as explained above, added information recognizing the limitations of phantom images and clarifying the lack of consensus on available tests for the large image receptor. In addition to those named above, the following individuals made important contributions to this report: Sarah F. Jaggar, Special Advisor for Health Issues; Susan Lawes, Senior Social Science Analyst; Donna Bulvin, Evaluator; Stan Stenersen, Senior Evaluator; Evan Stoll, Computer Specialist; Craig Winslow and Stefanie Weldon, Senior Attorneys; and Clair Hur, Intern. The first copy of each GAO report and testimony is free. Additional copies are $2 each. Orders should be sent to the following address, accompanied by a check or money order made out to the Superintendent of Documents, when necessary. VISA and MasterCard credit cards are accepted, also. Orders for 100 or more copies to be mailed to a single address are discounted 25 percent. U.S. General Accounting Office P.O. Box 6015 Gaithersburg, MD 20884-6015 Room 1100 700 4th St. NW (corner of 4th and G Sts. NW) U.S. General Accounting Office Washington, DC Orders may also be placed by calling (202) 512-6000 or by using fax number (301) 258-4066, or TDD (301) 413-0006. Each day, GAO issues a list of newly available reports and testimony. To receive facsimile copies of the daily list or any list from the past 30 days, please call (202) 512-6000 using a touchtone phone. A recorded menu will provide information on how to obtain these lists. Summary: Pursuant to a legislative requirement, GAO reviewed the Food and Drug Administration's (FDA) program for implementing the requirements of the Mammography Quality Standards Act of 1992, focusing on: (1) the extent to which facilities are complying with the new mammography standards; (2) whether FDA's procedures for evaluating image quality at mammography facilities are adequate; and (3) whether FDA's monitoring and enforcement process ensures timely correction of mammography deficiencies. GAO found that: (1) GAO's work points to growing compliance by facilities with FDA's mammography standards; (2) FDA's first annual inspection began in January 1995, and by mid-1996, over 9,000 facilities had been inspected, and approximately 1,500 of these had undergone two rounds of inspections; (3) the first time these 1,500 facilities were evaluated, 26 percent had significant violations, but the second-year inspection revealed that this figure had dropped to about 10 percent; (4) the percentage of facilities with less significant deviations from quality standards had decreased; (5) while these results are positive, GAO did note some differences in how inspectors are conducting inspections that, left unaddressed, could lead to inconsistent reporting of violations, thereby limiting FDA's ability to determine the full effect of the inspection process and to identify the extent of repeat violations; (6) GAO's review of FDA's actions during the first 18 months of its inspection program showed a need for management attention to two additional aspects of the inspection program; (7) FDA's inspection procedures for an important test of mammography equipment were inadequate; (8) the way this test, called the phantom image test, was conducted was open to variability, which could have resulted in differing assessments of how well the equipment functioned; (9) in those instances in which test results showed serious problems with the phantom image quality, FDA's procedures allowed facilities to continue taking mammograms without follow-up to evaluate whether their quality was actually acceptable; (10) without such follow-up review, women are not fully protected from getting poor mammograms from facilities with potentially severe quality problems; (11) at the time of GAO's review, FDA also lacked procedures to ensure that all violations of standards were both corrected and corrected in a timely manner; (12) FDA's program lacked criteria for defining conditions constituting a serious risk to human health, which could delay enforcement of compliance and notification to women who may have received substandard mammograms; (13) for facilities with less severe but persistent violations, FDA's follow-up efforts could not always ensure corrective action was taken; and (14) delays in completing a management information system have kept FDA's compliance staff from having complete, up-to-date information about the compliance status of all mammography facilities.
{ "task_name": "govreport_summarization" }
using System; using System.Collections.Generic; using System.Collections.ObjectModel; using System.ComponentModel; using System.Diagnostics.CodeAnalysis; using System.Globalization; using System.IO; using System.Linq; using System.Net.Http; using System.Net.Http.Formatting; using System.Net.Http.Headers; using System.Web.Http.Description; using System.Xml.Linq; using Newtonsoft.Json; namespace Wallet.Areas.HelpPage { /// <summary> /// This class will generate the samples for the help page. /// </summary> public class HelpPageSampleGenerator { /// <summary> /// Initializes a new instance of the <see cref="HelpPageSampleGenerator"/> class. /// </summary> public HelpPageSampleGenerator() { ActualHttpMessageTypes = new Dictionary<HelpPageSampleKey, Type>(); ActionSamples = new Dictionary<HelpPageSampleKey, object>(); SampleObjects = new Dictionary<Type, object>(); SampleObjectFactories = new List<Func<HelpPageSampleGenerator, Type, object>> { DefaultSampleObjectFactory, }; } /// <summary> /// Gets CLR types that are used as the content of <see cref="HttpRequestMessage"/> or <see cref="HttpResponseMessage"/>. /// </summary> public IDictionary<HelpPageSampleKey, Type> ActualHttpMessageTypes { get; internal set; } /// <summary> /// Gets the objects that are used directly as samples for certain actions. /// </summary> public IDictionary<HelpPageSampleKey, object> ActionSamples { get; internal set; } /// <summary> /// Gets the objects that are serialized as samples by the supported formatters. /// </summary> public IDictionary<Type, object> SampleObjects { get; internal set; } /// <summary> /// Gets factories for the objects that the supported formatters will serialize as samples. Processed in order, /// stopping when the factory successfully returns a non-<see langref="null"/> object. /// </summary> /// <remarks> /// Collection includes just <see cref="ObjectGenerator.GenerateObject(Type)"/> initially. Use /// <code>SampleObjectFactories.Insert(0, func)</code> to provide an override and /// <code>SampleObjectFactories.Add(func)</code> to provide a fallback.</remarks> [SuppressMessage("Microsoft.Design", "CA1006:DoNotNestGenericTypesInMemberSignatures", Justification = "This is an appropriate nesting of generic types")] public IList<Func<HelpPageSampleGenerator, Type, object>> SampleObjectFactories { get; private set; } /// <summary> /// Gets the request body samples for a given <see cref="ApiDescription"/>. /// </summary> /// <param name="api">The <see cref="ApiDescription"/>.</param> /// <returns>The samples keyed by media type.</returns> public IDictionary<MediaTypeHeaderValue, object> GetSampleRequests(ApiDescription api) { return GetSample(api, SampleDirection.Request); } /// <summary> /// Gets the response body samples for a given <see cref="ApiDescription"/>. /// </summary> /// <param name="api">The <see cref="ApiDescription"/>.</param> /// <returns>The samples keyed by media type.</returns> public IDictionary<MediaTypeHeaderValue, object> GetSampleResponses(ApiDescription api) { return GetSample(api, SampleDirection.Response); } /// <summary> /// Gets the request or response body samples. /// </summary> /// <param name="api">The <see cref="ApiDescription"/>.</param> /// <param name="sampleDirection">The value indicating whether the sample is for a request or for a response.</param> /// <returns>The samples keyed by media type.</returns> public virtual IDictionary<MediaTypeHeaderValue, object> GetSample(ApiDescription api, SampleDirection sampleDirection) { if (api == null) { throw new ArgumentNullException("api"); } string controllerName = api.ActionDescriptor.ControllerDescriptor.ControllerName; string actionName = api.ActionDescriptor.ActionName; IEnumerable<string> parameterNames = api.ParameterDescriptions.Select(p => p.Name); Collection<MediaTypeFormatter> formatters; Type type = ResolveType(api, controllerName, actionName, parameterNames, sampleDirection, out formatters); var samples = new Dictionary<MediaTypeHeaderValue, object>(); // Use the samples provided directly for actions var actionSamples = GetAllActionSamples(controllerName, actionName, parameterNames, sampleDirection); foreach (var actionSample in actionSamples) { samples.Add(actionSample.Key.MediaType, WrapSampleIfString(actionSample.Value)); } // Do the sample generation based on formatters only if an action doesn't return an HttpResponseMessage. // Here we cannot rely on formatters because we don't know what's in the HttpResponseMessage, it might not even use formatters. if (type != null && !typeof(HttpResponseMessage).IsAssignableFrom(type)) { object sampleObject = GetSampleObject(type); foreach (var formatter in formatters) { foreach (MediaTypeHeaderValue mediaType in formatter.SupportedMediaTypes) { if (!samples.ContainsKey(mediaType)) { object sample = GetActionSample(controllerName, actionName, parameterNames, type, formatter, mediaType, sampleDirection); // If no sample found, try generate sample using formatter and sample object if (sample == null && sampleObject != null) { sample = WriteSampleObjectUsingFormatter(formatter, sampleObject, type, mediaType); } samples.Add(mediaType, WrapSampleIfString(sample)); } } } } return samples; } /// <summary> /// Search for samples that are provided directly through <see cref="ActionSamples"/>. /// </summary> /// <param name="controllerName">Name of the controller.</param> /// <param name="actionName">Name of the action.</param> /// <param name="parameterNames">The parameter names.</param> /// <param name="type">The CLR type.</param> /// <param name="formatter">The formatter.</param> /// <param name="mediaType">The media type.</param> /// <param name="sampleDirection">The value indicating whether the sample is for a request or for a response.</param> /// <returns>The sample that matches the parameters.</returns> public virtual object GetActionSample(string controllerName, string actionName, IEnumerable<string> parameterNames, Type type, MediaTypeFormatter formatter, MediaTypeHeaderValue mediaType, SampleDirection sampleDirection) { object sample; // First, try to get the sample provided for the specified mediaType, sampleDirection, controllerName, actionName and parameterNames. // If not found, try to get the sample provided for the specified mediaType, sampleDirection, controllerName and actionName regardless of the parameterNames. // If still not found, try to get the sample provided for the specified mediaType and type. // Finally, try to get the sample provided for the specified mediaType. if (ActionSamples.TryGetValue(new HelpPageSampleKey(mediaType, sampleDirection, controllerName, actionName, parameterNames), out sample) || ActionSamples.TryGetValue(new HelpPageSampleKey(mediaType, sampleDirection, controllerName, actionName, new[] { "*" }), out sample) || ActionSamples.TryGetValue(new HelpPageSampleKey(mediaType, type), out sample) || ActionSamples.TryGetValue(new HelpPageSampleKey(mediaType), out sample)) { return sample; } return null; } /// <summary> /// Gets the sample object that will be serialized by the formatters. /// First, it will look at the <see cref="SampleObjects"/>. If no sample object is found, it will try to create /// one using <see cref="DefaultSampleObjectFactory"/> (which wraps an <see cref="ObjectGenerator"/>) and other /// factories in <see cref="SampleObjectFactories"/>. /// </summary> /// <param name="type">The type.</param> /// <returns>The sample object.</returns> [SuppressMessage("Microsoft.Design", "CA1031:DoNotCatchGeneralExceptionTypes", Justification = "Even if all items in SampleObjectFactories throw, problem will be visible as missing sample.")] public virtual object GetSampleObject(Type type) { object sampleObject; if (!SampleObjects.TryGetValue(type, out sampleObject)) { // No specific object available, try our factories. foreach (Func<HelpPageSampleGenerator, Type, object> factory in SampleObjectFactories) { if (factory == null) { continue; } try { sampleObject = factory(this, type); if (sampleObject != null) { break; } } catch { // Ignore any problems encountered in the factory; go on to the next one (if any). } } } return sampleObject; } /// <summary> /// Resolves the actual type of <see cref="System.Net.Http.ObjectContent{T}"/> passed to the <see cref="System.Net.Http.HttpRequestMessage"/> in an action. /// </summary> /// <param name="api">The <see cref="ApiDescription"/>.</param> /// <returns>The type.</returns> public virtual Type ResolveHttpRequestMessageType(ApiDescription api) { string controllerName = api.ActionDescriptor.ControllerDescriptor.ControllerName; string actionName = api.ActionDescriptor.ActionName; IEnumerable<string> parameterNames = api.ParameterDescriptions.Select(p => p.Name); Collection<MediaTypeFormatter> formatters; return ResolveType(api, controllerName, actionName, parameterNames, SampleDirection.Request, out formatters); } /// <summary> /// Resolves the type of the action parameter or return value when <see cref="HttpRequestMessage"/> or <see cref="HttpResponseMessage"/> is used. /// </summary> /// <param name="api">The <see cref="ApiDescription"/>.</param> /// <param name="controllerName">Name of the controller.</param> /// <param name="actionName">Name of the action.</param> /// <param name="parameterNames">The parameter names.</param> /// <param name="sampleDirection">The value indicating whether the sample is for a request or a response.</param> /// <param name="formatters">The formatters.</param> [SuppressMessage("Microsoft.Design", "CA1021:AvoidOutParameters", Justification = "This is only used in advanced scenarios.")] public virtual Type ResolveType(ApiDescription api, string controllerName, string actionName, IEnumerable<string> parameterNames, SampleDirection sampleDirection, out Collection<MediaTypeFormatter> formatters) { if (!Enum.IsDefined(typeof(SampleDirection), sampleDirection)) { throw new InvalidEnumArgumentException("sampleDirection", (int)sampleDirection, typeof(SampleDirection)); } if (api == null) { throw new ArgumentNullException("api"); } Type type; if (ActualHttpMessageTypes.TryGetValue(new HelpPageSampleKey(sampleDirection, controllerName, actionName, parameterNames), out type) || ActualHttpMessageTypes.TryGetValue(new HelpPageSampleKey(sampleDirection, controllerName, actionName, new[] { "*" }), out type)) { // Re-compute the supported formatters based on type Collection<MediaTypeFormatter> newFormatters = new Collection<MediaTypeFormatter>(); foreach (var formatter in api.ActionDescriptor.Configuration.Formatters) { if (IsFormatSupported(sampleDirection, formatter, type)) { newFormatters.Add(formatter); } } formatters = newFormatters; } else { switch (sampleDirection) { case SampleDirection.Request: ApiParameterDescription requestBodyParameter = api.ParameterDescriptions.FirstOrDefault(p => p.Source == ApiParameterSource.FromBody); type = requestBodyParameter == null ? null : requestBodyParameter.ParameterDescriptor.ParameterType; formatters = api.SupportedRequestBodyFormatters; break; case SampleDirection.Response: default: type = api.ResponseDescription.ResponseType ?? api.ResponseDescription.DeclaredType; formatters = api.SupportedResponseFormatters; break; } } return type; } /// <summary> /// Writes the sample object using formatter. /// </summary> /// <param name="formatter">The formatter.</param> /// <param name="value">The value.</param> /// <param name="type">The type.</param> /// <param name="mediaType">Type of the media.</param> /// <returns></returns> [SuppressMessage("Microsoft.Design", "CA1031:DoNotCatchGeneralExceptionTypes", Justification = "The exception is recorded as InvalidSample.")] public virtual object WriteSampleObjectUsingFormatter(MediaTypeFormatter formatter, object value, Type type, MediaTypeHeaderValue mediaType) { if (formatter == null) { throw new ArgumentNullException("formatter"); } if (mediaType == null) { throw new ArgumentNullException("mediaType"); } object sample = String.Empty; MemoryStream ms = null; HttpContent content = null; try { if (formatter.CanWriteType(type)) { ms = new MemoryStream(); content = new ObjectContent(type, value, formatter, mediaType); formatter.WriteToStreamAsync(type, value, ms, content, null).Wait(); ms.Position = 0; StreamReader reader = new StreamReader(ms); string serializedSampleString = reader.ReadToEnd(); if (mediaType.MediaType.ToUpperInvariant().Contains("XML")) { serializedSampleString = TryFormatXml(serializedSampleString); } else if (mediaType.MediaType.ToUpperInvariant().Contains("JSON")) { serializedSampleString = TryFormatJson(serializedSampleString); } sample = new TextSample(serializedSampleString); } else { sample = new InvalidSample(String.Format( CultureInfo.CurrentCulture, "Failed to generate the sample for media type '{0}'. Cannot use formatter '{1}' to write type '{2}'.", mediaType, formatter.GetType().Name, type.Name)); } } catch (Exception e) { sample = new InvalidSample(String.Format( CultureInfo.CurrentCulture, "An exception has occurred while using the formatter '{0}' to generate sample for media type '{1}'. Exception message: {2}", formatter.GetType().Name, mediaType.MediaType, UnwrapException(e).Message)); } finally { if (ms != null) { ms.Dispose(); } if (content != null) { content.Dispose(); } } return sample; } internal static Exception UnwrapException(Exception exception) { AggregateException aggregateException = exception as AggregateException; if (aggregateException != null) { return aggregateException.Flatten().InnerException; } return exception; } // Default factory for sample objects private static object DefaultSampleObjectFactory(HelpPageSampleGenerator sampleGenerator, Type type) { // Try to create a default sample object ObjectGenerator objectGenerator = new ObjectGenerator(); return objectGenerator.GenerateObject(type); } [SuppressMessage("Microsoft.Design", "CA1031:DoNotCatchGeneralExceptionTypes", Justification = "Handling the failure by returning the original string.")] private static string TryFormatJson(string str) { try { object parsedJson = JsonConvert.DeserializeObject(str); return JsonConvert.SerializeObject(parsedJson, Formatting.Indented); } catch { // can't parse JSON, return the original string return str; } } [SuppressMessage("Microsoft.Design", "CA1031:DoNotCatchGeneralExceptionTypes", Justification = "Handling the failure by returning the original string.")] private static string TryFormatXml(string str) { try { XDocument xml = XDocument.Parse(str); return xml.ToString(); } catch { // can't parse XML, return the original string return str; } } private static bool IsFormatSupported(SampleDirection sampleDirection, MediaTypeFormatter formatter, Type type) { switch (sampleDirection) { case SampleDirection.Request: return formatter.CanReadType(type); case SampleDirection.Response: return formatter.CanWriteType(type); } return false; } private IEnumerable<KeyValuePair<HelpPageSampleKey, object>> GetAllActionSamples(string controllerName, string actionName, IEnumerable<string> parameterNames, SampleDirection sampleDirection) { HashSet<string> parameterNamesSet = new HashSet<string>(parameterNames, StringComparer.OrdinalIgnoreCase); foreach (var sample in ActionSamples) { HelpPageSampleKey sampleKey = sample.Key; if (String.Equals(controllerName, sampleKey.ControllerName, StringComparison.OrdinalIgnoreCase) && String.Equals(actionName, sampleKey.ActionName, StringComparison.OrdinalIgnoreCase) && (sampleKey.ParameterNames.SetEquals(new[] { "*" }) || parameterNamesSet.SetEquals(sampleKey.ParameterNames)) && sampleDirection == sampleKey.SampleDirection) { yield return sample; } } } private static object WrapSampleIfString(object sample) { string stringSample = sample as string; if (stringSample != null) { return new TextSample(stringSample); } return sample; } } }
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
Document: MIAMI – In the Latino hotbed of Miami, Mitt Romney today hit back at Newt Gingrich’s claims that the former Massachusetts governor is “anti-immigrant” because of his policies on how to address the millions of undocumented immigrants in the country. “It’s very sad for a candidate to resort to that sort of epithet,” Romney told Univision’s Jorge Ramos at a Univision forum here. “It’s just inappropriate. There are differences between candidates on different issues, but we don’t attack each other with those types of terrible terms. I’m not anti-immigrant, I’m pro-immigrant. I like immigration. Immigration has been an extraordinary source of strength in this country, as I’m sure you know. Immigrants form more businesses than do domestic-born Americans. The immigrant population in this country has created great vitality in our economy as well as in our culture. “Actually, he was asked on the Laura Ingraham show whether he supported self-deportation and he said yes,” Romney added. “And his spokesman also indicated, said that the speaker supports self-deportation, the concept of self-deportation. And so, unfortunately for him, these are things he’s already spoken out about and he’s spoken out about them in favor. “I recognize that its very tempting to come out to an audience like this and pander to the audience and say what you hope the audience will want to hear,” Romney said, “but, frankly, I think that’s unbecoming of a presidential candidate, and I think that was a mistake on his part.” Ramos also asked Romney flat out, “How much money do you have?” Romney responded: “Actually I disclosed a financial disclosure statement all of my assets are known and I think the estimate in there was a pretty wide range it’s been widely reported and my net worth is within that number. It’s between 150 and 200-and-some-odd million dollars.” Ramos later pressed Romney on a confrontation he had two weeks ago with Lucy Allain, a student from Peru who has a 4.0 GPA but no path to citizenship. Romney said that if elected president, he would veto the DREAM Act, a bill that would provide a path to citizenship for some children of undocumented immigrants who join the military or attend college here. “I’m not punishing her,” Romney said. At an event earlier this month in New Hampshire, Romney touted his Mexican roots, noting that his father lived there until he was five or six years old. According to Ramos, this would make Romney a Mexican-American, so does Romney consider himself to be one? “I don’t people would think I was being honest with them if I said I was Mexican-American,” said Romney, admitting that he would “love to be able to convince people of that, particularly in a Florida primary.” According to a new poll conducted by Latino Decisions for ABC News and Univision, if the general election were held today Romney would only have 25 percent support from Hispanics nationwide, compared to 67 percent for President Obama. With an estimated 12.2 million Latinos set to vote later this year, according to projections, that would likely be enough to hand Obama another term in the White House. “Just wait,” Romney quipped. “We’ll get that quote out where you say I’m Mexican-American and I’ll do a lot better.” In Florida, where about one in 10 likely Republican primary voters are Latino, Romney has a large, 26-point lead over Gingrich, 49 percent to 23 percent among Latino Republicans. Among all Florida Latinos, the margin is 35 to 20 in favor of Romney, with 21 percent undecided. The former Massachusetts governor has not been able to secure the endorsements of the state’s popular Cuban-American U.S. senator, Marco Rubio, or the state’s former governor, Jeb Bush, but he has earned the support of three key Cuban-American lawmakers here, a fact that has likely helped him to gain a healthy advantage among that group. ||||| 7 years ago Jacksonville, Florida (CNN) - One day before the final GOP presidential debate in Florida, it's all tied up between Mitt Romney and Newt Gingrich, according to a new survey. A CNN/Time/ORC International Poll also indicates that while Gingrich surged following his 12-point victory in Saturday's South Carolina primary, his momentum appears to be quickly cooling off. CNN LIVE: Tune in Thursday at 8 p.m. ET for the CNN/Republican Party of Florida Debate hosted by Wolf Blitzer and follow it on Twitter at #CNNDebate. For real-time coverage of the Florida primary, go to CNNPolitics.com or to the CNN apps or CNN mobile web site. Follow the Ticker on Twitter: @politicalticker According to the poll, 36% of people likely to vote in Tuesday's Republican primary in the Sunshine State say they are backing Romney as the party's nominee, with 34% supporting Gingrich. The former Massachusetts governor's two point margin over the former House speaker is well within the survey's sampling error. Former Sen. Rick Santorum of Pennsylvania is at 11% and Rep. Ron Paul of Texas is at 9%, with 7% unsure. The poll's Wednesday release comes one day before a CNN-Republican Party of Florida presidential debate at the University of North Florida in Jacksonville. The showdown is the last time the candidates will face off on the same stage before Tuesday's winner-take-all primary, where 50 delegates are up for grabs. "In the wake of his double-digit victory in the South Carolina primary, Newt Gingrich has nearly doubled his support in Florida," says CNN Polling Director Keating Holland. "The current numbers are the result of some wild swings for and against the two frontrunners." Gingrich was at 18% support in Florida and trailed Romney by 25 points in CNN's last poll in the state, which was conducted Jan. 13-17. The new survey was conducted Sunday through Tuesday, after the Palmetto State primary, and mostly before and partially after Monday night's Republican presidential debate in Tampa, where in a role reversal, Romney aggressively attacked Gingrich. On Sunday, the day after Gingrich won big in South Carolina, he was at 38% in Florida, with Romney at 36%, Santorum at 11% and Paul at 8%. Looking only at Monday and Tuesday's results, Romney was at 38%, Gingrich 29% Santorum at 11% and Paul at 9%. "Gingrich's post-Palmetto State bounce did not last long," adds Holland. "Monday's debate may have something to do with that, but the data indicate that the shift to Romney began before the debate started, so there are clearly other forces at work." The poll indicates that Gingrich has a 10-point lead over Romney among self-described conservatives and appears to do better than Romney among born-again Christians and tea party movement supporters. The geography of the state appears to back that up - Gingrich does five points better than Romney in the more conservative northern and central parts of Florida; Romney does better in Tampa Bay, Miami, and southern Florida, where moderates and northern transplants are more prevalent. A gender gap appears to have developed as well. In South Carolina, Gingrich won among men and women, according to exit polls. But in Florida, although Gingrich has an edge among men, Romney had the advantage among women. "Some of that may be due to recent coverage of Gingrich's personal life, but it is almost certainly due to other factors as well. Gingrich's favorable rating has consistently been higher among men than among women for years before he became a presidential candidate, suggesting that men may find his red-meat approach to issues more appealing than women do," says Holland. With six days to go until Florida's GOP primary, which is only open to registered Republicans, one in four questioned said they may change their minds on which candidate they are supporting, while 64% said they are definitely sticking with the candidate they are currently backing. The CNN/Time poll was conducted by ORC International from January 22-24, with 369 likely Florida GOP primary voters questioned by telephone. The survey's overall sampling error is plus or minus five percentage points. Also see: Live blog: 2012 State of the Union New Freddie Mac contract prohibits 'lobbying activities' Romney resets image with postcards from the edge Gingrich gets major help ||||| Republican presidential candidate Newt Gingrich speaks on Cuba and Latin America during a speech at Florida International University. The GOP candidates vying for their party's nomination were in South Florida Wednesday. The close, volatile Republican presidential campaign exploded in Miami on Wednesday as Newt Gingrich pulled a controversial Spanish-language immigration ad after Sen. Marco Rubio bashed it as out of bounds. The radio ad, featuring a snippet of a Fidel Castro line, described Mitt Romney as “anti-immigrant’’ for his hardline stances, which mirror those of Rubio and many Republican leaders. “This kind of language is more than just unfortunate. It’s inaccurate, inflammatory, and doesn’t belong in this campaign,’’ Rubio, who is neutral in the race, told The Miami Herald when asked about the ad. “The truth is that neither of these two men is anti-immigrant,’’ Rubio said. “Both are pro-legal immigration and both have positive messages that play well in the Hispanic community.’’ The unexpected criticism from the nation’s leading Hispanic Republican figure underscored the difficulties of campaigning on immigration in Miami-Dade’s Cuban exile community, which accounts for just under three-quarters of the Republican vote in the largest county of the nation’s largest swing state. A new poll of Florida Latinos shows Gingrich losing badly to Romney. And both trail President Barack Obama by double digits, although Gingrich does worse among Hispanics against the incumbent than Romney. Two polls released Wednesday showed both essentially tied among all voters. After Rubio’s criticism, Gingrich’s campaign said it would pull the ad out of “respect’’ for Rubio, whom both candidates would love to have as a running mate. His campaign then announced it would edit out the “anti-immigrant’’ line and re-run the ad. Gingrich earlier defended the ad’s language in an interview with a Miami TV station. Gingrich specifically took exception with Romney’s call at a Monday debate for people to deport themselves if they’re here illegally. “I think he’s amazingly insensitive to the realities of the immigrant community — his whole concept of self-deportation,’’ Gingrich said. “I’ve not met anyone who thinks it’s in touch with reality. People aren’t going to self-deport.’’ But his own spokesman had told a New Hampshire newspaper that, as a consequence of Gingrich’s immigration plan, “it’s likely the vast majority of them [illegal immigrants] would self-deport.’’ Romney, too, found himself the target of his own words on the Florida campaign trail, where he has attacked Gingrich as an “influence peddler’’ because he was paid as a consultant for mortgage giant Freddie Mac, implicated in the housing crash and foreclosure crisis gripping one in every 360 Florida homes. Turns out, a few Romney campaign advisors were lobbyists for Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, some of whom were paid to fight reform efforts, according to The Associated Press and the Daily Caller conservative news website. Also, AP and the Democratic group American Bridge 21st Century pointed out that one of Romney’s investments yielded $500,000 from Fannie Mae. And CNN reported that Romney was a “distinguished panelist’’ at a Fannie Mae Foundation housing conference in 2004 — just as the housing bubble started to inflate. Summary: – Immigration took center stage today as Mitt Romney and Newt Gingrich fought for votes among Latinos in Florida: Romney criticized Gingrich for calling him "anti-immigrant," calling it "very sad for a candidate to resort to that sort of epithet," reports ABC. At a Univision forum, he added: "I’m not anti-immigrant, I’m pro-immigrant. I like immigration. Immigration has been an extraordinary source of strength in this country." Gingrich pulled a Spanish-language ad using the phrase against Romney after Sen. Marco Rubio criticized it as "inflammatory," notes the Miami Herald. Even though his father was born in Mexico, Romney said he didn't really consider himself a Mexican-American. “I don’t think people would think I was being honest with them if I said I was Mexican-American,” he said, joking that he would "love to be able to convince people of that, particularly in a Florida primary.” A new CNN/Time poll has the two candidates in a statistical dead heat in the state, with Romney at 36% and Gingrich at 34%. Behind them are Rick Santorum (11%) and Ron Paul (9%). More at CNN. Click to read about how Gingrich thinks the US should give Cuba the same attention as Libya.
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The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Secret Agent, by Joseph Conrad This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Secret Agent A Simple Tale Author: Joseph Conrad Release Date: December 24, 2010 [eBook #974] First released: June 28, 1997 Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SECRET AGENT*** Transcribed from the 1907 Methuen & Co edition by David Price, email [email protected] THE SECRET AGENT A SIMPLE TALE BY JOSEPH CONRAD SECOND EDITION METHUEN & CO., 36 ESSEX STREET W C. LONDON _First Published_ . . . _September_ 1907 _Second Edition_ . . . _October_ 1907 TO H. G. WELLS THE CHRONICLER OF MR LEWISHAM’S LOVE THE BIOGRAPHER OF KIPPS AND THE HISTORIAN OF THE AGES TO COME THIS SIMPLE TALE OF THE XIX CENTURY IS AFFECTIONATELY OFFERED CHAPTER I Mr Verloc, going out in the morning, left his shop nominally in charge of his brother-in-law. It could be done, because there was very little business at any time, and practically none at all before the evening. Mr Verloc cared but little about his ostensible business. And, moreover, his wife was in charge of his brother-in-law. The shop was small, and so was the house. It was one of those grimy brick houses which existed in large quantities before the era of reconstruction dawned upon London. The shop was a square box of a place, with the front glazed in small panes. In the daytime the door remained closed; in the evening it stood discreetly but suspiciously ajar. The window contained photographs of more or less undressed dancing girls; nondescript packages in wrappers like patent medicines; closed yellow paper envelopes, very flimsy, and marked two-and-six in heavy black figures; a few numbers of ancient French comic publications hung across a string as if to dry; a dingy blue china bowl, a casket of black wood, bottles of marking ink, and rubber stamps; a few books, with titles hinting at impropriety; a few apparently old copies of obscure newspapers, badly printed, with titles like _The Torch_, _The Gong_—rousing titles. And the two gas jets inside the panes were always turned low, either for economy’s sake or for the sake of the customers. These customers were either very young men, who hung about the window for a time before slipping in suddenly; or men of a more mature age, but looking generally as if they were not in funds. Some of that last kind had the collars of their overcoats turned right up to their moustaches, and traces of mud on the bottom of their nether garments, which had the appearance of being much worn and not very valuable. And the legs inside them did not, as a general rule, seem of much account either. With their hands plunged deep in the side pockets of their coats, they dodged in sideways, one shoulder first, as if afraid to start the bell going. The bell, hung on the door by means of a curved ribbon of steel, was difficult to circumvent. It was hopelessly cracked; but of an evening, at the slightest provocation, it clattered behind the customer with impudent virulence. It clattered; and at that signal, through the dusty glass door behind the painted deal counter, Mr Verloc would issue hastily from the parlour at the back. His eyes were naturally heavy; he had an air of having wallowed, fully dressed, all day on an unmade bed. Another man would have felt such an appearance a distinct disadvantage. In a commercial transaction of the retail order much depends on the seller’s engaging and amiable aspect. But Mr Verloc knew his business, and remained undisturbed by any sort of æsthetic doubt about his appearance. With a firm, steady-eyed impudence, which seemed to hold back the threat of some abominable menace, he would proceed to sell over the counter some object looking obviously and scandalously not worth the money which passed in the transaction: a small cardboard box with apparently nothing inside, for instance, or one of those carefully closed yellow flimsy envelopes, or a soiled volume in paper covers with a promising title. Now and then it happened that one of the faded, yellow dancing girls would get sold to an amateur, as though she had been alive and young. Sometimes it was Mrs Verloc who would appear at the call of the cracked bell. Winnie Verloc was a young woman with a full bust, in a tight bodice, and with broad hips. Her hair was very tidy. Steady-eyed like her husband, she preserved an air of unfathomable indifference behind the rampart of the counter. Then the customer of comparatively tender years would get suddenly disconcerted at having to deal with a woman, and with rage in his heart would proffer a request for a bottle of marking ink, retail value sixpence (price in Verloc’s shop one-and-sixpence), which, once outside, he would drop stealthily into the gutter. The evening visitors—the men with collars turned up and soft hats rammed down—nodded familiarly to Mrs Verloc, and with a muttered greeting, lifted up the flap at the end of the counter in order to pass into the back parlour, which gave access to a passage and to a steep flight of stairs. The door of the shop was the only means of entrance to the house in which Mr Verloc carried on his business of a seller of shady wares, exercised his vocation of a protector of society, and cultivated his domestic virtues. These last were pronounced. He was thoroughly domesticated. Neither his spiritual, nor his mental, nor his physical needs were of the kind to take him much abroad. He found at home the ease of his body and the peace of his conscience, together with Mrs Verloc’s wifely attentions and Mrs Verloc’s mother’s deferential regard. Winnie’s mother was a stout, wheezy woman, with a large brown face. She wore a black wig under a white cap. Her swollen legs rendered her inactive. She considered herself to be of French descent, which might have been true; and after a good many years of married life with a licensed victualler of the more common sort, she provided for the years of widowhood by letting furnished apartments for gentlemen near Vauxhall Bridge Road in a square once of some splendour and still included in the district of Belgravia. This topographical fact was of some advantage in advertising her rooms; but the patrons of the worthy widow were not exactly of the fashionable kind. Such as they were, her daughter Winnie helped to look after them. Traces of the French descent which the widow boasted of were apparent in Winnie too. They were apparent in the extremely neat and artistic arrangement of her glossy dark hair. Winnie had also other charms: her youth; her full, rounded form; her clear complexion; the provocation of her unfathomable reserve, which never went so far as to prevent conversation, carried on on the lodgers’ part with animation, and on hers with an equable amiability. It must be that Mr Verloc was susceptible to these fascinations. Mr Verloc was an intermittent patron. He came and went without any very apparent reason. He generally arrived in London (like the influenza) from the Continent, only he arrived unheralded by the Press; and his visitations set in with great severity. He breakfasted in bed, and remained wallowing there with an air of quiet enjoyment till noon every day—and sometimes even to a later hour. But when he went out he seemed to experience a great difficulty in finding his way back to his temporary home in the Belgravian square. He left it late, and returned to it early—as early as three or four in the morning; and on waking up at ten addressed Winnie, bringing in the breakfast tray, with jocular, exhausted civility, in the hoarse, failing tones of a man who had been talking vehemently for many hours together. His prominent, heavy-lidded eyes rolled sideways amorously and languidly, the bedclothes were pulled up to his chin, and his dark smooth moustache covered his thick lips capable of much honeyed banter. In Winnie’s mother’s opinion Mr Verloc was a very nice gentleman. From her life’s experience gathered in various “business houses” the good woman had taken into her retirement an ideal of gentlemanliness as exhibited by the patrons of private-saloon bars. Mr Verloc approached that ideal; he attained it, in fact. “Of course, we’ll take over your furniture, mother,” Winnie had remarked. The lodging-house was to be given up. It seems it would not answer to carry it on. It would have been too much trouble for Mr Verloc. It would not have been convenient for his other business. What his business was he did not say; but after his engagement to Winnie he took the trouble to get up before noon, and descending the basement stairs, make himself pleasant to Winnie’s mother in the breakfast-room downstairs where she had her motionless being. He stroked the cat, poked the fire, had his lunch served to him there. He left its slightly stuffy cosiness with evident reluctance, but, all the same, remained out till the night was far advanced. He never offered to take Winnie to theatres, as such a nice gentleman ought to have done. His evenings were occupied. His work was in a way political, he told Winnie once. She would have, he warned her, to be very nice to his political friends. And with her straight, unfathomable glance she answered that she would be so, of course. How much more he told her as to his occupation it was impossible for Winnie’s mother to discover. The married couple took her over with the furniture. The mean aspect of the shop surprised her. The change from the Belgravian square to the narrow street in Soho affected her legs adversely. They became of an enormous size. On the other hand, she experienced a complete relief from material cares. Her son-in-law’s heavy good nature inspired her with a sense of absolute safety. Her daughter’s future was obviously assured, and even as to her son Stevie she need have no anxiety. She had not been able to conceal from herself that he was a terrible encumbrance, that poor Stevie. But in view of Winnie’s fondness for her delicate brother, and of Mr Verloc’s kind and generous disposition, she felt that the poor boy was pretty safe in this rough world. And in her heart of hearts she was not perhaps displeased that the Verlocs had no children. As that circumstance seemed perfectly indifferent to Mr Verloc, and as Winnie found an object of quasi-maternal affection in her brother, perhaps this was just as well for poor Stevie. For he was difficult to dispose of, that boy. He was delicate and, in a frail way, good-looking too, except for the vacant droop of his lower lip. Under our excellent system of compulsory education he had learned to read and write, notwithstanding the unfavourable aspect of the lower lip. But as errand-boy he did not turn out a great success. He forgot his messages; he was easily diverted from the straight path of duty by the attractions of stray cats and dogs, which he followed down narrow alleys into unsavoury courts; by the comedies of the streets, which he contemplated open-mouthed, to the detriment of his employer’s interests; or by the dramas of fallen horses, whose pathos and violence induced him sometimes to shriek pierceingly in a crowd, which disliked to be disturbed by sounds of distress in its quiet enjoyment of the national spectacle. When led away by a grave and protecting policeman, it would often become apparent that poor Stevie had forgotten his address—at least for a time. A brusque question caused him to stutter to the point of suffocation. When startled by anything perplexing he used to squint horribly. However, he never had any fits (which was encouraging); and before the natural outbursts of impatience on the part of his father he could always, in his childhood’s days, run for protection behind the short skirts of his sister Winnie. On the other hand, he might have been suspected of hiding a fund of reckless naughtiness. When he had reached the age of fourteen a friend of his late father, an agent for a foreign preserved milk firm, having given him an opening as office-boy, he was discovered one foggy afternoon, in his chief’s absence, busy letting off fireworks on the staircase. He touched off in quick succession a set of fierce rockets, angry catherine wheels, loudly exploding squibs—and the matter might have turned out very serious. An awful panic spread through the whole building. Wild-eyed, choking clerks stampeded through the passages full of smoke, silk hats and elderly business men could be seen rolling independently down the stairs. Stevie did not seem to derive any personal gratification from what he had done. His motives for this stroke of originality were difficult to discover. It was only later on that Winnie obtained from him a misty and confused confession. It seems that two other office-boys in the building had worked upon his feelings by tales of injustice and oppression till they had wrought his compassion to the pitch of that frenzy. But his father’s friend, of course, dismissed him summarily as likely to ruin his business. After that altruistic exploit Stevie was put to help wash the dishes in the basement kitchen, and to black the boots of the gentlemen patronising the Belgravian mansion. There was obviously no future in such work. The gentlemen tipped him a shilling now and then. Mr Verloc showed himself the most generous of lodgers. But altogether all that did not amount to much either in the way of gain or prospects; so that when Winnie announced her engagement to Mr Verloc her mother could not help wondering, with a sigh and a glance towards the scullery, what would become of poor Stephen now. It appeared that Mr Verloc was ready to take him over together with his wife’s mother and with the furniture, which was the whole visible fortune of the family. Mr Verloc gathered everything as it came to his broad, good-natured breast. The furniture was disposed to the best advantage all over the house, but Mrs Verloc’s mother was confined to two back rooms on the first floor. The luckless Stevie slept in one of them. By this time a growth of thin fluffy hair had come to blur, like a golden mist, the sharp line of his small lower jaw. He helped his sister with blind love and docility in her household duties. Mr Verloc thought that some occupation would be good for him. His spare time he occupied by drawing circles with compass and pencil on a piece of paper. He applied himself to that pastime with great industry, with his elbows spread out and bowed low over the kitchen table. Through the open door of the parlour at the back of the shop Winnie, his sister, glanced at him from time to time with maternal vigilance. CHAPTER II Such was the house, the household, and the business Mr Verloc left behind him on his way westward at the hour of half-past ten in the morning. It was unusually early for him; his whole person exhaled the charm of almost dewy freshness; he wore his blue cloth overcoat unbuttoned; his boots were shiny; his cheeks, freshly shaven, had a sort of gloss; and even his heavy-lidded eyes, refreshed by a night of peaceful slumber, sent out glances of comparative alertness. Through the park railings these glances beheld men and women riding in the Row, couples cantering past harmoniously, others advancing sedately at a walk, loitering groups of three or four, solitary horsemen looking unsociable, and solitary women followed at a long distance by a groom with a cockade to his hat and a leather belt over his tight-fitting coat. Carriages went bowling by, mostly two-horse broughams, with here and there a victoria with the skin of some wild beast inside and a woman’s face and hat emerging above the folded hood. And a peculiarly London sun—against which nothing could be said except that it looked bloodshot—glorified all this by its stare. It hung at a moderate elevation above Hyde Park Corner with an air of punctual and benign vigilance. The very pavement under Mr Verloc’s feet had an old-gold tinge in that diffused light, in which neither wall, nor tree, nor beast, nor man cast a shadow. Mr Verloc was going westward through a town without shadows in an atmosphere of powdered old gold. There were red, coppery gleams on the roofs of houses, on the corners of walls, on the panels of carriages, on the very coats of the horses, and on the broad back of Mr Verloc’s overcoat, where they produced a dull effect of rustiness. But Mr Verloc was not in the least conscious of having got rusty. He surveyed through the park railings the evidences of the town’s opulence and luxury with an approving eye. All these people had to be protected. Protection is the first necessity of opulence and luxury. They had to be protected; and their horses, carriages, houses, servants had to be protected; and the source of their wealth had to be protected in the heart of the city and the heart of the country; the whole social order favourable to their hygienic idleness had to be protected against the shallow enviousness of unhygienic labour. It had to—and Mr Verloc would have rubbed his hands with satisfaction had he not been constitutionally averse from every superfluous exertion. His idleness was not hygienic, but it suited him very well. He was in a manner devoted to it with a sort of inert fanaticism, or perhaps rather with a fanatical inertness. Born of industrious parents for a life of toil, he had embraced indolence from an impulse as profound as inexplicable and as imperious as the impulse which directs a man’s preference for one particular woman in a given thousand. He was too lazy even for a mere demagogue, for a workman orator, for a leader of labour. It was too much trouble. He required a more perfect form of ease; or it might have been that he was the victim of a philosophical unbelief in the effectiveness of every human effort. Such a form of indolence requires, implies, a certain amount of intelligence. Mr Verloc was not devoid of intelligence—and at the notion of a menaced social order he would perhaps have winked to himself if there had not been an effort to make in that sign of scepticism. His big, prominent eyes were not well adapted to winking. They were rather of the sort that closes solemnly in slumber with majestic effect. Undemonstrative and burly in a fat-pig style, Mr Verloc, without either rubbing his hands with satisfaction or winking sceptically at his thoughts, proceeded on his way. He trod the pavement heavily with his shiny boots, and his general get-up was that of a well-to-do mechanic in business for himself. He might have been anything from a picture-frame maker to a lock-smith; an employer of labour in a small way. But there was also about him an indescribable air which no mechanic could have acquired in the practice of his handicraft however dishonestly exercised: the air common to men who live on the vices, the follies, or the baser fears of mankind; the air of moral nihilism common to keepers of gambling hells and disorderly houses; to private detectives and inquiry agents; to drink sellers and, I should say, to the sellers of invigorating electric belts and to the inventors of patent medicines. But of that last I am not sure, not having carried my investigations so far into the depths. For all I know, the expression of these last may be perfectly diabolic. I shouldn’t be surprised. What I want to affirm is that Mr Verloc’s expression was by no means diabolic. Before reaching Knightsbridge, Mr Verloc took a turn to the left out of the busy main thoroughfare, uproarious with the traffic of swaying omnibuses and trotting vans, in the almost silent, swift flow of hansoms. Under his hat, worn with a slight backward tilt, his hair had been carefully brushed into respectful sleekness; for his business was with an Embassy. And Mr Verloc, steady like a rock—a soft kind of rock—marched now along a street which could with every propriety be described as private. In its breadth, emptiness, and extent it had the majesty of inorganic nature, of matter that never dies. The only reminder of mortality was a doctor’s brougham arrested in august solitude close to the curbstone. The polished knockers of the doors gleamed as far as the eye could reach, the clean windows shone with a dark opaque lustre. And all was still. But a milk cart rattled noisily across the distant perspective; a butcher boy, driving with the noble recklessness of a charioteer at Olympic Games, dashed round the corner sitting high above a pair of red wheels. A guilty-looking cat issuing from under the stones ran for a while in front of Mr Verloc, then dived into another basement; and a thick police constable, looking a stranger to every emotion, as if he too were part of inorganic nature, surging apparently out of a lamp-post, took not the slightest notice of Mr Verloc. With a turn to the left Mr Verloc pursued his way along a narrow street by the side of a yellow wall which, for some inscrutable reason, had No. 1 Chesham Square written on it in black letters. Chesham Square was at least sixty yards away, and Mr Verloc, cosmopolitan enough not to be deceived by London’s topographical mysteries, held on steadily, without a sign of surprise or indignation. At last, with business-like persistency, he reached the Square, and made diagonally for the number 10. This belonged to an imposing carriage gate in a high, clean wall between two houses, of which one rationally enough bore the number 9 and the other was numbered 37; but the fact that this last belonged to Porthill Street, a street well known in the neighbourhood, was proclaimed by an inscription placed above the ground-floor windows by whatever highly efficient authority is charged with the duty of keeping track of London’s strayed houses. Why powers are not asked of Parliament (a short act would do) for compelling those edifices to return where they belong is one of the mysteries of municipal administration. Mr Verloc did not trouble his head about it, his mission in life being the protection of the social mechanism, not its perfectionment or even its criticism. It was so early that the porter of the Embassy issued hurriedly out of his lodge still struggling with the left sleeve of his livery coat. His waistcoat was red, and he wore knee-breeches, but his aspect was flustered. Mr Verloc, aware of the rush on his flank, drove it off by simply holding out an envelope stamped with the arms of the Embassy, and passed on. He produced the same talisman also to the footman who opened the door, and stood back to let him enter the hall. A clear fire burned in a tall fireplace, and an elderly man standing with his back to it, in evening dress and with a chain round his neck, glanced up from the newspaper he was holding spread out in both hands before his calm and severe face. He didn’t move; but another lackey, in brown trousers and claw-hammer coat edged with thin yellow cord, approaching Mr Verloc listened to the murmur of his name, and turning round on his heel in silence, began to walk, without looking back once. Mr Verloc, thus led along a ground-floor passage to the left of the great carpeted staircase, was suddenly motioned to enter a quite small room furnished with a heavy writing-table and a few chairs. The servant shut the door, and Mr Verloc remained alone. He did not take a seat. With his hat and stick held in one hand he glanced about, passing his other podgy hand over his uncovered sleek head. Another door opened noiselessly, and Mr Verloc immobilising his glance in that direction saw at first only black clothes, the bald top of a head, and a drooping dark grey whisker on each side of a pair of wrinkled hands. The person who had entered was holding a batch of papers before his eyes and walked up to the table with a rather mincing step, turning the papers over the while. Privy Councillor Wurmt, Chancelier d’Ambassade, was rather short-sighted. This meritorious official laying the papers on the table, disclosed a face of pasty complexion and of melancholy ugliness surrounded by a lot of fine, long dark grey hairs, barred heavily by thick and bushy eyebrows. He put on a black-framed pince-nez upon a blunt and shapeless nose, and seemed struck by Mr Verloc’s appearance. Under the enormous eyebrows his weak eyes blinked pathetically through the glasses. He made no sign of greeting; neither did Mr Verloc, who certainly knew his place; but a subtle change about the general outlines of his shoulders and back suggested a slight bending of Mr Verloc’s spine under the vast surface of his overcoat. The effect was of unobtrusive deference. “I have here some of your reports,” said the bureaucrat in an unexpectedly soft and weary voice, and pressing the tip of his forefinger on the papers with force. He paused; and Mr Verloc, who had recognised his own handwriting very well, waited in an almost breathless silence. “We are not very satisfied with the attitude of the police here,” the other continued, with every appearance of mental fatigue. The shoulders of Mr Verloc, without actually moving, suggested a shrug. And for the first time since he left his home that morning his lips opened. “Every country has its police,” he said philosophically. But as the official of the Embassy went on blinking at him steadily he felt constrained to add: “Allow me to observe that I have no means of action upon the police here.” “What is desired,” said the man of papers, “is the occurrence of something definite which should stimulate their vigilance. That is within your province—is it not so?” Mr Verloc made no answer except by a sigh, which escaped him involuntarily, for instantly he tried to give his face a cheerful expression. The official blinked doubtfully, as if affected by the dim light of the room. He repeated vaguely. “The vigilance of the police—and the severity of the magistrates. The general leniency of the judicial procedure here, and the utter absence of all repressive measures, are a scandal to Europe. What is wished for just now is the accentuation of the unrest—of the fermentation which undoubtedly exists—” “Undoubtedly, undoubtedly,” broke in Mr Verloc in a deep deferential bass of an oratorical quality, so utterly different from the tone in which he had spoken before that his interlocutor remained profoundly surprised. “It exists to a dangerous degree. My reports for the last twelve months make it sufficiently clear.” “Your reports for the last twelve months,” State Councillor Wurmt began in his gentle and dispassionate tone, “have been read by me. I failed to discover why you wrote them at all.” A sad silence reigned for a time. Mr Verloc seemed to have swallowed his tongue, and the other gazed at the papers on the table fixedly. At last he gave them a slight push. “The state of affairs you expose there is assumed to exist as the first condition of your employment. What is required at present is not writing, but the bringing to light of a distinct, significant fact—I would almost say of an alarming fact.” “I need not say that all my endeavours shall be directed to that end,” Mr Verloc said, with convinced modulations in his conversational husky tone. But the sense of being blinked at watchfully behind the blind glitter of these eye-glasses on the other side of the table disconcerted him. He stopped short with a gesture of absolute devotion. The useful, hard-working, if obscure member of the Embassy had an air of being impressed by some newly-born thought. “You are very corpulent,” he said. This observation, really of a psychological nature, and advanced with the modest hesitation of an officeman more familiar with ink and paper than with the requirements of active life, stung Mr Verloc in the manner of a rude personal remark. He stepped back a pace. “Eh? What were you pleased to say?” he exclaimed, with husky resentment. The Chancelier d’Ambassade entrusted with the conduct of this interview seemed to find it too much for him. “I think,” he said, “that you had better see Mr Vladimir. Yes, decidedly I think you ought to see Mr Vladimir. Be good enough to wait here,” he added, and went out with mincing steps. At once Mr Verloc passed his hand over his hair. A slight perspiration had broken out on his forehead. He let the air escape from his pursed-up lips like a man blowing at a spoonful of hot soup. But when the servant in brown appeared at the door silently, Mr Verloc had not moved an inch from the place he had occupied throughout the interview. He had remained motionless, as if feeling himself surrounded by pitfalls. He walked along a passage lighted by a lonely gas-jet, then up a flight of winding stairs, and through a glazed and cheerful corridor on the first floor. The footman threw open a door, and stood aside. The feet of Mr Verloc felt a thick carpet. The room was large, with three windows; and a young man with a shaven, big face, sitting in a roomy arm-chair before a vast mahogany writing-table, said in French to the Chancelier d’Ambassade, who was going out with the papers in his hand: “You are quite right, mon cher. He’s fat—the animal.” Mr Vladimir, First Secretary, had a drawing-room reputation as an agreeable and entertaining man. He was something of a favourite in society. His wit consisted in discovering droll connections between incongruous ideas; and when talking in that strain he sat well forward of his seat, with his left hand raised, as if exhibiting his funny demonstrations between the thumb and forefinger, while his round and clean-shaven face wore an expression of merry perplexity. But there was no trace of merriment or perplexity in the way he looked at Mr Verloc. Lying far back in the deep arm-chair, with squarely spread elbows, and throwing one leg over a thick knee, he had with his smooth and rosy countenance the air of a preternaturally thriving baby that will not stand nonsense from anybody. “You understand French, I suppose?” he said. Mr Verloc stated huskily that he did. His whole vast bulk had a forward inclination. He stood on the carpet in the middle of the room, clutching his hat and stick in one hand; the other hung lifelessly by his side. He muttered unobtrusively somewhere deep down in his throat something about having done his military service in the French artillery. At once, with contemptuous perversity, Mr Vladimir changed the language, and began to speak idiomatic English without the slightest trace of a foreign accent. “Ah! Yes. Of course. Let’s see. How much did you get for obtaining the design of the improved breech-block of their new field-gun?” “Five years’ rigorous confinement in a fortress,” Mr Verloc answered unexpectedly, but without any sign of feeling. “You got off easily,” was Mr Vladimir’s comment. “And, anyhow, it served you right for letting yourself get caught. What made you go in for that sort of thing—eh?” Mr Verloc’s husky conversational voice was heard speaking of youth, of a fatal infatuation for an unworthy— “Aha! Cherchez la femme,” Mr Vladimir deigned to interrupt, unbending, but without affability; there was, on the contrary, a touch of grimness in his condescension. “How long have you been employed by the Embassy here?” he asked. “Ever since the time of the late Baron Stott-Wartenheim,” Mr Verloc answered in subdued tones, and protruding his lips sadly, in sign of sorrow for the deceased diplomat. The First Secretary observed this play of physiognomy steadily. “Ah! ever since. Well! What have you got to say for yourself?” he asked sharply. Mr Verloc answered with some surprise that he was not aware of having anything special to say. He had been summoned by a letter—And he plunged his hand busily into the side pocket of his overcoat, but before the mocking, cynical watchfulness of Mr Vladimir, concluded to leave it there. “Bah!” said that latter. “What do you mean by getting out of condition like this? You haven’t got even the physique of your profession. You—a member of a starving proletariat—never! You—a desperate socialist or anarchist—which is it?” “Anarchist,” stated Mr Verloc in a deadened tone. “Bosh!” went on Mr Vladimir, without raising his voice. “You startled old Wurmt himself. You wouldn’t deceive an idiot. They all are that by-the-by, but you seem to me simply impossible. So you began your connection with us by stealing the French gun designs. And you got yourself caught. That must have been very disagreeable to our Government. You don’t seem to be very smart.” Mr Verloc tried to exculpate himself huskily. “As I’ve had occasion to observe before, a fatal infatuation for an unworthy—” Mr Vladimir raised a large white, plump hand. “Ah, yes. The unlucky attachment—of your youth. She got hold of the money, and then sold you to the police—eh?” The doleful change in Mr Verloc’s physiognomy, the momentary drooping of his whole person, confessed that such was the regrettable case. Mr Vladimir’s hand clasped the ankle reposing on his knee. The sock was of dark blue silk. “You see, that was not very clever of you. Perhaps you are too susceptible.” Mr Verloc intimated in a throaty, veiled murmur that he was no longer young. “Oh! That’s a failing which age does not cure,” Mr Vladimir remarked, with sinister familiarity. “But no! You are too fat for that. You could not have come to look like this if you had been at all susceptible. I’ll tell you what I think is the matter: you are a lazy fellow. How long have you been drawing pay from this Embassy?” “Eleven years,” was the answer, after a moment of sulky hesitation. “I’ve been charged with several missions to London while His Excellency Baron Stott-Wartenheim was still Ambassador in Paris. Then by his Excellency’s instructions I settled down in London. I am English.” “You are! Are you? Eh?” “A natural-born British subject,” Mr Verloc said stolidly. “But my father was French, and so—” “Never mind explaining,” interrupted the other. “I daresay you could have been legally a Marshal of France and a Member of Parliament in England—and then, indeed, you would have been of some use to our Embassy.” This flight of fancy provoked something like a faint smile on Mr Verloc’s face. Mr Vladimir retained an imperturbable gravity. “But, as I’ve said, you are a lazy fellow; you don’t use your opportunities. In the time of Baron Stott-Wartenheim we had a lot of soft-headed people running this Embassy. They caused fellows of your sort to form a false conception of the nature of a secret service fund. It is my business to correct this misapprehension by telling you what the secret service is not. It is not a philanthropic institution. I’ve had you called here on purpose to tell you this.” Mr Vladimir observed the forced expression of bewilderment on Verloc’s face, and smiled sarcastically. “I see that you understand me perfectly. I daresay you are intelligent enough for your work. What we want now is activity—activity.” On repeating this last word Mr Vladimir laid a long white forefinger on the edge of the desk. Every trace of huskiness disappeared from Verloc’s voice. The nape of his gross neck became crimson above the velvet collar of his overcoat. His lips quivered before they came widely open. “If you’ll only be good enough to look up my record,” he boomed out in his great, clear oratorical bass, “you’ll see I gave a warning only three months ago, on the occasion of the Grand Duke Romuald’s visit to Paris, which was telegraphed from here to the French police, and—” “Tut, tut!” broke out Mr Vladimir, with a frowning grimace. “The French police had no use for your warning. Don’t roar like this. What the devil do you mean?” With a note of proud humility Mr Verloc apologised for forgetting himself. His voice,—famous for years at open-air meetings and at workmen’s assemblies in large halls, had contributed, he said, to his reputation of a good and trustworthy comrade. It was, therefore, a part of his usefulness. It had inspired confidence in his principles. “I was always put up to speak by the leaders at a critical moment,” Mr Verloc declared, with obvious satisfaction. There was no uproar above which he could not make himself heard, he added; and suddenly he made a demonstration. “Allow me,” he said. With lowered forehead, without looking up, swiftly and ponderously he crossed the room to one of the French windows. As if giving way to an uncontrollable impulse, he opened it a little. Mr Vladimir, jumping up amazed from the depths of the arm-chair, looked over his shoulder; and below, across the courtyard of the Embassy, well beyond the open gate, could be seen the broad back of a policeman watching idly the gorgeous perambulator of a wealthy baby being wheeled in state across the Square. “Constable!” said Mr Verloc, with no more effort than if he were whispering; and Mr Vladimir burst into a laugh on seeing the policeman spin round as if prodded by a sharp instrument. Mr Verloc shut the window quietly, and returned to the middle of the room. “With a voice like that,” he said, putting on the husky conversational pedal, “I was naturally trusted. And I knew what to say, too.” Mr Vladimir, arranging his cravat, observed him in the glass over the mantelpiece. “I daresay you have the social revolutionary jargon by heart well enough,” he said contemptuously. “Vox et. . . You haven’t ever studied Latin—have you?” “No,” growled Mr Verloc. “You did not expect me to know it. I belong to the million. Who knows Latin? Only a few hundred imbeciles who aren’t fit to take care of themselves.” For some thirty seconds longer Mr Vladimir studied in the mirror the fleshy profile, the gross bulk, of the man behind him. And at the same time he had the advantage of seeing his own face, clean-shaved and round, rosy about the gills, and with the thin sensitive lips formed exactly for the utterance of those delicate witticisms which had made him such a favourite in the very highest society. Then he turned, and advanced into the room with such determination that the very ends of his quaintly old-fashioned bow necktie seemed to bristle with unspeakable menaces. The movement was so swift and fierce that Mr Verloc, casting an oblique glance, quailed inwardly. “Aha! You dare be impudent,” Mr Vladimir began, with an amazingly guttural intonation not only utterly un-English, but absolutely un-European, and startling even to Mr Verloc’s experience of cosmopolitan slums. “You dare! Well, I am going to speak plain English to you. Voice won’t do. We have no use for your voice. We don’t want a voice. We want facts—startling facts—damn you,” he added, with a sort of ferocious discretion, right into Mr Verloc’s face. “Don’t you try to come over me with your Hyperborean manners,” Mr Verloc defended himself huskily, looking at the carpet. At this his interlocutor, smiling mockingly above the bristling bow of his necktie, switched the conversation into French. “You give yourself for an ‘agent provocateur.’ The proper business of an ‘agent provocateur’ is to provoke. As far as I can judge from your record kept here, you have done nothing to earn your money for the last three years.” “Nothing!” exclaimed Verloc, stirring not a limb, and not raising his eyes, but with the note of sincere feeling in his tone. “I have several times prevented what might have been—” “There is a proverb in this country which says prevention is better than cure,” interrupted Mr Vladimir, throwing himself into the arm-chair. “It is stupid in a general way. There is no end to prevention. But it is characteristic. They dislike finality in this country. Don’t you be too English. And in this particular instance, don’t be absurd. The evil is already here. We don’t want prevention—we want cure.” He paused, turned to the desk, and turning over some papers lying there, spoke in a changed business-like tone, without looking at Mr Verloc. “You know, of course, of the International Conference assembled in Milan?” Mr Verloc intimated hoarsely that he was in the habit of reading the daily papers. To a further question his answer was that, of course, he understood what he read. At this Mr Vladimir, smiling faintly at the documents he was still scanning one after another, murmured “As long as it is not written in Latin, I suppose.” “Or Chinese,” added Mr Verloc stolidly. “H’m. Some of your revolutionary friends’ effusions are written in a _charabia_ every bit as incomprehensible as Chinese—” Mr Vladimir let fall disdainfully a grey sheet of printed matter. “What are all these leaflets headed F. P., with a hammer, pen, and torch crossed? What does it mean, this F. P.?” Mr Verloc approached the imposing writing-table. “The Future of the Proletariat. It’s a society,” he explained, standing ponderously by the side of the arm-chair, “not anarchist in principle, but open to all shades of revolutionary opinion.” “Are you in it?” “One of the Vice-Presidents,” Mr Verloc breathed out heavily; and the First Secretary of the Embassy raised his head to look at him. “Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” he said incisively. “Isn’t your society capable of anything else but printing this prophetic bosh in blunt type on this filthy paper eh? Why don’t you do something? Look here. I’ve this matter in hand now, and I tell you plainly that you will have to earn your money. The good old Stott-Wartenheim times are over. No work, no pay.” Mr Verloc felt a queer sensation of faintness in his stout legs. He stepped back one pace, and blew his nose loudly. He was, in truth, startled and alarmed. The rusty London sunshine struggling clear of the London mist shed a lukewarm brightness into the First Secretary’s private room; and in the silence Mr Verloc heard against a window-pane the faint buzzing of a fly—his first fly of the year—heralding better than any number of swallows the approach of spring. The useless fussing of that tiny energetic organism affected unpleasantly this big man threatened in his indolence. In the pause Mr Vladimir formulated in his mind a series of disparaging remarks concerning Mr Verloc’s face and figure. The fellow was unexpectedly vulgar, heavy, and impudently unintelligent. He looked uncommonly like a master plumber come to present his bill. The First Secretary of the Embassy, from his occasional excursions into the field of American humour, had formed a special notion of that class of mechanic as the embodiment of fraudulent laziness and incompetency. This was then the famous and trusty secret agent, so secret that he was never designated otherwise but by the symbol [delta] in the late Baron Stott-Wartenheim’s official, semi-official, and confidential correspondence; the celebrated agent [delta], whose warnings had the power to change the schemes and the dates of royal, imperial, grand ducal journeys, and sometimes caused them to be put off altogether! This fellow! And Mr Vladimir indulged mentally in an enormous and derisive fit of merriment, partly at his own astonishment, which he judged naive, but mostly at the expense of the universally regretted Baron Stott-Wartenheim. His late Excellency, whom the august favour of his Imperial master had imposed as Ambassador upon several reluctant Ministers of Foreign Affairs, had enjoyed in his lifetime a fame for an owlish, pessimistic gullibility. His Excellency had the social revolution on the brain. He imagined himself to be a diplomatist set apart by a special dispensation to watch the end of diplomacy, and pretty nearly the end of the world, in a horrid democratic upheaval. His prophetic and doleful despatches had been for years the joke of Foreign Offices. He was said to have exclaimed on his deathbed (visited by his Imperial friend and master): “Unhappy Europe! Thou shalt perish by the moral insanity of thy children!” He was fated to be the victim of the first humbugging rascal that came along, thought Mr Vladimir, smiling vaguely at Mr Verloc. “You ought to venerate the memory of Baron Stott-Wartenheim,” he exclaimed suddenly. The lowered physiognomy of Mr Verloc expressed a sombre and weary annoyance. “Permit me to observe to you,” he said, “that I came here because I was summoned by a peremptory letter. I have been here only twice before in the last eleven years, and certainly never at eleven in the morning. It isn’t very wise to call me up like this. There is just a chance of being seen. And that would be no joke for me.” Mr Vladimir shrugged his shoulders. “It would destroy my usefulness,” continued the other hotly. “That’s your affair,” murmured Mr Vladimir, with soft brutality. “When you cease to be useful you shall cease to be employed. Yes. Right off. Cut short. You shall—” Mr Vladimir, frowning, paused, at a loss for a sufficiently idiomatic expression, and instantly brightened up, with a grin of beautifully white teeth. “You shall be chucked,” he brought out ferociously. Once more Mr Verloc had to react with all the force of his will against that sensation of faintness running down one’s legs which once upon a time had inspired some poor devil with the felicitous expression: “My heart went down into my boots.” Mr Verloc, aware of the sensation, raised his head bravely. Mr Vladimir bore the look of heavy inquiry with perfect serenity. “What we want is to administer a tonic to the Conference in Milan,” he said airily. “Its deliberations upon international action for the suppression of political crime don’t seem to get anywhere. England lags. This country is absurd with its sentimental regard for individual liberty. It’s intolerable to think that all your friends have got only to come over to—” “In that way I have them all under my eye,” Mr Verloc interrupted huskily. “It would be much more to the point to have them all under lock and key. England must be brought into line. The imbecile bourgeoisie of this country make themselves the accomplices of the very people whose aim is to drive them out of their houses to starve in ditches. And they have the political power still, if they only had the sense to use it for their preservation. I suppose you agree that the middle classes are stupid?” Mr Verloc agreed hoarsely. “They are.” “They have no imagination. They are blinded by an idiotic vanity. What they want just now is a jolly good scare. This is the psychological moment to set your friends to work. I have had you called here to develop to you my idea.” And Mr Vladimir developed his idea from on high, with scorn and condescension, displaying at the same time an amount of ignorance as to the real aims, thoughts, and methods of the revolutionary world which filled the silent Mr Verloc with inward consternation. He confounded causes with effects more than was excusable; the most distinguished propagandists with impulsive bomb throwers; assumed organisation where in the nature of things it could not exist; spoke of the social revolutionary party one moment as of a perfectly disciplined army, where the word of chiefs was supreme, and at another as if it had been the loosest association of desperate brigands that ever camped in a mountain gorge. Once Mr Verloc had opened his mouth for a protest, but the raising of a shapely, large white hand arrested him. Very soon he became too appalled to even try to protest. He listened in a stillness of dread which resembled the immobility of profound attention. “A series of outrages,” Mr Vladimir continued calmly, “executed here in this country; not only _planned_ here—that would not do—they would not mind. Your friends could set half the Continent on fire without influencing the public opinion here in favour of a universal repressive legislation. They will not look outside their backyard here.” Mr Verloc cleared his throat, but his heart failed him, and he said nothing. “These outrages need not be especially sanguinary,” Mr Vladimir went on, as if delivering a scientific lecture, “but they must be sufficiently startling—effective. Let them be directed against buildings, for instance. What is the fetish of the hour that all the bourgeoisie recognise—eh, Mr Verloc?” Mr Verloc opened his hands and shrugged his shoulders slightly. “You are too lazy to think,” was Mr Vladimir’s comment upon that gesture. “Pay attention to what I say. The fetish of to-day is neither royalty nor religion. Therefore the palace and the church should be left alone. You understand what I mean, Mr Verloc?” The dismay and the scorn of Mr Verloc found vent in an attempt at levity. “Perfectly. But what of the Embassies? A series of attacks on the various Embassies,” he began; but he could not withstand the cold, watchful stare of the First Secretary. “You can be facetious, I see,” the latter observed carelessly. “That’s all right. It may enliven your oratory at socialistic congresses. But this room is no place for it. It would be infinitely safer for you to follow carefully what I am saying. As you are being called upon to furnish facts instead of cock-and-bull stories, you had better try to make your profit off what I am taking the trouble to explain to you. The sacrosanct fetish of to-day is science. Why don’t you get some of your friends to go for that wooden-faced panjandrum—eh? Is it not part of these institutions which must be swept away before the F. P. comes along?” Mr Verloc said nothing. He was afraid to open his lips lest a groan should escape him. “This is what you should try for. An attempt upon a crowned head or on a president is sensational enough in a way, but not so much as it used to be. It has entered into the general conception of the existence of all chiefs of state. It’s almost conventional—especially since so many presidents have been assassinated. Now let us take an outrage upon—say a church. Horrible enough at first sight, no doubt, and yet not so effective as a person of an ordinary mind might think. No matter how revolutionary and anarchist in inception, there would be fools enough to give such an outrage the character of a religious manifestation. And that would detract from the especial alarming significance we wish to give to the act. A murderous attempt on a restaurant or a theatre would suffer in the same way from the suggestion of non-political passion: the exasperation of a hungry man, an act of social revenge. All this is used up; it is no longer instructive as an object lesson in revolutionary anarchism. Every newspaper has ready-made phrases to explain such manifestations away. I am about to give you the philosophy of bomb throwing from my point of view; from the point of view you pretend to have been serving for the last eleven years. I will try not to talk above your head. The sensibilities of the class you are attacking are soon blunted. Property seems to them an indestructible thing. You can’t count upon their emotions either of pity or fear for very long. A bomb outrage to have any influence on public opinion now must go beyond the intention of vengeance or terrorism. It must be purely destructive. It must be that, and only that, beyond the faintest suspicion of any other object. You anarchists should make it clear that you are perfectly determined to make a clean sweep of the whole social creation. But how to get that appallingly absurd notion into the heads of the middle classes so that there should be no mistake? That’s the question. By directing your blows at something outside the ordinary passions of humanity is the answer. Of course, there is art. A bomb in the National Gallery would make some noise. But it would not be serious enough. Art has never been their fetish. It’s like breaking a few back windows in a man’s house; whereas, if you want to make him really sit up, you must try at least to raise the roof. There would be some screaming of course, but from whom? Artists—art critics and such like—people of no account. Nobody minds what they say. But there is learning—science. Any imbecile that has got an income believes in that. He does not know why, but he believes it matters somehow. It is the sacrosanct fetish. All the damned professors are radicals at heart. Let them know that their great panjandrum has got to go too, to make room for the Future of the Proletariat. A howl from all these intellectual idiots is bound to help forward the labours of the Milan Conference. They will be writing to the papers. Their indignation would be above suspicion, no material interests being openly at stake, and it will alarm every selfishness of the class which should be impressed. They believe that in some mysterious way science is at the source of their material prosperity. They do. And the absurd ferocity of such a demonstration will affect them more profoundly than the mangling of a whole street—or theatre—full of their own kind. To that last they can always say: ‘Oh! it’s mere class hate.’ But what is one to say to an act of destructive ferocity so absurd as to be incomprehensible, inexplicable, almost unthinkable; in fact, mad? Madness alone is truly terrifying, inasmuch as you cannot placate it either by threats, persuasion, or bribes. Moreover, I am a civilised man. I would never dream of directing you to organise a mere butchery, even if I expected the best results from it. But I wouldn’t expect from a butchery the result I want. Murder is always with us. It is almost an institution. The demonstration must be against learning—science. But not every science will do. The attack must have all the shocking senselessness of gratuitous blasphemy. Since bombs are your means of expression, it would be really telling if one could throw a bomb into pure mathematics. But that is impossible. I have been trying to educate you; I have expounded to you the higher philosophy of your usefulness, and suggested to you some serviceable arguments. The practical application of my teaching interests _you_ mostly. But from the moment I have undertaken to interview you I have also given some attention to the practical aspect of the question. What do you think of having a go at astronomy?” For sometime already Mr Verloc’s immobility by the side of the arm-chair resembled a state of collapsed coma—a sort of passive insensibility interrupted by slight convulsive starts, such as may be observed in the domestic dog having a nightmare on the hearthrug. And it was in an uneasy doglike growl that he repeated the word: “Astronomy.” He had not recovered thoroughly as yet from that state of bewilderment brought about by the effort to follow Mr Vladimir’s rapid incisive utterance. It had overcome his power of assimilation. It had made him angry. This anger was complicated by incredulity. And suddenly it dawned upon him that all this was an elaborate joke. Mr Vladimir exhibited his white teeth in a smile, with dimples on his round, full face posed with a complacent inclination above the bristling bow of his neck-tie. The favourite of intelligent society women had assumed his drawing-room attitude accompanying the delivery of delicate witticisms. Sitting well forward, his white hand upraised, he seemed to hold delicately between his thumb and forefinger the subtlety of his suggestion. “There could be nothing better. Such an outrage combines the greatest possible regard for humanity with the most alarming display of ferocious imbecility. I defy the ingenuity of journalists to persuade their public that any given member of the proletariat can have a personal grievance against astronomy. Starvation itself could hardly be dragged in there—eh? And there are other advantages. The whole civilised world has heard of Greenwich. The very boot-blacks in the basement of Charing Cross Station know something of it. See?” The features of Mr Vladimir, so well known in the best society by their humorous urbanity, beamed with cynical self-satisfaction, which would have astonished the intelligent women his wit entertained so exquisitely. “Yes,” he continued, with a contemptuous smile, “the blowing up of the first meridian is bound to raise a howl of execration.” “A difficult business,” Mr Verloc mumbled, feeling that this was the only safe thing to say. “What is the matter? Haven’t you the whole gang under your hand? The very pick of the basket? That old terrorist Yundt is here. I see him walking about Piccadilly in his green havelock almost every day. And Michaelis, the ticket-of-leave apostle—you don’t mean to say you don’t know where he is? Because if you don’t, I can tell you,” Mr Vladimir went on menacingly. “If you imagine that you are the only one on the secret fund list, you are mistaken.” This perfectly gratuitous suggestion caused Mr Verloc to shuffle his feet slightly. “And the whole Lausanne lot—eh? Haven’t they been flocking over here at the first hint of the Milan Conference? This is an absurd country.” “It will cost money,” Mr Verloc said, by a sort of instinct. “That cock won’t fight,” Mr Vladimir retorted, with an amazingly genuine English accent. “You’ll get your screw every month, and no more till something happens. And if nothing happens very soon you won’t get even that. What’s your ostensible occupation? What are you supposed to live by?” “I keep a shop,” answered Mr Verloc. “A shop! What sort of shop?” “Stationery, newspapers. My wife—” “Your what?” interrupted Mr Vladimir in his guttural Central Asian tones. “My wife.” Mr Verloc raised his husky voice slightly. “I am married.” “That be damned for a yarn,” exclaimed the other in unfeigned astonishment. “Married! And you a professed anarchist, too! What is this confounded nonsense? But I suppose it’s merely a manner of speaking. Anarchists don’t marry. It’s well known. They can’t. It would be apostasy.” “My wife isn’t one,” Mr Verloc mumbled sulkily. “Moreover, it’s no concern of yours.” “Oh yes, it is,” snapped Mr Vladimir. “I am beginning to be convinced that you are not at all the man for the work you’ve been employed on. Why, you must have discredited yourself completely in your own world by your marriage. Couldn’t you have managed without? This is your virtuous attachment—eh? What with one sort of attachment and another you are doing away with your usefulness.” Mr Verloc, puffing out his cheeks, let the air escape violently, and that was all. He had armed himself with patience. It was not to be tried much longer. The First Secretary became suddenly very curt, detached, final. “You may go now,” he said. “A dynamite outrage must be provoked. I give you a month. The sittings of the Conference are suspended. Before it reassembles again something must have happened here, or your connection with us ceases.” He changed the note once more with an unprincipled versatility. “Think over my philosophy, Mr—Mr—Verloc,” he said, with a sort of chaffing condescension, waving his hand towards the door. “Go for the first meridian. You don’t know the middle classes as well as I do. Their sensibilities are jaded. The first meridian. Nothing better, and nothing easier, I should think.” He had got up, and with his thin sensitive lips twitching humorously, watched in the glass over the mantelpiece Mr Verloc backing out of the room heavily, hat and stick in hand. The door closed. The footman in trousers, appearing suddenly in the corridor, let Mr Verloc another way out and through a small door in the corner of the courtyard. The porter standing at the gate ignored his exit completely; and Mr Verloc retraced the path of his morning’s pilgrimage as if in a dream—an angry dream. This detachment from the material world was so complete that, though the mortal envelope of Mr Verloc had not hastened unduly along the streets, that part of him to which it would be unwarrantably rude to refuse immortality, found itself at the shop door all at once, as if borne from west to east on the wings of a great wind. He walked straight behind the counter, and sat down on a wooden chair that stood there. No one appeared to disturb his solitude. Stevie, put into a green baize apron, was now sweeping and dusting upstairs, intent and conscientious, as though he were playing at it; and Mrs Verloc, warned in the kitchen by the clatter of the cracked bell, had merely come to the glazed door of the parlour, and putting the curtain aside a little, had peered into the dim shop. Seeing her husband sitting there shadowy and bulky, with his hat tilted far back on his head, she had at once returned to her stove. An hour or more later she took the green baize apron off her brother Stevie, and instructed him to wash his hands and face in the peremptory tone she had used in that connection for fifteen years or so—ever since she had, in fact, ceased to attend to the boy’s hands and face herself. She spared presently a glance away from her dishing-up for the inspection of that face and those hands which Stevie, approaching the kitchen table, offered for her approval with an air of self-assurance hiding a perpetual residue of anxiety. Formerly the anger of the father was the supremely effective sanction of these rites, but Mr Verloc’s placidity in domestic life would have made all mention of anger incredible even to poor Stevie’s nervousness. The theory was that Mr Verloc would have been inexpressibly pained and shocked by any deficiency of cleanliness at meal times. Winnie after the death of her father found considerable consolation in the feeling that she need no longer tremble for poor Stevie. She could not bear to see the boy hurt. It maddened her. As a little girl she had often faced with blazing eyes the irascible licensed victualler in defence of her brother. Nothing now in Mrs Verloc’s appearance could lead one to suppose that she was capable of a passionate demonstration. She finished her dishing-up. The table was laid in the parlour. Going to the foot of the stairs, she screamed out “Mother!” Then opening the glazed door leading to the shop, she said quietly “Adolf!” Mr Verloc had not changed his position; he had not apparently stirred a limb for an hour and a half. He got up heavily, and came to his dinner in his overcoat and with his hat on, without uttering a word. His silence in itself had nothing startlingly unusual in this household, hidden in the shades of the sordid street seldom touched by the sun, behind the dim shop with its wares of disreputable rubbish. Only that day Mr Verloc’s taciturnity was so obviously thoughtful that the two women were impressed by it. They sat silent themselves, keeping a watchful eye on poor Stevie, lest he should break out into one of his fits of loquacity. He faced Mr Verloc across the table, and remained very good and quiet, staring vacantly. The endeavour to keep him from making himself objectionable in any way to the master of the house put no inconsiderable anxiety into these two women’s lives. “That boy,” as they alluded to him softly between themselves, had been a source of that sort of anxiety almost from the very day of his birth. The late licensed victualler’s humiliation at having such a very peculiar boy for a son manifested itself by a propensity to brutal treatment; for he was a person of fine sensibilities, and his sufferings as a man and a father were perfectly genuine. Afterwards Stevie had to be kept from making himself a nuisance to the single gentlemen lodgers, who are themselves a queer lot, and are easily aggrieved. And there was always the anxiety of his mere existence to face. Visions of a workhouse infirmary for her child had haunted the old woman in the basement breakfast-room of the decayed Belgravian house. “If you had not found such a good husband, my dear,” she used to say to her daughter, “I don’t know what would have become of that poor boy.” Mr Verloc extended as much recognition to Stevie as a man not particularly fond of animals may give to his wife’s beloved cat; and this recognition, benevolent and perfunctory, was essentially of the same quality. Both women admitted to themselves that not much more could be reasonably expected. It was enough to earn for Mr Verloc the old woman’s reverential gratitude. In the early days, made sceptical by the trials of friendless life, she used sometimes to ask anxiously: “You don’t think, my dear, that Mr Verloc is getting tired of seeing Stevie about?” To this Winnie replied habitually by a slight toss of her head. Once, however, she retorted, with a rather grim pertness: “He’ll have to get tired of me first.” A long silence ensued. The mother, with her feet propped up on a stool, seemed to be trying to get to the bottom of that answer, whose feminine profundity had struck her all of a heap. She had never really understood why Winnie had married Mr Verloc. It was very sensible of her, and evidently had turned out for the best, but her girl might have naturally hoped to find somebody of a more suitable age. There had been a steady young fellow, only son of a butcher in the next street, helping his father in business, with whom Winnie had been walking out with obvious gusto. He was dependent on his father, it is true; but the business was good, and his prospects excellent. He took her girl to the theatre on several evenings. Then just as she began to dread to hear of their engagement (for what could she have done with that big house alone, with Stevie on her hands), that romance came to an abrupt end, and Winnie went about looking very dull. But Mr Verloc, turning up providentially to occupy the first-floor front bedroom, there had been no more question of the young butcher. It was clearly providential. CHAPTER III “ . . . All idealisation makes life poorer. To beautify it is to take away its character of complexity—it is to destroy it. Leave that to the moralists, my boy. History is made by men, but they do not make it in their heads. The ideas that are born in their consciousness play an insignificant part in the march of events. History is dominated and determined by the tool and the production—by the force of economic conditions. Capitalism has made socialism, and the laws made by the capitalism for the protection of property are responsible for anarchism. No one can tell what form the social organisation may take in the future. Then why indulge in prophetic phantasies? At best they can only interpret the mind of the prophet, and can have no objective value. Leave that pastime to the moralists, my boy.” Michaelis, the ticket-of-leave apostle, was speaking in an even voice, a voice that wheezed as if deadened and oppressed by the layer of fat on his chest. He had come out of a highly hygienic prison round like a tub, with an enormous stomach and distended cheeks of a pale, semi-transparent complexion, as though for fifteen years the servants of an outraged society had made a point of stuffing him with fattening foods in a damp and lightless cellar. And ever since he had never managed to get his weight down as much as an ounce. It was said that for three seasons running a very wealthy old lady had sent him for a cure to Marienbad—where he was about to share the public curiosity once with a crowned head—but the police on that occasion ordered him to leave within twelve hours. His martyrdom was continued by forbidding him all access to the healing waters. But he was resigned now. With his elbow presenting no appearance of a joint, but more like a bend in a dummy’s limb, thrown over the back of a chair, he leaned forward slightly over his short and enormous thighs to spit into the grate. “Yes! I had the time to think things out a little,” he added without emphasis. “Society has given me plenty of time for meditation.” On the other side of the fireplace, in the horse-hair arm-chair where Mrs Verloc’s mother was generally privileged to sit, Karl Yundt giggled grimly, with a faint black grimace of a toothless mouth. The terrorist, as he called himself, was old and bald, with a narrow, snow-white wisp of a goatee hanging limply from his chin. An extraordinary expression of underhand malevolence survived in his extinguished eyes. When he rose painfully the thrusting forward of a skinny groping hand deformed by gouty swellings suggested the effort of a moribund murderer summoning all his remaining strength for a last stab. He leaned on a thick stick, which trembled under his other hand. “I have always dreamed,” he mouthed fiercely, “of a band of men absolute in their resolve to discard all scruples in the choice of means, strong enough to give themselves frankly the name of destroyers, and free from the taint of that resigned pessimism which rots the world. No pity for anything on earth, including themselves, and death enlisted for good and all in the service of humanity—that’s what I would have liked to see.” His little bald head quivered, imparting a comical vibration to the wisp of white goatee. His enunciation would have been almost totally unintelligible to a stranger. His worn-out passion, resembling in its impotent fierceness the excitement of a senile sensualist, was badly served by a dried throat and toothless gums which seemed to catch the tip of his tongue. Mr Verloc, established in the corner of the sofa at the other end of the room, emitted two hearty grunts of assent. The old terrorist turned slowly his head on his skinny neck from side to side. “And I could never get as many as three such men together. So much for your rotten pessimism,” he snarled at Michaelis, who uncrossed his thick legs, similar to bolsters, and slid his feet abruptly under his chair in sign of exasperation. He a pessimist! Preposterous! He cried out that the charge was outrageous. He was so far from pessimism that he saw already the end of all private property coming along logically, unavoidably, by the mere development of its inherent viciousness. The possessors of property had not only to face the awakened proletariat, but they had also to fight amongst themselves. Yes. Struggle, warfare, was the condition of private ownership. It was fatal. Ah! he did not depend upon emotional excitement to keep up his belief, no declamations, no anger, no visions of blood-red flags waving, or metaphorical lurid suns of vengeance rising above the horizon of a doomed society. Not he! Cold reason, he boasted, was the basis of his optimism. Yes, optimism— His laborious wheezing stopped, then, after a gasp or two, he added: “Don’t you think that, if I had not been the optimist I am, I could not have found in fifteen years some means to cut my throat? And, in the last instance, there were always the walls of my cell to dash my head against.” The shortness of breath took all fire, all animation out of his voice; his great, pale cheeks hung like filled pouches, motionless, without a quiver; but in his blue eyes, narrowed as if peering, there was the same look of confident shrewdness, a little crazy in its fixity, they must have had while the indomitable optimist sat thinking at night in his cell. Before him, Karl Yundt remained standing, one wing of his faded greenish havelock thrown back cavalierly over his shoulder. Seated in front of the fireplace, Comrade Ossipon, ex-medical student, the principal writer of the F. P. leaflets, stretched out his robust legs, keeping the soles of his boots turned up to the glow in the grate. A bush of crinkly yellow hair topped his red, freckled face, with a flattened nose and prominent mouth cast in the rough mould of the negro type. His almond-shaped eyes leered languidly over the high cheek-bones. He wore a grey flannel shirt, the loose ends of a black silk tie hung down the buttoned breast of his serge coat; and his head resting on the back of his chair, his throat largely exposed, he raised to his lips a cigarette in a long wooden tube, puffing jets of smoke straight up at the ceiling. Michaelis pursued his idea—_the_ idea of his solitary reclusion—the thought vouchsafed to his captivity and growing like a faith revealed in visions. He talked to himself, indifferent to the sympathy or hostility of his hearers, indifferent indeed to their presence, from the habit he had acquired of thinking aloud hopefully in the solitude of the four whitewashed walls of his cell, in the sepulchral silence of the great blind pile of bricks near a river, sinister and ugly like a colossal mortuary for the socially drowned. He was no good in discussion, not because any amount of argument could shake his faith, but because the mere fact of hearing another voice disconcerted him painfully, confusing his thoughts at once—these thoughts that for so many years, in a mental solitude more barren than a waterless desert, no living voice had ever combatted, commented, or approved. No one interrupted him now, and he made again the confession of his faith, mastering him irresistible and complete like an act of grace: the secret of fate discovered in the material side of life; the economic condition of the world responsible for the past and shaping the future; the source of all history, of all ideas, guiding the mental development of mankind and the very impulses of their passion— A harsh laugh from Comrade Ossipon cut the tirade dead short in a sudden faltering of the tongue and a bewildered unsteadiness of the apostle’s mildly exalted eyes. He closed them slowly for a moment, as if to collect his routed thoughts. A silence fell; but what with the two gas-jets over the table and the glowing grate the little parlour behind Mr Verloc’s shop had become frightfully hot. Mr Verloc, getting off the sofa with ponderous reluctance, opened the door leading into the kitchen to get more air, and thus disclosed the innocent Stevie, seated very good and quiet at a deal table, drawing circles, circles, circles; innumerable circles, concentric, eccentric; a coruscating whirl of circles that by their tangled multitude of repeated curves, uniformity of form, and confusion of intersecting lines suggested a rendering of cosmic chaos, the symbolism of a mad art attempting the inconceivable. The artist never turned his head; and in all his soul’s application to the task his back quivered, his thin neck, sunk into a deep hollow at the base of the skull, seemed ready to snap. Mr Verloc, after a grunt of disapproving surprise, returned to the sofa. Alexander Ossipon got up, tall in his threadbare blue serge suit under the low ceiling, shook off the stiffness of long immobility, and strolled away into the kitchen (down two steps) to look over Stevie’s shoulder. He came back, pronouncing oracularly: “Very good. Very characteristic, perfectly typical.” “What’s very good?” grunted inquiringly Mr Verloc, settled again in the corner of the sofa. The other explained his meaning negligently, with a shade of condescension and a toss of his head towards the kitchen: “Typical of this form of degeneracy—these drawings, I mean.” “You would call that lad a degenerate, would you?” mumbled Mr Verloc. Comrade Alexander Ossipon—nicknamed the Doctor, ex-medical student without a degree; afterwards wandering lecturer to working-men’s associations upon the socialistic aspects of hygiene; author of a popular quasi-medical study (in the form of a cheap pamphlet seized promptly by the police) entitled “The Corroding Vices of the Middle Classes”; special delegate of the more or less mysterious Red Committee, together with Karl Yundt and Michaelis for the work of literary propaganda—turned upon the obscure familiar of at least two Embassies that glance of insufferable, hopelessly dense sufficiency which nothing but the frequentation of science can give to the dulness of common mortals. “That’s what he may be called scientifically. Very good type too, altogether, of that sort of degenerate. It’s enough to glance at the lobes of his ears. If you read Lombroso—” Mr Verloc, moody and spread largely on the sofa, continued to look down the row of his waistcoat buttons; but his cheeks became tinged by a faint blush. Of late even the merest derivative of the word science (a term in itself inoffensive and of indefinite meaning) had the curious power of evoking a definitely offensive mental vision of Mr Vladimir, in his body as he lived, with an almost supernatural clearness. And this phenomenon, deserving justly to be classed amongst the marvels of science, induced in Mr Verloc an emotional state of dread and exasperation tending to express itself in violent swearing. But he said nothing. It was Karl Yundt who was heard, implacable to his last breath. “Lombroso is an ass.” Comrade Ossipon met the shock of this blasphemy by an awful, vacant stare. And the other, his extinguished eyes without gleams blackening the deep shadows under the great, bony forehead, mumbled, catching the tip of his tongue between his lips at every second word as though he were chewing it angrily: “Did you ever see such an idiot? For him the criminal is the prisoner. Simple, is it not? What about those who shut him up there—forced him in there? Exactly. Forced him in there. And what is crime? Does he know that, this imbecile who has made his way in this world of gorged fools by looking at the ears and teeth of a lot of poor, luckless devils? Teeth and ears mark the criminal? Do they? And what about the law that marks him still better—the pretty branding instrument invented by the overfed to protect themselves against the hungry? Red-hot applications on their vile skins—hey? Can’t you smell and hear from here the thick hide of the people burn and sizzle? That’s how criminals are made for your Lombrosos to write their silly stuff about.” The knob of his stick and his legs shook together with passion, whilst the trunk, draped in the wings of the havelock, preserved his historic attitude of defiance. He seemed to sniff the tainted air of social cruelty, to strain his ear for its atrocious sounds. There was an extraordinary force of suggestion in this posturing. The all but moribund veteran of dynamite wars had been a great actor in his time—actor on platforms, in secret assemblies, in private interviews. The famous terrorist had never in his life raised personally as much as his little finger against the social edifice. He was no man of action; he was not even an orator of torrential eloquence, sweeping the masses along in the rushing noise and foam of a great enthusiasm. With a more subtle intention, he took the part of an insolent and venomous evoker of sinister impulses which lurk in the blind envy and exasperated vanity of ignorance, in the suffering and misery of poverty, in all the hopeful and noble illusions of righteous anger, pity, and revolt. The shadow of his evil gift clung to him yet like the smell of a deadly drug in an old vial of poison, emptied now, useless, ready to be thrown away upon the rubbish-heap of things that had served their time. Michaelis, the ticket-of-leave apostle, smiled vaguely with his glued lips; his pasty moon face drooped under the weight of melancholy assent. He had been a prisoner himself. His own skin had sizzled under the red-hot brand, he murmured softly. But Comrade Ossipon, nicknamed the Doctor, had got over the shock by that time. “You don’t understand,” he began disdainfully, but stopped short, intimidated by the dead blackness of the cavernous eyes in the face turned slowly towards him with a blind stare, as if guided only by the sound. He gave the discussion up, with a slight shrug of the shoulders. Stevie, accustomed to move about disregarded, had got up from the kitchen table, carrying off his drawing to bed with him. He had reached the parlour door in time to receive in full the shock of Karl Yundt’s eloquent imagery. The sheet of paper covered with circles dropped out of his fingers, and he remained staring at the old terrorist, as if rooted suddenly to the spot by his morbid horror and dread of physical pain. Stevie knew very well that hot iron applied to one’s skin hurt very much. His scared eyes blazed with indignation: it would hurt terribly. His mouth dropped open. Michaelis by staring unwinkingly at the fire had regained that sentiment of isolation necessary for the continuity of his thought. His optimism had begun to flow from his lips. He saw Capitalism doomed in its cradle, born with the poison of the principle of competition in its system. The great capitalists devouring the little capitalists, concentrating the power and the tools of production in great masses, perfecting industrial processes, and in the madness of self-aggrandisement only preparing, organising, enriching, making ready the lawful inheritance of the suffering proletariat. Michaelis pronounced the great word “Patience”—and his clear blue glance, raised to the low ceiling of Mr Verloc’s parlour, had a character of seraphic trustfulness. In the doorway Stevie, calmed, seemed sunk in hebetude. Comrade Ossipon’s face twitched with exasperation. “Then it’s no use doing anything—no use whatever.” “I don’t say that,” protested Michaelis gently. His vision of truth had grown so intense that the sound of a strange voice failed to rout it this time. He continued to look down at the red coals. Preparation for the future was necessary, and he was willing to admit that the great change would perhaps come in the upheaval of a revolution. But he argued that revolutionary propaganda was a delicate work of high conscience. It was the education of the masters of the world. It should be as careful as the education given to kings. He would have it advance its tenets cautiously, even timidly, in our ignorance of the effect that may be produced by any given economic change upon the happiness, the morals, the intellect, the history of mankind. For history is made with tools, not with ideas; and everything is changed by economic conditions—art, philosophy, love, virtue—truth itself! The coals in the grate settled down with a slight crash; and Michaelis, the hermit of visions in the desert of a penitentiary, got up impetuously. Round like a distended balloon, he opened his short, thick arms, as if in a pathetically hopeless attempt to embrace and hug to his breast a self-regenerated universe. He gasped with ardour. “The future is as certain as the past—slavery, feudalism, individualism, collectivism. This is the statement of a law, not an empty prophecy.” The disdainful pout of Comrade Ossipon’s thick lips accentuated the negro type of his face. “Nonsense,” he said calmly enough. “There is no law and no certainty. The teaching propaganda be hanged. What the people knows does not matter, were its knowledge ever so accurate. The only thing that matters to us is the emotional state of the masses. Without emotion there is no action.” He paused, then added with modest firmness: “I am speaking now to you scientifically—scientifically—Eh? What did you say, Verloc?” “Nothing,” growled from the sofa Mr Verloc, who, provoked by the abhorrent sound, had merely muttered a “Damn.” The venomous spluttering of the old terrorist without teeth was heard. “Do you know how I would call the nature of the present economic conditions? I would call it cannibalistic. That’s what it is! They are nourishing their greed on the quivering flesh and the warm blood of the people—nothing else.” Stevie swallowed the terrifying statement with an audible gulp, and at once, as though it had been swift poison, sank limply in a sitting posture on the steps of the kitchen door. Michaelis gave no sign of having heard anything. His lips seemed glued together for good; not a quiver passed over his heavy cheeks. With troubled eyes he looked for his round, hard hat, and put it on his round head. His round and obese body seemed to float low between the chairs under the sharp elbow of Karl Yundt. The old terrorist, raising an uncertain and clawlike hand, gave a swaggering tilt to a black felt sombrero shading the hollows and ridges of his wasted face. He got in motion slowly, striking the floor with his stick at every step. It was rather an affair to get him out of the house because, now and then, he would stop, as if to think, and did not offer to move again till impelled forward by Michaelis. The gentle apostle grasped his arm with brotherly care; and behind them, his hands in his pockets, the robust Ossipon yawned vaguely. A blue cap with a patent leather peak set well at the back of his yellow bush of hair gave him the aspect of a Norwegian sailor bored with the world after a thundering spree. Mr Verloc saw his guests off the premises, attending them bareheaded, his heavy overcoat hanging open, his eyes on the ground. He closed the door behind their backs with restrained violence, turned the key, shot the bolt. He was not satisfied with his friends. In the light of Mr Vladimir’s philosophy of bomb throwing they appeared hopelessly futile. The part of Mr Verloc in revolutionary politics having been to observe, he could not all at once, either in his own home or in larger assemblies, take the initiative of action. He had to be cautious. Moved by the just indignation of a man well over forty, menaced in what is dearest to him—his repose and his security—he asked himself scornfully what else could have been expected from such a lot, this Karl Yundt, this Michaelis—this Ossipon. Pausing in his intention to turn off the gas burning in the middle of the shop, Mr Verloc descended into the abyss of moral reflections. With the insight of a kindred temperament he pronounced his verdict. A lazy lot—this Karl Yundt, nursed by a blear-eyed old woman, a woman he had years ago enticed away from a friend, and afterwards had tried more than once to shake off into the gutter. Jolly lucky for Yundt that she had persisted in coming up time after time, or else there would have been no one now to help him out of the ’bus by the Green Park railings, where that spectre took its constitutional crawl every fine morning. When that indomitable snarling old witch died the swaggering spectre would have to vanish too—there would be an end to fiery Karl Yundt. And Mr Verloc’s morality was offended also by the optimism of Michaelis, annexed by his wealthy old lady, who had taken lately to sending him to a cottage she had in the country. The ex-prisoner could moon about the shady lanes for days together in a delicious and humanitarian idleness. As to Ossipon, that beggar was sure to want for nothing as long as there were silly girls with savings-bank books in the world. And Mr Verloc, temperamentally identical with his associates, drew fine distinctions in his mind on the strength of insignificant differences. He drew them with a certain complacency, because the instinct of conventional respectability was strong within him, being only overcome by his dislike of all kinds of recognised labour—a temperamental defect which he shared with a large proportion of revolutionary reformers of a given social state. For obviously one does not revolt against the advantages and opportunities of that state, but against the price which must be paid for the same in the coin of accepted morality, self-restraint, and toil. The majority of revolutionists are the enemies of discipline and fatigue mostly. There are natures too, to whose sense of justice the price exacted looms up monstrously enormous, odious, oppressive, worrying, humiliating, extortionate, intolerable. Those are the fanatics. The remaining portion of social rebels is accounted for by vanity, the mother of all noble and vile illusions, the companion of poets, reformers, charlatans, prophets, and incendiaries. Lost for a whole minute in the abyss of meditation, Mr Verloc did not reach the depth of these abstract considerations. Perhaps he was not able. In any case he had not the time. He was pulled up painfully by the sudden recollection of Mr Vladimir, another of his associates, whom in virtue of subtle moral affinities he was capable of judging correctly. He considered him as dangerous. A shade of envy crept into his thoughts. Loafing was all very well for these fellows, who knew not Mr Vladimir, and had women to fall back upon; whereas he had a woman to provide for— At this point, by a simple association of ideas, Mr Verloc was brought face to face with the necessity of going to bed some time or other that evening. Then why not go now—at once? He sighed. The necessity was not so normally pleasurable as it ought to have been for a man of his age and temperament. He dreaded the demon of sleeplessness, which he felt had marked him for its own. He raised his arm, and turned off the flaring gas-jet above his head. A bright band of light fell through the parlour door into the part of the shop behind the counter. It enabled Mr Verloc to ascertain at a glance the number of silver coins in the till. These were but few; and for the first time since he opened his shop he took a commercial survey of its value. This survey was unfavourable. He had gone into trade for no commercial reasons. He had been guided in the selection of this peculiar line of business by an instinctive leaning towards shady transactions, where money is picked up easily. Moreover, it did not take him out of his own sphere—the sphere which is watched by the police. On the contrary, it gave him a publicly confessed standing in that sphere, and as Mr Verloc had unconfessed relations which made him familiar with yet careless of the police, there was a distinct advantage in such a situation. But as a means of livelihood it was by itself insufficient. He took the cash-box out of the drawer, and turning to leave the shop, became aware that Stevie was still downstairs. What on earth is he doing there? Mr Verloc asked himself. What’s the meaning of these antics? He looked dubiously at his brother-in-law, but he did not ask him for information. Mr Verloc’s intercourse with Stevie was limited to the casual mutter of a morning, after breakfast, “My boots,” and even that was more a communication at large of a need than a direct order or request. Mr Verloc perceived with some surprise that he did not know really what to say to Stevie. He stood still in the middle of the parlour, and looked into the kitchen in silence. Nor yet did he know what would happen if he did say anything. And this appeared very queer to Mr Verloc in view of the fact, borne upon him suddenly, that he had to provide for this fellow too. He had never given a moment’s thought till then to that aspect of Stevie’s existence. Positively he did not know how to speak to the lad. He watched him gesticulating and murmuring in the kitchen. Stevie prowled round the table like an excited animal in a cage. A tentative “Hadn’t you better go to bed now?” produced no effect whatever; and Mr Verloc, abandoning the stony contemplation of his brother-in-law’s behaviour, crossed the parlour wearily, cash-box in hand. The cause of the general lassitude he felt while climbing the stairs being purely mental, he became alarmed by its inexplicable character. He hoped he was not sickening for anything. He stopped on the dark landing to examine his sensations. But a slight and continuous sound of snoring pervading the obscurity interfered with their clearness. The sound came from his mother-in-law’s room. Another one to provide for, he thought—and on this thought walked into the bedroom. Mrs Verloc had fallen asleep with the lamp (no gas was laid upstairs) turned up full on the table by the side of the bed. The light thrown down by the shade fell dazzlingly on the white pillow sunk by the weight of her head reposing with closed eyes and dark hair done up in several plaits for the night. She woke up with the sound of her name in her ears, and saw her husband standing over her. “Winnie! Winnie!” At first she did not stir, lying very quiet and looking at the cash-box in Mr Verloc’s hand. But when she understood that her brother was “capering all over the place downstairs” she swung out in one sudden movement on to the edge of the bed. Her bare feet, as if poked through the bottom of an unadorned, sleeved calico sack buttoned tightly at neck and wrists, felt over the rug for the slippers while she looked upward into her husband’s face. “I don’t know how to manage him,” Mr Verloc explained peevishly. “Won’t do to leave him downstairs alone with the lights.” She said nothing, glided across the room swiftly, and the door closed upon her white form. Mr Verloc deposited the cash-box on the night table, and began the operation of undressing by flinging his overcoat on to a distant chair. His coat and waistcoat followed. He walked about the room in his stockinged feet, and his burly figure, with the hands worrying nervously at his throat, passed and repassed across the long strip of looking-glass in the door of his wife’s wardrobe. Then after slipping his braces off his shoulders he pulled up violently the venetian blind, and leaned his forehead against the cold window-pane—a fragile film of glass stretched between him and the enormity of cold, black, wet, muddy, inhospitable accumulation of bricks, slates, and stones, things in themselves unlovely and unfriendly to man. Mr Verloc felt the latent unfriendliness of all out of doors with a force approaching to positive bodily anguish. There is no occupation that fails a man more completely than that of a secret agent of police. It’s like your horse suddenly falling dead under you in the midst of an uninhabited and thirsty plain. The comparison occurred to Mr Verloc because he had sat astride various army horses in his time, and had now the sensation of an incipient fall. The prospect was as black as the window-pane against which he was leaning his forehead. And suddenly the face of Mr Vladimir, clean-shaved and witty, appeared enhaloed in the glow of its rosy complexion like a sort of pink seal, impressed on the fatal darkness. This luminous and mutilated vision was so ghastly physically that Mr Verloc started away from the window, letting down the venetian blind with a great rattle. Discomposed and speechless with the apprehension of more such visions, he beheld his wife re-enter the room and get into bed in a calm business-like manner which made him feel hopelessly lonely in the world. Mrs Verloc expressed her surprise at seeing him up yet. “I don’t feel very well,” he muttered, passing his hands over his moist brow. “Giddiness?” “Yes. Not at all well.” Mrs Verloc, with all the placidity of an experienced wife, expressed a confident opinion as to the cause, and suggested the usual remedies; but her husband, rooted in the middle of the room, shook his lowered head sadly. “You’ll catch cold standing there,” she observed. Mr Verloc made an effort, finished undressing, and got into bed. Down below in the quiet, narrow street measured footsteps approached the house, then died away unhurried and firm, as if the passer-by had started to pace out all eternity, from gas-lamp to gas-lamp in a night without end; and the drowsy ticking of the old clock on the landing became distinctly audible in the bedroom. Mrs Verloc, on her back, and staring at the ceiling, made a remark. “Takings very small to-day.” Mr Verloc, in the same position, cleared his throat as if for an important statement, but merely inquired: “Did you turn off the gas downstairs?” “Yes; I did,” answered Mrs Verloc conscientiously. “That poor boy is in a very excited state to-night,” she murmured, after a pause which lasted for three ticks of the clock. Mr Verloc cared nothing for Stevie’s excitement, but he felt horribly wakeful, and dreaded facing the darkness and silence that would follow the extinguishing of the lamp. This dread led him to make the remark that Stevie had disregarded his suggestion to go to bed. Mrs Verloc, falling into the trap, started to demonstrate at length to her husband that this was not “impudence” of any sort, but simply “excitement.” There was no young man of his age in London more willing and docile than Stephen, she affirmed; none more affectionate and ready to please, and even useful, as long as people did not upset his poor head. Mrs Verloc, turning towards her recumbent husband, raised herself on her elbow, and hung over him in her anxiety that he should believe Stevie to be a useful member of the family. That ardour of protecting compassion exalted morbidly in her childhood by the misery of another child tinged her sallow cheeks with a faint dusky blush, made her big eyes gleam under the dark lids. Mrs Verloc then looked younger; she looked as young as Winnie used to look, and much more animated than the Winnie of the Belgravian mansion days had ever allowed herself to appear to gentlemen lodgers. Mr Verloc’s anxieties had prevented him from attaching any sense to what his wife was saying. It was as if her voice were talking on the other side of a very thick wall. It was her aspect that recalled him to himself. He appreciated this woman, and the sentiment of this appreciation, stirred by a display of something resembling emotion, only added another pang to his mental anguish. When her voice ceased he moved uneasily, and said: “I haven’t been feeling well for the last few days.” He might have meant this as an opening to a complete confidence; but Mrs Verloc laid her head on the pillow again, and staring upward, went on: “That boy hears too much of what is talked about here. If I had known they were coming to-night I would have seen to it that he went to bed at the same time I did. He was out of his mind with something he overheard about eating people’s flesh and drinking blood. What’s the good of talking like that?” There was a note of indignant scorn in her voice. Mr Verloc was fully responsive now. “Ask Karl Yundt,” he growled savagely. Mrs Verloc, with great decision, pronounced Karl Yundt “a disgusting old man.” She declared openly her affection for Michaelis. Of the robust Ossipon, in whose presence she always felt uneasy behind an attitude of stony reserve, she said nothing whatever. And continuing to talk of that brother, who had been for so many years an object of care and fears: “He isn’t fit to hear what’s said here. He believes it’s all true. He knows no better. He gets into his passions over it.” Mr Verloc made no comment. “He glared at me, as if he didn’t know who I was, when I went downstairs. His heart was going like a hammer. He can’t help being excitable. I woke mother up, and asked her to sit with him till he went to sleep. It isn’t his fault. He’s no trouble when he’s left alone.” Mr Verloc made no comment. “I wish he had never been to school,” Mrs Verloc began again brusquely. “He’s always taking away those newspapers from the window to read. He gets a red face poring over them. We don’t get rid of a dozen numbers in a month. They only take up room in the front window. And Mr Ossipon brings every week a pile of these F. P. tracts to sell at a halfpenny each. I wouldn’t give a halfpenny for the whole lot. It’s silly reading—that’s what it is. There’s no sale for it. The other day Stevie got hold of one, and there was a story in it of a German soldier officer tearing half-off the ear of a recruit, and nothing was done to him for it. The brute! I couldn’t do anything with Stevie that afternoon. The story was enough, too, to make one’s blood boil. But what’s the use of printing things like that? We aren’t German slaves here, thank God. It’s not our business—is it?” Mr Verloc made no reply. “I had to take the carving knife from the boy,” Mrs Verloc continued, a little sleepily now. “He was shouting and stamping and sobbing. He can’t stand the notion of any cruelty. He would have stuck that officer like a pig if he had seen him then. It’s true, too! Some people don’t deserve much mercy.” Mrs Verloc’s voice ceased, and the expression of her motionless eyes became more and more contemplative and veiled during the long pause. “Comfortable, dear?” she asked in a faint, far-away voice. “Shall I put out the light now?” The dreary conviction that there was no sleep for him held Mr Verloc mute and hopelessly inert in his fear of darkness. He made a great effort. “Yes. Put it out,” he said at last in a hollow tone. CHAPTER IV Most of the thirty or so little tables covered by red cloths with a white design stood ranged at right angles to the deep brown wainscoting of the underground hall. Bronze chandeliers with many globes depended from the low, slightly vaulted ceiling, and the fresco paintings ran flat and dull all round the walls without windows, representing scenes of the chase and of outdoor revelry in mediæval costumes. Varlets in green jerkins brandished hunting knives and raised on high tankards of foaming beer. “Unless I am very much mistaken, you are the man who would know the inside of this confounded affair,” said the robust Ossipon, leaning over, his elbows far out on the table and his feet tucked back completely under his chair. His eyes stared with wild eagerness. An upright semi-grand piano near the door, flanked by two palms in pots, executed suddenly all by itself a valse tune with aggressive virtuosity. The din it raised was deafening. When it ceased, as abruptly as it had started, the be-spectacled, dingy little man who faced Ossipon behind a heavy glass mug full of beer emitted calmly what had the sound of a general proposition. “In principle what one of us may or may not know as to any given fact can’t be a matter for inquiry to the others.” “Certainly not,” Comrade Ossipon agreed in a quiet undertone. “In principle.” With his big florid face held between his hands he continued to stare hard, while the dingy little man in spectacles coolly took a drink of beer and stood the glass mug back on the table. His flat, large ears departed widely from the sides of his skull, which looked frail enough for Ossipon to crush between thumb and forefinger; the dome of the forehead seemed to rest on the rim of the spectacles; the flat cheeks, of a greasy, unhealthy complexion, were merely smudged by the miserable poverty of a thin dark whisker. The lamentable inferiority of the whole physique was made ludicrous by the supremely self-confident bearing of the individual. His speech was curt, and he had a particularly impressive manner of keeping silent. Ossipon spoke again from between his hands in a mutter. “Have you been out much to-day?” “No. I stayed in bed all the morning,” answered the other. “Why?” “Oh! Nothing,” said Ossipon, gazing earnestly and quivering inwardly with the desire to find out something, but obviously intimidated by the little man’s overwhelming air of unconcern. When talking with this comrade—which happened but rarely—the big Ossipon suffered from a sense of moral and even physical insignificance. However, he ventured another question. “Did you walk down here?” “No; omnibus,” the little man answered readily enough. He lived far away in Islington, in a small house down a shabby street, littered with straw and dirty paper, where out of school hours a troop of assorted children ran and squabbled with a shrill, joyless, rowdy clamour. His single back room, remarkable for having an extremely large cupboard, he rented furnished from two elderly spinsters, dressmakers in a humble way with a clientele of servant girls mostly. He had a heavy padlock put on the cupboard, but otherwise he was a model lodger, giving no trouble, and requiring practically no attendance. His oddities were that he insisted on being present when his room was being swept, and that when he went out he locked his door, and took the key away with him. Ossipon had a vision of these round black-rimmed spectacles progressing along the streets on the top of an omnibus, their self-confident glitter falling here and there on the walls of houses or lowered upon the heads of the unconscious stream of people on the pavements. The ghost of a sickly smile altered the set of Ossipon’s thick lips at the thought of the walls nodding, of people running for life at the sight of those spectacles. If they had only known! What a panic! He murmured interrogatively: “Been sitting long here?” “An hour or more,” answered the other negligently, and took a pull at the dark beer. All his movements—the way he grasped the mug, the act of drinking, the way he set the heavy glass down and folded his arms—had a firmness, an assured precision which made the big and muscular Ossipon, leaning forward with staring eyes and protruding lips, look the picture of eager indecision. “An hour,” he said. “Then it may be you haven’t heard yet the news I’ve heard just now—in the street. Have you?” The little man shook his head negatively the least bit. But as he gave no indication of curiosity Ossipon ventured to add that he had heard it just outside the place. A newspaper boy had yelled the thing under his very nose, and not being prepared for anything of that sort, he was very much startled and upset. He had to come in there with a dry mouth. “I never thought of finding you here,” he added, murmuring steadily, with his elbows planted on the table. “I come here sometimes,” said the other, preserving his provoking coolness of demeanour. “It’s wonderful that you of all people should have heard nothing of it,” the big Ossipon continued. His eyelids snapped nervously upon the shining eyes. “You of all people,” he repeated tentatively. This obvious restraint argued an incredible and inexplicable timidity of the big fellow before the calm little man, who again lifted the glass mug, drank, and put it down with brusque and assured movements. And that was all. Ossipon after waiting for something, word or sign, that did not come, made an effort to assume a sort of indifference. “Do you,” he said, deadening his voice still more, “give your stuff to anybody who’s up to asking you for it?” “My absolute rule is never to refuse anybody—as long as I have a pinch by me,” answered the little man with decision. “That’s a principle?” commented Ossipon. “It’s a principle.” “And you think it’s sound?” The large round spectacles, which gave a look of staring self-confidence to the sallow face, confronted Ossipon like sleepless, unwinking orbs flashing a cold fire. “Perfectly. Always. Under every circumstance. What could stop me? Why should I not? Why should I think twice about it?” Ossipon gasped, as it were, discreetly. “Do you mean to say you would hand it over to a ‘teck’ if one came to ask you for your wares?” The other smiled faintly. “Let them come and try it on, and you will see,” he said. “They know me, but I know also every one of them. They won’t come near me—not they.” His thin livid lips snapped together firmly. Ossipon began to argue. “But they could send someone—rig a plant on you. Don’t you see? Get the stuff from you in that way, and then arrest you with the proof in their hands.” “Proof of what? Dealing in explosives without a licence perhaps.” This was meant for a contemptuous jeer, though the expression of the thin, sickly face remained unchanged, and the utterance was negligent. “I don’t think there’s one of them anxious to make that arrest. I don’t think they could get one of them to apply for a warrant. I mean one of the best. Not one.” “Why?” Ossipon asked. “Because they know very well I take care never to part with the last handful of my wares. I’ve it always by me.” He touched the breast of his coat lightly. “In a thick glass flask,” he added. “So I have been told,” said Ossipon, with a shade of wonder in his voice. “But I didn’t know if—” “They know,” interrupted the little man crisply, leaning against the straight chair back, which rose higher than his fragile head. “I shall never be arrested. The game isn’t good enough for any policeman of them all. To deal with a man like me you require sheer, naked, inglorious heroism.” Again his lips closed with a self-confident snap. Ossipon repressed a movement of impatience. “Or recklessness—or simply ignorance,” he retorted. “They’ve only to get somebody for the job who does not know you carry enough stuff in your pocket to blow yourself and everything within sixty yards of you to pieces.” “I never affirmed I could not be eliminated,” rejoined the other. “But that wouldn’t be an arrest. Moreover, it’s not so easy as it looks.” “Bah!” Ossipon contradicted. “Don’t be too sure of that. What’s to prevent half-a-dozen of them jumping upon you from behind in the street? With your arms pinned to your sides you could do nothing—could you?” “Yes; I could. I am seldom out in the streets after dark,” said the little man impassively, “and never very late. I walk always with my right hand closed round the india-rubber ball which I have in my trouser pocket. The pressing of this ball actuates a detonator inside the flask I carry in my pocket. It’s the principle of the pneumatic instantaneous shutter for a camera lens. The tube leads up—” With a swift disclosing gesture he gave Ossipon a glimpse of an india-rubber tube, resembling a slender brown worm, issuing from the armhole of his waistcoat and plunging into the inner breast pocket of his jacket. His clothes, of a nondescript brown mixture, were threadbare and marked with stains, dusty in the folds, with ragged button-holes. “The detonator is partly mechanical, partly chemical,” he explained, with casual condescension. “It is instantaneous, of course?” murmured Ossipon, with a slight shudder. “Far from it,” confessed the other, with a reluctance which seemed to twist his mouth dolorously. “A full twenty seconds must elapse from the moment I press the ball till the explosion takes place.” “Phew!” whistled Ossipon, completely appalled. “Twenty seconds! Horrors! You mean to say that you could face that? I should go crazy—” “Wouldn’t matter if you did. Of course, it’s the weak point of this special system, which is only for my own use. The worst is that the manner of exploding is always the weak point with us. I am trying to invent a detonator that would adjust itself to all conditions of action, and even to unexpected changes of conditions. A variable and yet perfectly precise mechanism. A really intelligent detonator.” “Twenty seconds,” muttered Ossipon again. “Ough! And then—” With a slight turn of the head the glitter of the spectacles seemed to gauge the size of the beer saloon in the basement of the renowned Silenus Restaurant. “Nobody in this room could hope to escape,” was the verdict of that survey. “Nor yet this couple going up the stairs now.” The piano at the foot of the staircase clanged through a mazurka with brazen impetuosity, as though a vulgar and impudent ghost were showing off. The keys sank and rose mysteriously. Then all became still. For a moment Ossipon imagined the overlighted place changed into a dreadful black hole belching horrible fumes choked with ghastly rubbish of smashed brickwork and mutilated corpses. He had such a distinct perception of ruin and death that he shuddered again. The other observed, with an air of calm sufficiency: “In the last instance it is character alone that makes for one’s safety. There are very few people in the world whose character is as well established as mine.” “I wonder how you managed it,” growled Ossipon. “Force of personality,” said the other, without raising his voice; and coming from the mouth of that obviously miserable organism the assertion caused the robust Ossipon to bite his lower lip. “Force of personality,” he repeated, with ostentatious calm. “I have the means to make myself deadly, but that by itself, you understand, is absolutely nothing in the way of protection. What is effective is the belief those people have in my will to use the means. That’s their impression. It is absolute. Therefore I am deadly.” “There are individuals of character amongst that lot too,” muttered Ossipon ominously. “Possibly. But it is a matter of degree obviously, since, for instance, I am not impressed by them. Therefore they are inferior. They cannot be otherwise. Their character is built upon conventional morality. It leans on the social order. Mine stands free from everything artificial. They are bound in all sorts of conventions. They depend on life, which, in this connection, is a historical fact surrounded by all sorts of restraints and considerations, a complex organised fact open to attack at every point; whereas I depend on death, which knows no restraint and cannot be attacked. My superiority is evident.” “This is a transcendental way of putting it,” said Ossipon, watching the cold glitter of the round spectacles. “I’ve heard Karl Yundt say much the same thing not very long ago.” “Karl Yundt,” mumbled the other contemptuously, “the delegate of the International Red Committee, has been a posturing shadow all his life. There are three of you delegates, aren’t there? I won’t define the other two, as you are one of them. But what you say means nothing. You are the worthy delegates for revolutionary propaganda, but the trouble is not only that you are as unable to think independently as any respectable grocer or journalist of them all, but that you have no character whatever.” Ossipon could not restrain a start of indignation. “But what do you want from us?” he exclaimed in a deadened voice. “What is it you are after yourself?” “A perfect detonator,” was the peremptory answer. “What are you making that face for? You see, you can’t even bear the mention of something conclusive.” “I am not making a face,” growled the annoyed Ossipon bearishly. “You revolutionists,” the other continued, with leisurely self-confidence, “are the slaves of the social convention, which is afraid of you; slaves of it as much as the very police that stands up in the defence of that convention. Clearly you are, since you want to revolutionise it. It governs your thought, of course, and your action too, and thus neither your thought nor your action can ever be conclusive.” He paused, tranquil, with that air of close, endless silence, then almost immediately went on. “You are not a bit better than the forces arrayed against you—than the police, for instance. The other day I came suddenly upon Chief Inspector Heat at the corner of Tottenham Court Road. He looked at me very steadily. But I did not look at him. Why should I give him more than a glance? He was thinking of many things—of his superiors, of his reputation, of the law courts, of his salary, of newspapers—of a hundred things. But I was thinking of my perfect detonator only. He meant nothing to me. He was as insignificant as—I can’t call to mind anything insignificant enough to compare him with—except Karl Yundt perhaps. Like to like. The terrorist and the policeman both come from the same basket. Revolution, legality—counter moves in the same game; forms of idleness at bottom identical. He plays his little game—so do you propagandists. But I don’t play; I work fourteen hours a day, and go hungry sometimes. My experiments cost money now and again, and then I must do without food for a day or two. You’re looking at my beer. Yes. I have had two glasses already, and shall have another presently. This is a little holiday, and I celebrate it alone. Why not? I’ve the grit to work alone, quite alone, absolutely alone. I’ve worked alone for years.” Ossipon’s face had turned dusky red. “At the perfect detonator—eh?” he sneered, very low. “Yes,” retorted the other. “It is a good definition. You couldn’t find anything half so precise to define the nature of your activity with all your committees and delegations. It is I who am the true propagandist.” “We won’t discuss that point,” said Ossipon, with an air of rising above personal considerations. “I am afraid I’ll have to spoil your holiday for you, though. There’s a man blown up in Greenwich Park this morning.” “How do you know?” “They have been yelling the news in the streets since two o’clock. I bought the paper, and just ran in here. Then I saw you sitting at this table. I’ve got it in my pocket now.” He pulled the newspaper out. It was a good-sized rosy sheet, as if flushed by the warmth of its own convictions, which were optimistic. He scanned the pages rapidly. “Ah! Here it is. Bomb in Greenwich Park. There isn’t much so far. Half-past eleven. Foggy morning. Effects of explosion felt as far as Romney Road and Park Place. Enormous hole in the ground under a tree filled with smashed roots and broken branches. All round fragments of a man’s body blown to pieces. That’s all. The rest’s mere newspaper gup. No doubt a wicked attempt to blow up the Observatory, they say. H’m. That’s hardly credible.” He looked at the paper for a while longer in silence, then passed it to the other, who after gazing abstractedly at the print laid it down without comment. It was Ossipon who spoke first—still resentful. “The fragments of only _one_ man, you note. Ergo: blew _himself_ up. That spoils your day off for you—don’t it? Were you expecting that sort of move? I hadn’t the slightest idea—not the ghost of a notion of anything of the sort being planned to come off here—in this country. Under the present circumstances it’s nothing short of criminal.” The little man lifted his thin black eyebrows with dispassionate scorn. “Criminal! What is that? What _is_ crime? What can be the meaning of such an assertion?” “How am I to express myself? One must use the current words,” said Ossipon impatiently. “The meaning of this assertion is that this business may affect our position very adversely in this country. Isn’t that crime enough for you? I am convinced you have been giving away some of your stuff lately.” Ossipon stared hard. The other, without flinching, lowered and raised his head slowly. “You have!” burst out the editor of the F. P. leaflets in an intense whisper. “No! And are you really handing it over at large like this, for the asking, to the first fool that comes along?” “Just so! The condemned social order has not been built up on paper and ink, and I don’t fancy that a combination of paper and ink will ever put an end to it, whatever you may think. Yes, I would give the stuff with both hands to every man, woman, or fool that likes to come along. I know what you are thinking about. But I am not taking my cue from the Red Committee. I would see you all hounded out of here, or arrested—or beheaded for that matter—without turning a hair. What happens to us as individuals is not of the least consequence.” He spoke carelessly, without heat, almost without feeling, and Ossipon, secretly much affected, tried to copy this detachment. “If the police here knew their business they would shoot you full of holes with revolvers, or else try to sand-bag you from behind in broad daylight.” The little man seemed already to have considered that point of view in his dispassionate self-confident manner. “Yes,” he assented with the utmost readiness. “But for that they would have to face their own institutions. Do you see? That requires uncommon grit. Grit of a special kind.” Ossipon blinked. “I fancy that’s exactly what would happen to you if you were to set up your laboratory in the States. They don’t stand on ceremony with their institutions there.” “I am not likely to go and see. Otherwise your remark is just,” admitted the other. “They have more character over there, and their character is essentially anarchistic. Fertile ground for us, the States—very good ground. The great Republic has the root of the destructive matter in her. The collective temperament is lawless. Excellent. They may shoot us down, but—” “You are too transcendental for me,” growled Ossipon, with moody concern. “Logical,” protested the other. “There are several kinds of logic. This is the enlightened kind. America is all right. It is this country that is dangerous, with her idealistic conception of legality. The social spirit of this people is wrapped up in scrupulous prejudices, and that is fatal to our work. You talk of England being our only refuge! So much the worse. Capua! What do we want with refuges? Here you talk, print, plot, and do nothing. I daresay it’s very convenient for such Karl Yundts.” He shrugged his shoulders slightly, then added with the same leisurely assurance: “To break up the superstition and worship of legality should be our aim. Nothing would please me more than to see Inspector Heat and his likes take to shooting us down in broad daylight with the approval of the public. Half our battle would be won then; the disintegration of the old morality would have set in in its very temple. That is what you ought to aim at. But you revolutionists will never understand that. You plan the future, you lose yourselves in reveries of economical systems derived from what is; whereas what’s wanted is a clean sweep and a clear start for a new conception of life. That sort of future will take care of itself if you will only make room for it. Therefore I would shovel my stuff in heaps at the corners of the streets if I had enough for that; and as I haven’t, I do my best by perfecting a really dependable detonator.” Ossipon, who had been mentally swimming in deep waters, seized upon the last word as if it were a saving plank. “Yes. Your detonators. I shouldn’t wonder if it weren’t one of your detonators that made a clean sweep of the man in the park.” A shade of vexation darkened the determined sallow face confronting Ossipon. “My difficulty consists precisely in experimenting practically with the various kinds. They must be tried after all. Besides—” Ossipon interrupted. “Who could that fellow be? I assure you that we in London had no knowledge—Couldn’t you describe the person you gave the stuff to?” The other turned his spectacles upon Ossipon like a pair of searchlights. “Describe him,” he repeated slowly. “I don’t think there can be the slightest objection now. I will describe him to you in one word—Verloc.” Ossipon, whom curiosity had lifted a few inches off his seat, dropped back, as if hit in the face. “Verloc! Impossible.” The self-possessed little man nodded slightly once. “Yes. He’s the person. You can’t say that in this case I was giving my stuff to the first fool that came along. He was a prominent member of the group as far as I understand.” “Yes,” said Ossipon. “Prominent. No, not exactly. He was the centre for general intelligence, and usually received comrades coming over here. More useful than important. Man of no ideas. Years ago he used to speak at meetings—in France, I believe. Not very well, though. He was trusted by such men as Latorre, Moser and all that old lot. The only talent he showed really was his ability to elude the attentions of the police somehow. Here, for instance, he did not seem to be looked after very closely. He was regularly married, you know. I suppose it’s with her money that he started that shop. Seemed to make it pay, too.” Ossipon paused abruptly, muttered to himself “I wonder what that woman will do now?” and fell into thought. The other waited with ostentatious indifference. His parentage was obscure, and he was generally known only by his nickname of Professor. His title to that designation consisted in his having been once assistant demonstrator in chemistry at some technical institute. He quarrelled with the authorities upon a question of unfair treatment. Afterwards he obtained a post in the laboratory of a manufactory of dyes. There too he had been treated with revolting injustice. His struggles, his privations, his hard work to raise himself in the social scale, had filled him with such an exalted conviction of his merits that it was extremely difficult for the world to treat him with justice—the standard of that notion depending so much upon the patience of the individual. The Professor had genius, but lacked the great social virtue of resignation. “Intellectually a nonentity,” Ossipon pronounced aloud, abandoning suddenly the inward contemplation of Mrs Verloc’s bereaved person and business. “Quite an ordinary personality. You are wrong in not keeping more in touch with the comrades, Professor,” he added in a reproving tone. “Did he say anything to you—give you some idea of his intentions? I hadn’t seen him for a month. It seems impossible that he should be gone.” “He told me it was going to be a demonstration against a building,” said the Professor. “I had to know that much to prepare the missile. I pointed out to him that I had hardly a sufficient quantity for a completely destructive result, but he pressed me very earnestly to do my best. As he wanted something that could be carried openly in the hand, I proposed to make use of an old one-gallon copal varnish can I happened to have by me. He was pleased at the idea. It gave me some trouble, because I had to cut out the bottom first and solder it on again afterwards. When prepared for use, the can enclosed a wide-mouthed, well-corked jar of thick glass packed around with some wet clay and containing sixteen ounces of X2 green powder. The detonator was connected with the screw top of the can. It was ingenious—a combination of time and shock. I explained the system to him. It was a thin tube of tin enclosing a—” Ossipon’s attention had wandered. “What do you think has happened?” he interrupted. “Can’t tell. Screwed the top on tight, which would make the connection, and then forgot the time. It was set for twenty minutes. On the other hand, the time contact being made, a sharp shock would bring about the explosion at once. He either ran the time too close, or simply let the thing fall. The contact was made all right—that’s clear to me at any rate. The system’s worked perfectly. And yet you would think that a common fool in a hurry would be much more likely to forget to make the contact altogether. I was worrying myself about that sort of failure mostly. But there are more kinds of fools than one can guard against. You can’t expect a detonator to be absolutely fool-proof.” He beckoned to a waiter. Ossipon sat rigid, with the abstracted gaze of mental travail. After the man had gone away with the money he roused himself, with an air of profound dissatisfaction. “It’s extremely unpleasant for me,” he mused. “Karl has been in bed with bronchitis for a week. There’s an even chance that he will never get up again. Michaelis’s luxuriating in the country somewhere. A fashionable publisher has offered him five hundred pounds for a book. It will be a ghastly failure. He has lost the habit of consecutive thinking in prison, you know.” The Professor on his feet, now buttoning his coat, looked about him with perfect indifference. “What are you going to do?” asked Ossipon wearily. He dreaded the blame of the Central Red Committee, a body which had no permanent place of abode, and of whose membership he was not exactly informed. If this affair eventuated in the stoppage of the modest subsidy allotted to the publication of the F. P. pamphlets, then indeed he would have to regret Verloc’s inexplicable folly. “Solidarity with the extremest form of action is one thing, and silly recklessness is another,” he said, with a sort of moody brutality. “I don’t know what came to Verloc. There’s some mystery there. However, he’s gone. You may take it as you like, but under the circumstances the only policy for the militant revolutionary group is to disclaim all connection with this damned freak of yours. How to make the disclaimer convincing enough is what bothers me.” The little man on his feet, buttoned up and ready to go, was no taller than the seated Ossipon. He levelled his spectacles at the latter’s face point-blank. “You might ask the police for a testimonial of good conduct. They know where every one of you slept last night. Perhaps if you asked them they would consent to publish some sort of official statement.” “No doubt they are aware well enough that we had nothing to do with this,” mumbled Ossipon bitterly. “What they will say is another thing.” He remained thoughtful, disregarding the short, owlish, shabby figure standing by his side. “I must lay hands on Michaelis at once, and get him to speak from his heart at one of our gatherings. The public has a sort of sentimental regard for that fellow. His name is known. And I am in touch with a few reporters on the big dailies. What he would say would be utter bosh, but he has a turn of talk that makes it go down all the same.” “Like treacle,” interjected the Professor, rather low, keeping an impassive expression. The perplexed Ossipon went on communing with himself half audibly, after the manner of a man reflecting in perfect solitude. “Confounded ass! To leave such an imbecile business on my hands. And I don’t even know if—” He sat with compressed lips. The idea of going for news straight to the shop lacked charm. His notion was that Verloc’s shop might have been turned already into a police trap. They will be bound to make some arrests, he thought, with something resembling virtuous indignation, for the even tenor of his revolutionary life was menaced by no fault of his. And yet unless he went there he ran the risk of remaining in ignorance of what perhaps it would be very material for him to know. Then he reflected that, if the man in the park had been so very much blown to pieces as the evening papers said, he could not have been identified. And if so, the police could have no special reason for watching Verloc’s shop more closely than any other place known to be frequented by marked anarchists—no more reason, in fact, than for watching the doors of the Silenus. There would be a lot of watching all round, no matter where he went. Still— “I wonder what I had better do now?” he muttered, taking counsel with himself. A rasping voice at his elbow said, with sedate scorn: “Fasten yourself upon the woman for all she’s worth.” After uttering these words the Professor walked away from the table. Ossipon, whom that piece of insight had taken unawares, gave one ineffectual start, and remained still, with a helpless gaze, as though nailed fast to the seat of his chair. The lonely piano, without as much as a music stool to help it, struck a few chords courageously, and beginning a selection of national airs, played him out at last to the tune of “Blue Bells of Scotland.” The painfully detached notes grew faint behind his back while he went slowly upstairs, across the hall, and into the street. In front of the great doorway a dismal row of newspaper sellers standing clear of the pavement dealt out their wares from the gutter. It was a raw, gloomy day of the early spring; and the grimy sky, the mud of the streets, the rags of the dirty men, harmonised excellently with the eruption of the damp, rubbishy sheets of paper soiled with printers’ ink. The posters, maculated with filth, garnished like tapestry the sweep of the curbstone. The trade in afternoon papers was brisk, yet, in comparison with the swift, constant march of foot traffic, the effect was of indifference, of a disregarded distribution. Ossipon looked hurriedly both ways before stepping out into the cross-currents, but the Professor was already out of sight. CHAPTER V The Professor had turned into a street to the left, and walked along, with his head carried rigidly erect, in a crowd whose every individual almost overtopped his stunted stature. It was vain to pretend to himself that he was not disappointed. But that was mere feeling; the stoicism of his thought could not be disturbed by this or any other failure. Next time, or the time after next, a telling stroke would be delivered—something really startling—a blow fit to open the first crack in the imposing front of the great edifice of legal conceptions sheltering the atrocious injustice of society. Of humble origin, and with an appearance really so mean as to stand in the way of his considerable natural abilities, his imagination had been fired early by the tales of men rising from the depths of poverty to positions of authority and affluence. The extreme, almost ascetic purity of his thought, combined with an astounding ignorance of worldly conditions, had set before him a goal of power and prestige to be attained without the medium of arts, graces, tact, wealth—by sheer weight of merit alone. On that view he considered himself entitled to undisputed success. His father, a delicate dark enthusiast with a sloping forehead, had been an itinerant and rousing preacher of some obscure but rigid Christian sect—a man supremely confident in the privileges of his righteousness. In the son, individualist by temperament, once the science of colleges had replaced thoroughly the faith of conventicles, this moral attitude translated itself into a frenzied puritanism of ambition. He nursed it as something secularly holy. To see it thwarted opened his eyes to the true nature of the world, whose morality was artificial, corrupt, and blasphemous. The way of even the most justifiable revolutions is prepared by personal impulses disguised into creeds. The Professor’s indignation found in itself a final cause that absolved him from the sin of turning to destruction as the agent of his ambition. To destroy public faith in legality was the imperfect formula of his pedantic fanaticism; but the subconscious conviction that the framework of an established social order cannot be effectually shattered except by some form of collective or individual violence was precise and correct. He was a moral agent—that was settled in his mind. By exercising his agency with ruthless defiance he procured for himself the appearances of power and personal prestige. That was undeniable to his vengeful bitterness. It pacified its unrest; and in their own way the most ardent of revolutionaries are perhaps doing no more but seeking for peace in common with the rest of mankind—the peace of soothed vanity, of satisfied appetites, or perhaps of appeased conscience. Lost in the crowd, miserable and undersized, he meditated confidently on his power, keeping his hand in the left pocket of his trousers, grasping lightly the india-rubber ball, the supreme guarantee of his sinister freedom; but after a while he became disagreeably affected by the sight of the roadway thronged with vehicles and of the pavement crowded with men and women. He was in a long, straight street, peopled by a mere fraction of an immense multitude; but all round him, on and on, even to the limits of the horizon hidden by the enormous piles of bricks, he felt the mass of mankind mighty in its numbers. They swarmed numerous like locusts, industrious like ants, thoughtless like a natural force, pushing on blind and orderly and absorbed, impervious to sentiment, to logic, to terror too perhaps. That was the form of doubt he feared most. Impervious to fear! Often while walking abroad, when he happened also to come out of himself, he had such moments of dreadful and sane mistrust of mankind. What if nothing could move them? Such moments come to all men whose ambition aims at a direct grasp upon humanity—to artists, politicians, thinkers, reformers, or saints. A despicable emotional state this, against which solitude fortifies a superior character; and with severe exultation the Professor thought of the refuge of his room, with its padlocked cupboard, lost in a wilderness of poor houses, the hermitage of the perfect anarchist. In order to reach sooner the point where he could take his omnibus, he turned brusquely out of the populous street into a narrow and dusky alley paved with flagstones. On one side the low brick houses had in their dusty windows the sightless, moribund look of incurable decay—empty shells awaiting demolition. From the other side life had not departed wholly as yet. Facing the only gas-lamp yawned the cavern of a second-hand furniture dealer, where, deep in the gloom of a sort of narrow avenue winding through a bizarre forest of wardrobes, with an undergrowth tangle of table legs, a tall pier-glass glimmered like a pool of water in a wood. An unhappy, homeless couch, accompanied by two unrelated chairs, stood in the open. The only human being making use of the alley besides the Professor, coming stalwart and erect from the opposite direction, checked his swinging pace suddenly. “Hallo!” he said, and stood a little on one side watchfully. The Professor had already stopped, with a ready half turn which brought his shoulders very near the other wall. His right hand fell lightly on the back of the outcast couch, the left remained purposefully plunged deep in the trousers pocket, and the roundness of the heavy rimmed spectacles imparted an owlish character to his moody, unperturbed face. It was like a meeting in a side corridor of a mansion full of life. The stalwart man was buttoned up in a dark overcoat, and carried an umbrella. His hat, tilted back, uncovered a good deal of forehead, which appeared very white in the dusk. In the dark patches of the orbits the eyeballs glimmered piercingly. Long, drooping moustaches, the colour of ripe corn, framed with their points the square block of his shaved chin. “I am not looking for you,” he said curtly. The Professor did not stir an inch. The blended noises of the enormous town sank down to an inarticulate low murmur. Chief Inspector Heat of the Special Crimes Department changed his tone. “Not in a hurry to get home?” he asked, with mocking simplicity. The unwholesome-looking little moral agent of destruction exulted silently in the possession of personal prestige, keeping in check this man armed with the defensive mandate of a menaced society. More fortunate than Caligula, who wished that the Roman Senate had only one head for the better satisfaction of his cruel lust, he beheld in that one man all the forces he had set at defiance: the force of law, property, oppression, and injustice. He beheld all his enemies, and fearlessly confronted them all in a supreme satisfaction of his vanity. They stood perplexed before him as if before a dreadful portent. He gloated inwardly over the chance of this meeting affirming his superiority over all the multitude of mankind. It was in reality a chance meeting. Chief Inspector Heat had had a disagreeably busy day since his department received the first telegram from Greenwich a little before eleven in the morning. First of all, the fact of the outrage being attempted less than a week after he had assured a high official that no outbreak of anarchist activity was to be apprehended was sufficiently annoying. If he ever thought himself safe in making a statement, it was then. He had made that statement with infinite satisfaction to himself, because it was clear that the high official desired greatly to hear that very thing. He had affirmed that nothing of the sort could even be thought of without the department being aware of it within twenty-four hours; and he had spoken thus in his consciousness of being the great expert of his department. He had gone even so far as to utter words which true wisdom would have kept back. But Chief Inspector Heat was not very wise—at least not truly so. True wisdom, which is not certain of anything in this world of contradictions, would have prevented him from attaining his present position. It would have alarmed his superiors, and done away with his chances of promotion. His promotion had been very rapid. “There isn’t one of them, sir, that we couldn’t lay our hands on at any time of night and day. We know what each of them is doing hour by hour,” he had declared. And the high official had deigned to smile. This was so obviously the right thing to say for an officer of Chief Inspector Heat’s reputation that it was perfectly delightful. The high official believed the declaration, which chimed in with his idea of the fitness of things. His wisdom was of an official kind, or else he might have reflected upon a matter not of theory but of experience that in the close-woven stuff of relations between conspirator and police there occur unexpected solutions of continuity, sudden holes in space and time. A given anarchist may be watched inch by inch and minute by minute, but a moment always comes when somehow all sight and touch of him are lost for a few hours, during which something (generally an explosion) more or less deplorable does happen. But the high official, carried away by his sense of the fitness of things, had smiled, and now the recollection of that smile was very annoying to Chief Inspector Heat, principal expert in anarchist procedure. This was not the only circumstance whose recollection depressed the usual serenity of the eminent specialist. There was another dating back only to that very morning. The thought that when called urgently to his Assistant Commissioner’s private room he had been unable to conceal his astonishment was distinctly vexing. His instinct of a successful man had taught him long ago that, as a general rule, a reputation is built on manner as much as on achievement. And he felt that his manner when confronted with the telegram had not been impressive. He had opened his eyes widely, and had exclaimed “Impossible!” exposing himself thereby to the unanswerable retort of a finger-tip laid forcibly on the telegram which the Assistant Commissioner, after reading it aloud, had flung on the desk. To be crushed, as it were, under the tip of a forefinger was an unpleasant experience. Very damaging, too! Furthermore, Chief Inspector Heat was conscious of not having mended matters by allowing himself to express a conviction. “One thing I can tell you at once: none of our lot had anything to do with this.” He was strong in his integrity of a good detective, but he saw now that an impenetrably attentive reserve towards this incident would have served his reputation better. On the other hand, he admitted to himself that it was difficult to preserve one’s reputation if rank outsiders were going to take a hand in the business. Outsiders are the bane of the police as of other professions. The tone of the Assistant Commissioner’s remarks had been sour enough to set one’s teeth on edge. And since breakfast Chief Inspector Heat had not managed to get anything to eat. Starting immediately to begin his investigation on the spot, he had swallowed a good deal of raw, unwholesome fog in the park. Then he had walked over to the hospital; and when the investigation in Greenwich was concluded at last he had lost his inclination for food. Not accustomed, as the doctors are, to examine closely the mangled remains of human beings, he had been shocked by the sight disclosed to his view when a waterproof sheet had been lifted off a table in a certain apartment of the hospital. Another waterproof sheet was spread over that table in the manner of a table-cloth, with the corners turned up over a sort of mound—a heap of rags, scorched and bloodstained, half concealing what might have been an accumulation of raw material for a cannibal feast. It required considerable firmness of mind not to recoil before that sight. Chief Inspector Heat, an efficient officer of his department, stood his ground, but for a whole minute he did not advance. A local constable in uniform cast a sidelong glance, and said, with stolid simplicity: “He’s all there. Every bit of him. It was a job.” He had been the first man on the spot after the explosion. He mentioned the fact again. He had seen something like a heavy flash of lightning in the fog. At that time he was standing at the door of the King William Street Lodge talking to the keeper. The concussion made him tingle all over. He ran between the trees towards the Observatory. “As fast as my legs would carry me,” he repeated twice. Chief Inspector Heat, bending forward over the table in a gingerly and horrified manner, let him run on. The hospital porter and another man turned down the corners of the cloth, and stepped aside. The Chief Inspector’s eyes searched the gruesome detail of that heap of mixed things, which seemed to have been collected in shambles and rag shops. “You used a shovel,” he remarked, observing a sprinkling of small gravel, tiny brown bits of bark, and particles of splintered wood as fine as needles. “Had to in one place,” said the stolid constable. “I sent a keeper to fetch a spade. When he heard me scraping the ground with it he leaned his forehead against a tree, and was as sick as a dog.” The Chief Inspector, stooping guardedly over the table, fought down the unpleasant sensation in his throat. The shattering violence of destruction which had made of that body a heap of nameless fragments affected his feelings with a sense of ruthless cruelty, though his reason told him the effect must have been as swift as a flash of lightning. The man, whoever he was, had died instantaneously; and yet it seemed impossible to believe that a human body could have reached that state of disintegration without passing through the pangs of inconceivable agony. No physiologist, and still less of a metaphysician, Chief Inspector Heat rose by the force of sympathy, which is a form of fear, above the vulgar conception of time. Instantaneous! He remembered all he had ever read in popular publications of long and terrifying dreams dreamed in the instant of waking; of the whole past life lived with frightful intensity by a drowning man as his doomed head bobs up, streaming, for the last time. The inexplicable mysteries of conscious existence beset Chief Inspector Heat till he evolved a horrible notion that ages of atrocious pain and mental torture could be contained between two successive winks of an eye. And meantime the Chief Inspector went on, peering at the table with a calm face and the slightly anxious attention of an indigent customer bending over what may be called the by-products of a butcher’s shop with a view to an inexpensive Sunday dinner. All the time his trained faculties of an excellent investigator, who scorns no chance of information, followed the self-satisfied, disjointed loquacity of the constable. “A fair-haired fellow,” the last observed in a placid tone, and paused. “The old woman who spoke to the sergeant noticed a fair-haired fellow coming out of Maze Hill Station.” He paused. “And he was a fair-haired fellow. She noticed two men coming out of the station after the uptrain had gone on,” he continued slowly. “She couldn’t tell if they were together. She took no particular notice of the big one, but the other was a fair, slight chap, carrying a tin varnish can in one hand.” The constable ceased. “Know the woman?” muttered the Chief Inspector, with his eyes fixed on the table, and a vague notion in his mind of an inquest to be held presently upon a person likely to remain for ever unknown. “Yes. She’s housekeeper to a retired publican, and attends the chapel in Park Place sometimes,” the constable uttered weightily, and paused, with another oblique glance at the table. Then suddenly: “Well, here he is—all of him I could see. Fair. Slight—slight enough. Look at that foot there. I picked up the legs first, one after another. He was that scattered you didn’t know where to begin.” The constable paused; the least flicker of an innocent self-laudatory smile invested his round face with an infantile expression. “Stumbled,” he announced positively. “I stumbled once myself, and pitched on my head too, while running up. Them roots do stick out all about the place. Stumbled against the root of a tree and fell, and that thing he was carrying must have gone off right under his chest, I expect.” The echo of the words “Person unknown” repeating itself in his inner consciousness bothered the Chief Inspector considerably. He would have liked to trace this affair back to its mysterious origin for his own information. He was professionally curious. Before the public he would have liked to vindicate the efficiency of his department by establishing the identity of that man. He was a loyal servant. That, however, appeared impossible. The first term of the problem was unreadable—lacked all suggestion but that of atrocious cruelty. Overcoming his physical repugnance, Chief Inspector Heat stretched out his hand without conviction for the salving of his conscience, and took up the least soiled of the rags. It was a narrow strip of velvet with a larger triangular piece of dark blue cloth hanging from it. He held it up to his eyes; and the police constable spoke. “Velvet collar. Funny the old woman should have noticed the velvet collar. Dark blue overcoat with a velvet collar, she has told us. He was the chap she saw, and no mistake. And here he is all complete, velvet collar and all. I don’t think I missed a single piece as big as a postage stamp.” At this point the trained faculties of the Chief Inspector ceased to hear the voice of the constable. He moved to one of the windows for better light. His face, averted from the room, expressed a startled intense interest while he examined closely the triangular piece of broad-cloth. By a sudden jerk he detached it, and _only_ after stuffing it into his pocket turned round to the room, and flung the velvet collar back on the table— “Cover up,” he directed the attendants curtly, without another look, and, saluted by the constable, carried off his spoil hastily. A convenient train whirled him up to town, alone and pondering deeply, in a third-class compartment. That singed piece of cloth was incredibly valuable, and he could not defend himself from astonishment at the casual manner it had come into his possession. It was as if Fate had thrust that clue into his hands. And after the manner of the average man, whose ambition is to command events, he began to mistrust such a gratuitous and accidental success—just because it seemed forced upon him. The practical value of success depends not a little on the way you look at it. But Fate looks at nothing. It has no discretion. He no longer considered it eminently desirable all round to establish publicly the identity of the man who had blown himself up that morning with such horrible completeness. But he was not certain of the view his department would take. A department is to those it employs a complex personality with ideas and even fads of its own. It depends on the loyal devotion of its servants, and the devoted loyalty of trusted servants is associated with a certain amount of affectionate contempt, which keeps it sweet, as it were. By a benevolent provision of Nature no man is a hero to his valet, or else the heroes would have to brush their own clothes. Likewise no department appears perfectly wise to the intimacy of its workers. A department does not know so much as some of its servants. Being a dispassionate organism, it can never be perfectly informed. It would not be good for its efficiency to know too much. Chief Inspector Heat got out of the train in a state of thoughtfulness entirely untainted with disloyalty, but not quite free of that jealous mistrust which so often springs on the ground of perfect devotion, whether to women or to institutions. It was in this mental disposition, physically very empty, but still nauseated by what he had seen, that he had come upon the Professor. Under these conditions which make for irascibility in a sound, normal man, this meeting was specially unwelcome to Chief Inspector Heat. He had not been thinking of the Professor; he had not been thinking of any individual anarchist at all. The complexion of that case had somehow forced upon him the general idea of the absurdity of things human, which in the abstract is sufficiently annoying to an unphilosophical temperament, and in concrete instances becomes exasperating beyond endurance. At the beginning of his career Chief Inspector Heat had been concerned with the more energetic forms of thieving. He had gained his spurs in that sphere, and naturally enough had kept for it, after his promotion to another department, a feeling not very far removed from affection. Thieving was not a sheer absurdity. It was a form of human industry, perverse indeed, but still an industry exercised in an industrious world; it was work undertaken for the same reason as the work in potteries, in coal mines, in fields, in tool-grinding shops. It was labour, whose practical difference from the other forms of labour consisted in the nature of its risk, which did not lie in ankylosis, or lead poisoning, or fire-damp, or gritty dust, but in what may be briefly defined in its own special phraseology as “Seven years hard.” Chief Inspector Heat was, of course, not insensible to the gravity of moral differences. But neither were the thieves he had been looking after. They submitted to the severe sanctions of a morality familiar to Chief Inspector Heat with a certain resignation. They were his fellow-citizens gone wrong because of imperfect education, Chief Inspector Heat believed; but allowing for that difference, he could understand the mind of a burglar, because, as a matter of fact, the mind and the instincts of a burglar are of the same kind as the mind and the instincts of a police officer. Both recognise the same conventions, and have a working knowledge of each other’s methods and of the routine of their respective trades. They understand each other, which is advantageous to both, and establishes a sort of amenity in their relations. Products of the same machine, one classed as useful and the other as noxious, they take the machine for granted in different ways, but with a seriousness essentially the same. The mind of Chief Inspector Heat was inaccessible to ideas of revolt. But his thieves were not rebels. His bodily vigour, his cool inflexible manner, his courage and his fairness, had secured for him much respect and some adulation in the sphere of his early successes. He had felt himself revered and admired. And Chief Inspector Heat, arrested within six paces of the anarchist nick-named the Professor, gave a thought of regret to the world of thieves—sane, without morbid ideals, working by routine, respectful of constituted authorities, free from all taint of hate and despair. After paying this tribute to what is normal in the constitution of society (for the idea of thieving appeared to his instinct as normal as the idea of property), Chief Inspector Heat felt very angry with himself for having stopped, for having spoken, for having taken that way at all on the ground of it being a short cut from the station to the headquarters. And he spoke again in his big authoritative voice, which, being moderated, had a threatening character. “You are not wanted, I tell you,” he repeated. The anarchist did not stir. An inward laugh of derision uncovered not only his teeth but his gums as well, shook him all over, without the slightest sound. Chief Inspector Heat was led to add, against his better judgment: “Not yet. When I want you I will know where to find you.” Those were perfectly proper words, within the tradition and suitable to his character of a police officer addressing one of his special flock. But the reception they got departed from tradition and propriety. It was outrageous. The stunted, weakly figure before him spoke at last. “I’ve no doubt the papers would give you an obituary notice then. You know best what that would be worth to you. I should think you can imagine easily the sort of stuff that would be printed. But you may be exposed to the unpleasantness of being buried together with me, though I suppose your friends would make an effort to sort us out as much as possible.” With all his healthy contempt for the spirit dictating such speeches, the atrocious allusiveness of the words had its effect on Chief Inspector Heat. He had too much insight, and too much exact information as well, to dismiss them as rot. The dusk of this narrow lane took on a sinister tint from the dark, frail little figure, its back to the wall, and speaking with a weak, self-confident voice. To the vigorous, tenacious vitality of the Chief Inspector, the physical wretchedness of that being, so obviously not fit to live, was ominous; for it seemed to him that if he had the misfortune to be such a miserable object he would not have cared how soon he died. Life had such a strong hold upon him that a fresh wave of nausea broke out in slight perspiration upon his brow. The murmur of town life, the subdued rumble of wheels in the two invisible streets to the right and left, came through the curve of the sordid lane to his ears with a precious familiarity and an appealing sweetness. He was human. But Chief Inspector Heat was also a man, and he could not let such words pass. “All this is good to frighten children with,” he said. “I’ll have you yet.” It was very well said, without scorn, with an almost austere quietness. “Doubtless,” was the answer; “but there’s no time like the present, believe me. For a man of real convictions this is a fine opportunity of self-sacrifice. You may not find another so favourable, so humane. There isn’t even a cat near us, and these condemned old houses would make a good heap of bricks where you stand. You’ll never get me at so little cost to life and property, which you are paid to protect.” “You don’t know who you’re speaking to,” said Chief Inspector Heat firmly. “If I were to lay my hands on you now I would be no better than yourself.” “Ah! The game!’ “You may be sure our side will win in the end. It may yet be necessary to make people believe that some of you ought to be shot at sight like mad dogs. Then that will be the game. But I’ll be damned if I know what yours is. I don’t believe you know yourselves. You’ll never get anything by it.” “Meantime it’s you who get something from it—so far. And you get it easily, too. I won’t speak of your salary, but haven’t you made your name simply by not understanding what we are after?” “What are you after, then?” asked Chief Inspector Heat, with scornful haste, like a man in a hurry who perceives he is wasting his time. The perfect anarchist answered by a smile which did not part his thin colourless lips; and the celebrated Chief Inspector felt a sense of superiority which induced him to raise a warning finger. “Give it up—whatever it is,” he said in an admonishing tone, but not so kindly as if he were condescending to give good advice to a cracksman of repute. “Give it up. You’ll find we are too many for you.” The fixed smile on the Professor’s lips wavered, as if the mocking spirit within had lost its assurance. Chief Inspector Heat went on: “Don’t you believe me eh? Well, you’ve only got to look about you. We are. And anyway, you’re not doing it well. You’re always making a mess of it. Why, if the thieves didn’t know their work better they would starve.” The hint of an invincible multitude behind that man’s back roused a sombre indignation in the breast of the Professor. He smiled no longer his enigmatic and mocking smile. The resisting power of numbers, the unattackable stolidity of a great multitude, was the haunting fear of his sinister loneliness. His lips trembled for some time before he managed to say in a strangled voice: “I am doing my work better than you’re doing yours.” “That’ll do now,” interrupted Chief Inspector Heat hurriedly; and the Professor laughed right out this time. While still laughing he moved on; but he did not laugh long. It was a sad-faced, miserable little man who emerged from the narrow passage into the bustle of the broad thoroughfare. He walked with the nerveless gait of a tramp going on, still going on, indifferent to rain or sun in a sinister detachment from the aspects of sky and earth. Chief Inspector Heat, on the other hand, after watching him for a while, stepped out with the purposeful briskness of a man disregarding indeed the inclemencies of the weather, but conscious of having an authorised mission on this earth and the moral support of his kind. All the inhabitants of the immense town, the population of the whole country, and even the teeming millions struggling upon the planet, were with him—down to the very thieves and mendicants. Yes, the thieves themselves were sure to be with him in his present work. The consciousness of universal support in his general activity heartened him to grapple with the particular problem. The problem immediately before the Chief Inspector was that of managing the Assistant Commissioner of his department, his immediate superior. This is the perennial problem of trusty and loyal servants; anarchism gave it its particular complexion, but nothing more. Truth to say, Chief Inspector Heat thought but little of anarchism. He did not attach undue importance to it, and could never bring himself to consider it seriously. It had more the character of disorderly conduct; disorderly without the human excuse of drunkenness, which at any rate implies good feeling and an amiable leaning towards festivity. As criminals, anarchists were distinctly no class—no class at all. And recalling the Professor, Chief Inspector Heat, without checking his swinging pace, muttered through his teeth: “Lunatic.” Catching thieves was another matter altogether. It had that quality of seriousness belonging to every form of open sport where the best man wins under perfectly comprehensible rules. There were no rules for dealing with anarchists. And that was distasteful to the Chief Inspector. It was all foolishness, but that foolishness excited the public mind, affected persons in high places, and touched upon international relations. A hard, merciless contempt settled rigidly on the Chief Inspector’s face as he walked on. His mind ran over all the anarchists of his flock. Not one of them had half the spunk of this or that burglar he had known. Not half—not one-tenth. At headquarters the Chief Inspector was admitted at once to the Assistant Commissioner’s private room. He found him, pen in hand, bent over a great table bestrewn with papers, as if worshipping an enormous double inkstand of bronze and crystal. Speaking tubes resembling snakes were tied by the heads to the back of the Assistant Commissioner’s wooden arm-chair, and their gaping mouths seemed ready to bite his elbows. And in this attitude he raised only his eyes, whose lids were darker than his face and very much creased. The reports had come in: every anarchist had been exactly accounted for. After saying this he lowered his eyes, signed rapidly two single sheets of paper, and only then laid down his pen, and sat well back, directing an inquiring gaze at his renowned subordinate. The Chief Inspector stood it well, deferential but inscrutable. “I daresay you were right,” said the Assistant Commissioner, “in telling me at first that the London anarchists had nothing to do with this. I quite appreciate the excellent watch kept on them by your men. On the other hand, this, for the public, does not amount to more than a confession of ignorance.” The Assistant Commissioner’s delivery was leisurely, as it were cautious. His thought seemed to rest poised on a word before passing to another, as though words had been the stepping-stones for his intellect picking its way across the waters of error. “Unless you have brought something useful from Greenwich,” he added. The Chief Inspector began at once the account of his investigation in a clear matter-of-fact manner. His superior turning his chair a little, and crossing his thin legs, leaned sideways on his elbow, with one hand shading his eyes. His listening attitude had a sort of angular and sorrowful grace. Gleams as of highly burnished silver played on the sides of his ebony black head when he inclined it slowly at the end. Chief Inspector Heat waited with the appearance of turning over in his mind all he had just said, but, as a matter of fact, considering the advisability of saying something more. The Assistant Commissioner cut his hesitation short. “You believe there were two men?” he asked, without uncovering his eyes. The Chief Inspector thought it more than probable. In his opinion, the two men had parted from each other within a hundred yards from the Observatory walls. He explained also how the other man could have got out of the park speedily without being observed. The fog, though not very dense, was in his favour. He seemed to have escorted the other to the spot, and then to have left him there to do the job single-handed. Taking the time those two were seen coming out of Maze Hill Station by the old woman, and the time when the explosion was heard, the Chief Inspector thought that the other man might have been actually at the Greenwich Park Station, ready to catch the next train up, at the moment his comrade was destroying himself so thoroughly. “Very thoroughly—eh?” murmured the Assistant Commissioner from under the shadow of his hand. The Chief Inspector in a few vigorous words described the aspect of the remains. “The coroner’s jury will have a treat,” he added grimly. The Assistant Commissioner uncovered his eyes. “We shall have nothing to tell them,” he remarked languidly. He looked up, and for a time watched the markedly non-committal attitude of his Chief Inspector. His nature was one that is not easily accessible to illusions. He knew that a department is at the mercy of its subordinate officers, who have their own conceptions of loyalty. His career had begun in a tropical colony. He had liked his work there. It was police work. He had been very successful in tracking and breaking up certain nefarious secret societies amongst the natives. Then he took his long leave, and got married rather impulsively. It was a good match from a worldly point of view, but his wife formed an unfavourable opinion of the colonial climate on hearsay evidence. On the other hand, she had influential connections. It was an excellent match. But he did not like the work he had to do now. He felt himself dependent on too many subordinates and too many masters. The near presence of that strange emotional phenomenon called public opinion weighed upon his spirits, and alarmed him by its irrational nature. No doubt that from ignorance he exaggerated to himself its power for good and evil—especially for evil; and the rough east winds of the English spring (which agreed with his wife) augmented his general mistrust of men’s motives and of the efficiency of their organisation. The futility of office work especially appalled him on those days so trying to his sensitive liver. He got up, unfolding himself to his full height, and with a heaviness of step remarkable in so slender a man, moved across the room to the window. The panes streamed with rain, and the short street he looked down into lay wet and empty, as if swept clear suddenly by a great flood. It was a very trying day, choked in raw fog to begin with, and now drowned in cold rain. The flickering, blurred flames of gas-lamps seemed to be dissolving in a watery atmosphere. And the lofty pretensions of a mankind oppressed by the miserable indignities of the weather appeared as a colossal and hopeless vanity deserving of scorn, wonder, and compassion. “Horrible, horrible!” thought the Assistant Commissioner to himself, with his face near the window-pane. “We have been having this sort of thing now for ten days; no, a fortnight—a fortnight.” He ceased to think completely for a time. That utter stillness of his brain lasted about three seconds. Then he said perfunctorily: “You have set inquiries on foot for tracing that other man up and down the line?” He had no doubt that everything needful had been done. Chief Inspector Heat knew, of course, thoroughly the business of man-hunting. And these were the routine steps, too, that would be taken as a matter of course by the merest beginner. A few inquiries amongst the ticket collectors and the porters of the two small railway stations would give additional details as to the appearance of the two men; the inspection of the collected tickets would show at once where they came from that morning. It was elementary, and could not have been neglected. Accordingly the Chief Inspector answered that all this had been done directly the old woman had come forward with her deposition. And he mentioned the name of a station. “That’s where they came from, sir,” he went on. “The porter who took the tickets at Maze Hill remembers two chaps answering to the description passing the barrier. They seemed to him two respectable working men of a superior sort—sign painters or house decorators. The big man got out of a third-class compartment backward, with a bright tin can in his hand. On the platform he gave it to carry to the fair young fellow who followed him. All this agrees exactly with what the old woman told the police sergeant in Greenwich.” The Assistant Commissioner, still with his face turned to the window, expressed his doubt as to these two men having had anything to do with the outrage. All this theory rested upon the utterances of an old charwoman who had been nearly knocked down by a man in a hurry. Not a very substantial authority indeed, unless on the ground of sudden inspiration, which was hardly tenable. “Frankly now, could she have been really inspired?” he queried, with grave irony, keeping his back to the room, as if entranced by the contemplation of the town’s colossal forms half lost in the night. He did not even look round when he heard the mutter of the word “Providential” from the principal subordinate of his department, whose name, printed sometimes in the papers, was familiar to the great public as that of one of its zealous and hard-working protectors. Chief Inspector Heat raised his voice a little. “Strips and bits of bright tin were quite visible to me,” he said. “That’s a pretty good corroboration.” “And these men came from that little country station,” the Assistant Commissioner mused aloud, wondering. He was told that such was the name on two tickets out of three given up out of that train at Maze Hill. The third person who got out was a hawker from Gravesend well known to the porters. The Chief Inspector imparted that information in a tone of finality with some ill humour, as loyal servants will do in the consciousness of their fidelity and with the sense of the value of their loyal exertions. And still the Assistant Commissioner did not turn away from the darkness outside, as vast as a sea. “Two foreign anarchists coming from that place,” he said, apparently to the window-pane. “It’s rather unaccountable.”’ “Yes, sir. But it would be still more unaccountable if that Michaelis weren’t staying in a cottage in the neighbourhood.” At the sound of that name, falling unexpectedly into this annoying affair, the Assistant Commissioner dismissed brusquely the vague remembrance of his daily whist party at his club. It was the most comforting habit of his life, in a mainly successful display of his skill without the assistance of any subordinate. He entered his club to play from five to seven, before going home to dinner, forgetting for those two hours whatever was distasteful in his life, as though the game were a beneficent drug for allaying the pangs of moral discontent. His partners were the gloomily humorous editor of a celebrated magazine; a silent, elderly barrister with malicious little eyes; and a highly martial, simple-minded old Colonel with nervous brown hands. They were his club acquaintances merely. He never met them elsewhere except at the card-table. But they all seemed to approach the game in the spirit of co-sufferers, as if it were indeed a drug against the secret ills of existence; and every day as the sun declined over the countless roofs of the town, a mellow, pleasurable impatience, resembling the impulse of a sure and profound friendship, lightened his professional labours. And now this pleasurable sensation went out of him with something resembling a physical shock, and was replaced by a special kind of interest in his work of social protection—an improper sort of interest, which may be defined best as a sudden and alert mistrust of the weapon in his hand. CHAPTER VI The lady patroness of Michaelis, the ticket-of-leave apostle of humanitarian hopes, was one of the most influential and distinguished connections of the Assistant Commissioner’s wife, whom she called Annie, and treated still rather as a not very wise and utterly inexperienced young girl. But she had consented to accept him on a friendly footing, which was by no means the case with all of his wife’s influential connections. Married young and splendidly at some remote epoch of the past, she had had for a time a close view of great affairs and even of some great men. She herself was a great lady. Old now in the number of her years, she had that sort of exceptional temperament which defies time with scornful disregard, as if it were a rather vulgar convention submitted to by the mass of inferior mankind. Many other conventions easier to set aside, alas! failed to obtain her recognition, also on temperamental grounds—either because they bored her, or else because they stood in the way of her scorns and sympathies. Admiration was a sentiment unknown to her (it was one of the secret griefs of her most noble husband against her)—first, as always more or less tainted with mediocrity, and next as being in a way an admission of inferiority. And both were frankly inconceivable to her nature. To be fearlessly outspoken in her opinions came easily to her, since she judged solely from the standpoint of her social position. She was equally untrammelled in her actions; and as her tactfulness proceeded from genuine humanity, her bodily vigour remained remarkable and her superiority was serene and cordial, three generations had admired her infinitely, and the last she was likely to see had pronounced her a wonderful woman. Meantime intelligent, with a sort of lofty simplicity, and curious at heart, but not like many women merely of social gossip, she amused her age by attracting within her ken through the power of her great, almost historical, social prestige everything that rose above the dead level of mankind, lawfully or unlawfully, by position, wit, audacity, fortune or misfortune. Royal Highnesses, artists, men of science, young statesmen, and charlatans of all ages and conditions, who, unsubstantial and light, bobbing up like corks, show best the direction of the surface currents, had been welcomed in that house, listened to, penetrated, understood, appraised, for her own edification. In her own words, she liked to watch what the world was coming to. And as she had a practical mind her judgment of men and things, though based on special prejudices, was seldom totally wrong, and almost never wrong-headed. Her drawing-room was probably the only place in the wide world where an Assistant Commissioner of Police could meet a convict liberated on a ticket-of-leave on other than professional and official ground. Who had brought Michaelis there one afternoon the Assistant Commissioner did not remember very well. He had a notion it must have been a certain Member of Parliament of illustrious parentage and unconventional sympathies, which were the standing joke of the comic papers. The notabilities and even the simple notorieties of the day brought each other freely to that temple of an old woman’s not ignoble curiosity. You never could guess whom you were likely to come upon being received in semi-privacy within the faded blue silk and gilt frame screen, making a cosy nook for a couch and a few arm-chairs in the great drawing-room, with its hum of voices and the groups of people seated or standing in the light of six tall windows. Michaelis had been the object of a revulsion of popular sentiment, the same sentiment which years ago had applauded the ferocity of the life sentence passed upon him for complicity in a rather mad attempt to rescue some prisoners from a police van. The plan of the conspirators had been to shoot down the horses and overpower the escort. Unfortunately, one of the police constables got shot too. He left a wife and three small children, and the death of that man aroused through the length and breadth of a realm for whose defence, welfare, and glory men die every day as matter of duty, an outburst of furious indignation, of a raging implacable pity for the victim. Three ring-leaders got hanged. Michaelis, young and slim, locksmith by trade, and great frequenter of evening schools, did not even know that anybody had been killed, his part with a few others being to force open the door at the back of the special conveyance. When arrested he had a bunch of skeleton keys in one pocket, a heavy chisel in another, and a short crowbar in his hand: neither more nor less than a burglar. But no burglar would have received such a heavy sentence. The death of the constable had made him miserable at heart, but the failure of the plot also. He did not conceal either of these sentiments from his empanelled countrymen, and that sort of compunction appeared shockingly imperfect to the crammed court. The judge on passing sentence commented feelingly upon the depravity and callousness of the young prisoner. That made the groundless fame of his condemnation; the fame of his release was made for him on no better grounds by people who wished to exploit the sentimental aspect of his imprisonment either for purposes of their own or for no intelligible purpose. He let them do so in the innocence of his heart and the simplicity of his mind. Nothing that happened to him individually had any importance. He was like those saintly men whose personality is lost in the contemplation of their faith. His ideas were not in the nature of convictions. They were inaccessible to reasoning. They formed in all their contradictions and obscurities an invincible and humanitarian creed, which he confessed rather than preached, with an obstinate gentleness, a smile of pacific assurance on his lips, and his candid blue eyes cast down because the sight of faces troubled his inspiration developed in solitude. In that characteristic attitude, pathetic in his grotesque and incurable obesity which he had to drag like a galley slave’s bullet to the end of his days, the Assistant Commissioner of Police beheld the ticket-of-leave apostle filling a privileged arm-chair within the screen. He sat there by the head of the old lady’s couch, mild-voiced and quiet, with no more self-consciousness than a very small child, and with something of a child’s charm—the appealing charm of trustfulness. Confident of the future, whose secret ways had been revealed to him within the four walls of a well-known penitentiary, he had no reason to look with suspicion upon anybody. If he could not give the great and curious lady a very definite idea as to what the world was coming to, he had managed without effort to impress her by his unembittered faith, by the sterling quality of his optimism. A certain simplicity of thought is common to serene souls at both ends of the social scale. The great lady was simple in her own way. His views and beliefs had nothing in them to shock or startle her, since she judged them from the standpoint of her lofty position. Indeed, her sympathies were easily accessible to a man of that sort. She was not an exploiting capitalist herself; she was, as it were, above the play of economic conditions. And she had a great capacity of pity for the more obvious forms of common human miseries, precisely because she was such a complete stranger to them that she had to translate her conception into terms of mental suffering before she could grasp the notion of their cruelty. The Assistant Commissioner remembered very well the conversation between these two. He had listened in silence. It was something as exciting in a way, and even touching in its foredoomed futility, as the efforts at moral intercourse between the inhabitants of remote planets. But this grotesque incarnation of humanitarian passion appealed somehow, to one’s imagination. At last Michaelis rose, and taking the great lady’s extended hand, shook it, retained it for a moment in his great cushioned palm with unembarrassed friendliness, and turned upon the semi-private nook of the drawing-room his back, vast and square, and as if distended under the short tweed jacket. Glancing about in serene benevolence, he waddled along to the distant door between the knots of other visitors. The murmur of conversations paused on his passage. He smiled innocently at a tall, brilliant girl, whose eyes met his accidentally, and went out unconscious of the glances following him across the room. Michaelis’ first appearance in the world was a success—a success of esteem unmarred by a single murmur of derision. The interrupted conversations were resumed in their proper tone, grave or light. Only a well-set-up, long-limbed, active-looking man of forty talking with two ladies near a window remarked aloud, with an unexpected depth of feeling: “Eighteen stone, I should say, and not five foot six. Poor fellow! It’s terrible—terrible.” The lady of the house, gazing absently at the Assistant Commissioner, left alone with her on the private side of the screen, seemed to be rearranging her mental impressions behind her thoughtful immobility of a handsome old face. Men with grey moustaches and full, healthy, vaguely smiling countenances approached, circling round the screen; two mature women with a matronly air of gracious resolution; a clean-shaved individual with sunken cheeks, and dangling a gold-mounted eyeglass on a broad black ribbon with an old-world, dandified effect. A silence deferential, but full of reserves, reigned for a moment, and then the great lady exclaimed, not with resentment, but with a sort of protesting indignation: “And that officially is supposed to be a revolutionist! What nonsense.” She looked hard at the Assistant Commissioner, who murmured apologetically: “Not a dangerous one perhaps.” “Not dangerous—I should think not indeed. He is a mere believer. It’s the temperament of a saint,” declared the great lady in a firm tone. “And they kept him shut up for twenty years. One shudders at the stupidity of it. And now they have let him out everybody belonging to him is gone away somewhere or dead. His parents are dead; the girl he was to marry has died while he was in prison; he has lost the skill necessary for his manual occupation. He told me all this himself with the sweetest patience; but then, he said, he had had plenty of time to think out things for himself. A pretty compensation! If that’s the stuff revolutionists are made of some of us may well go on their knees to them,” she continued in a slightly bantering voice, while the banal society smiles hardened on the worldly faces turned towards her with conventional deference. “The poor creature is obviously no longer in a position to take care of himself. Somebody will have to look after him a little.” “He should be recommended to follow a treatment of some sort,” the soldierly voice of the active-looking man was heard advising earnestly from a distance. He was in the pink of condition for his age, and even the texture of his long frock coat had a character of elastic soundness, as if it were a living tissue. “The man is virtually a cripple,” he added with unmistakable feeling. Other voices, as if glad of the opening, murmured hasty compassion. “Quite startling,” “Monstrous,” “Most painful to see.” The lank man, with the eyeglass on a broad ribbon, pronounced mincingly the word “Grotesque,” whose justness was appreciated by those standing near him. They smiled at each other. The Assistant Commissioner had expressed no opinion either then or later, his position making it impossible for him to ventilate any independent view of a ticket-of-leave convict. But, in truth, he shared the view of his wife’s friend and patron that Michaelis was a humanitarian sentimentalist, a little mad, but upon the whole incapable of hurting a fly intentionally. So when that name cropped up suddenly in this vexing bomb affair he realised all the danger of it for the ticket-of-leave apostle, and his mind reverted at once to the old lady’s well-established infatuation. Her arbitrary kindness would not brook patiently any interference with Michaelis’ freedom. It was a deep, calm, convinced infatuation. She had not only felt him to be inoffensive, but she had said so, which last by a confusion of her absolutist mind became a sort of incontrovertible demonstration. It was as if the monstrosity of the man, with his candid infant’s eyes and a fat angelic smile, had fascinated her. She had come to believe almost his theory of the future, since it was not repugnant to her prejudices. She disliked the new element of plutocracy in the social compound, and industrialism as a method of human development appeared to her singularly repulsive in its mechanical and unfeeling character. The humanitarian hopes of the mild Michaelis tended not towards utter destruction, but merely towards the complete economic ruin of the system. And she did not really see where was the moral harm of it. It would do away with all the multitude of the “parvenus,” whom she disliked and mistrusted, not because they had arrived anywhere (she denied that), but because of their profound unintelligence of the world, which was the primary cause of the crudity of their perceptions and the aridity of their hearts. With the annihilation of all capital they would vanish too; but universal ruin (providing it was universal, as it was revealed to Michaelis) would leave the social values untouched. The disappearance of the last piece of money could not affect people of position. She could not conceive how it could affect her position, for instance. She had developed these discoveries to the Assistant Commissioner with all the serene fearlessness of an old woman who had escaped the blight of indifference. He had made for himself the rule to receive everything of that sort in a silence which he took care from policy and inclination not to make offensive. He had an affection for the aged disciple of Michaelis, a complex sentiment depending a little on her prestige, on her personality, but most of all on the instinct of flattered gratitude. He felt himself really liked in her house. She was kindness personified. And she was practically wise too, after the manner of experienced women. She made his married life much easier than it would have been without her generously full recognition of his rights as Annie’s husband. Her influence upon his wife, a woman devoured by all sorts of small selfishnesses, small envies, small jealousies, was excellent. Unfortunately, both her kindness and her wisdom were of unreasonable complexion, distinctly feminine, and difficult to deal with. She remained a perfect woman all along her full tale of years, and not as some of them do become—a sort of slippery, pestilential old man in petticoats. And it was as of a woman that he thought of her—the specially choice incarnation of the feminine, wherein is recruited the tender, ingenuous, and fierce bodyguard for all sorts of men who talk under the influence of an emotion, true or fraudulent; for preachers, seers, prophets, or reformers. Appreciating the distinguished and good friend of his wife, and himself, in that way, the Assistant Commissioner became alarmed at the convict Michaelis’ possible fate. Once arrested on suspicion of being in some way, however remote, a party to this outrage, the man could hardly escape being sent back to finish his sentence at least. And that would kill him; he would never come out alive. The Assistant Commissioner made a reflection extremely unbecoming his official position without being really creditable to his humanity. “If the fellow is laid hold of again,” he thought, “she will never forgive me.” The frankness of such a secretly outspoken thought could not go without some derisive self-criticism. No man engaged in a work he does not like can preserve many saving illusions about himself. The distaste, the absence of glamour, extend from the occupation to the personality. It is only when our appointed activities seem by a lucky accident to obey the particular earnestness of our temperament that we can taste the comfort of complete self-deception. The Assistant Commissioner did not like his work at home. The police work he had been engaged on in a distant part of the globe had the saving character of an irregular sort of warfare or at least the risk and excitement of open-air sport. His real abilities, which were mainly of an administrative order, were combined with an adventurous disposition. Chained to a desk in the thick of four millions of men, he considered himself the victim of an ironic fate—the same, no doubt, which had brought about his marriage with a woman exceptionally sensitive in the matter of colonial climate, besides other limitations testifying to the delicacy of her nature—and her tastes. Though he judged his alarm sardonically he did not dismiss the improper thought from his mind. The instinct of self-preservation was strong within him. On the contrary, he repeated it mentally with profane emphasis and a fuller precision: “Damn it! If that infernal Heat has his way the fellow’ll die in prison smothered in his fat, and she’ll never forgive me.” His black, narrow figure, with the white band of the collar under the silvery gleams on the close-cropped hair at the back of the head, remained motionless. The silence had lasted such a long time that Chief Inspector Heat ventured to clear his throat. This noise produced its effect. The zealous and intelligent officer was asked by his superior, whose back remained turned to him immovably: “You connect Michaelis with this affair?” Chief Inspector Heat was very positive, but cautious. “Well, sir,” he said, “we have enough to go upon. A man like that has no business to be at large, anyhow.” “You will want some conclusive evidence,” came the observation in a murmur. Chief Inspector Heat raised his eyebrows at the black, narrow back, which remained obstinately presented to his intelligence and his zeal. “There will be no difficulty in getting up sufficient evidence against _him_,” he said, with virtuous complacency. “You may trust me for that, sir,” he added, quite unnecessarily, out of the fulness of his heart; for it seemed to him an excellent thing to have that man in hand to be thrown down to the public should it think fit to roar with any special indignation in this case. It was impossible to say yet whether it would roar or not. That in the last instance depended, of course, on the newspaper press. But in any case, Chief Inspector Heat, purveyor of prisons by trade, and a man of legal instincts, did logically believe that incarceration was the proper fate for every declared enemy of the law. In the strength of that conviction he committed a fault of tact. He allowed himself a little conceited laugh, and repeated: “Trust me for that, sir.” This was too much for the forced calmness under which the Assistant Commissioner had for upwards of eighteen months concealed his irritation with the system and the subordinates of his office. A square peg forced into a round hole, he had felt like a daily outrage that long established smooth roundness into which a man of less sharply angular shape would have fitted himself, with voluptuous acquiescence, after a shrug or two. What he resented most was just the necessity of taking so much on trust. At the little laugh of Chief Inspector Heat’s he spun swiftly on his heels, as if whirled away from the window-pane by an electric shock. He caught on the latter’s face not only the complacency proper to the occasion lurking under the moustache, but the vestiges of experimental watchfulness in the round eyes, which had been, no doubt, fastened on his back, and now met his glance for a second before the intent character of their stare had the time to change to a merely startled appearance. The Assistant Commissioner of Police had really some qualifications for his post. Suddenly his suspicion was awakened. It is but fair to say that his suspicions of the police methods (unless the police happened to be a semi-military body organised by himself) was not difficult to arouse. If it ever slumbered from sheer weariness, it was but lightly; and his appreciation of Chief Inspector Heat’s zeal and ability, moderate in itself, excluded all notion of moral confidence. “He’s up to something,” he exclaimed mentally, and at once became angry. Crossing over to his desk with headlong strides, he sat down violently. “Here I am stuck in a litter of paper,” he reflected, with unreasonable resentment, “supposed to hold all the threads in my hands, and yet I can but hold what is put in my hand, and nothing else. And they can fasten the other ends of the threads where they please.” He raised his head, and turned towards his subordinate a long, meagre face with the accentuated features of an energetic Don Quixote. “Now what is it you’ve got up your sleeve?” The other stared. He stared without winking in a perfect immobility of his round eyes, as he was used to stare at the various members of the criminal class when, after being duly cautioned, they made their statements in the tones of injured innocence, or false simplicity, or sullen resignation. But behind that professional and stony fixity there was some surprise too, for in such a tone, combining nicely the note of contempt and impatience, Chief Inspector Heat, the right-hand man of the department, was not used to be addressed. He began in a procrastinating manner, like a man taken unawares by a new and unexpected experience. “What I’ve got against that man Michaelis you mean, sir?” The Assistant Commissioner watched the bullet head; the points of that Norse rover’s moustache, falling below the line of the heavy jaw; the whole full and pale physiognomy, whose determined character was marred by too much flesh; at the cunning wrinkles radiating from the outer corners of the eyes—and in that purposeful contemplation of the valuable and trusted officer he drew a conviction so sudden that it moved him like an inspiration. “I have reason to think that when you came into this room,” he said in measured tones, “it was not Michaelis who was in your mind; not principally—perhaps not at all.” “You have reason to think, sir?” muttered Chief Inspector Heat, with every appearance of astonishment, which up to a certain point was genuine enough. He had discovered in this affair a delicate and perplexing side, forcing upon the discoverer a certain amount of insincerity—that sort of insincerity which, under the names of skill, prudence, discretion, turns up at one point or another in most human affairs. He felt at the moment like a tight-rope artist might feel if suddenly, in the middle of the performance, the manager of the Music Hall were to rush out of the proper managerial seclusion and begin to shake the rope. Indignation, the sense of moral insecurity engendered by such a treacherous proceeding joined to the immediate apprehension of a broken neck, would, in the colloquial phrase, put him in a state. And there would be also some scandalised concern for his art too, since a man must identify himself with something more tangible than his own personality, and establish his pride somewhere, either in his social position, or in the quality of the work he is obliged to do, or simply in the superiority of the idleness he may be fortunate enough to enjoy. “Yes,” said the Assistant Commissioner; “I have. I do not mean to say that you have not thought of Michaelis at all. But you are giving the fact you’ve mentioned a prominence which strikes me as not quite candid, Inspector Heat. If that is really the track of discovery, why haven’t you followed it up at once, either personally or by sending one of your men to that village?” “Do you think, sir, I have failed in my duty there?” the Chief Inspector asked, in a tone which he sought to make simply reflective. Forced unexpectedly to concentrate his faculties upon the task of preserving his balance, he had seized upon that point, and exposed himself to a rebuke; for, the Assistant Commissioner frowning slightly, observed that this was a very improper remark to make. “But since you’ve made it,” he continued coldly, “I’ll tell you that this is not my meaning.” He paused, with a straight glance of his sunken eyes which was a full equivalent of the unspoken termination “and you know it.” The head of the so-called Special Crimes Department debarred by his position from going out of doors personally in quest of secrets locked up in guilty breasts, had a propensity to exercise his considerable gifts for the detection of incriminating truth upon his own subordinates. That peculiar instinct could hardly be called a weakness. It was natural. He was a born detective. It had unconsciously governed his choice of a career, and if it ever failed him in life it was perhaps in the one exceptional circumstance of his marriage—which was also natural. It fed, since it could not roam abroad, upon the human material which was brought to it in its official seclusion. We can never cease to be ourselves. His elbow on the desk, his thin legs crossed, and nursing his cheek in the palm of his meagre hand, the Assistant Commissioner in charge of the Special Crimes branch was getting hold of the case with growing interest. His Chief Inspector, if not an absolutely worthy foeman of his penetration, was at any rate the most worthy of all within his reach. A mistrust of established reputations was strictly in character with the Assistant Commissioner’s ability as detector. His memory evoked a certain old fat and wealthy native chief in the distant colony whom it was a tradition for the successive Colonial Governors to trust and make much of as a firm friend and supporter of the order and legality established by white men; whereas, when examined sceptically, he was found out to be principally his own good friend, and nobody else’s. Not precisely a traitor, but still a man of many dangerous reservations in his fidelity, caused by a due regard for his own advantage, comfort, and safety. A fellow of some innocence in his naive duplicity, but none the less dangerous. He took some finding out. He was physically a big man, too, and (allowing for the difference of colour, of course) Chief Inspector Heat’s appearance recalled him to the memory of his superior. It was not the eyes nor yet the lips exactly. It was bizarre. But does not Alfred Wallace relate in his famous book on the Malay Archipelago how, amongst the Aru Islanders, he discovered in an old and naked savage with a sooty skin a peculiar resemblance to a dear friend at home? For the first time since he took up his appointment the Assistant Commissioner felt as if he were going to do some real work for his salary. And that was a pleasurable sensation. “I’ll turn him inside out like an old glove,” thought the Assistant Commissioner, with his eyes resting pensively upon Chief Inspector Heat. “No, that was not my thought,” he began again. “There is no doubt about you knowing your business—no doubt at all; and that’s precisely why I—” He stopped short, and changing his tone: “What could you bring up against Michaelis of a definite nature? I mean apart from the fact that the two men under suspicion—you’re certain there were two of them—came last from a railway station within three miles of the village where Michaelis is living now.” “This by itself is enough for us to go upon, sir, with that sort of man,” said the Chief Inspector, with returning composure. The slight approving movement of the Assistant Commissioner’s head went far to pacify the resentful astonishment of the renowned officer. For Chief Inspector Heat was a kind man, an excellent husband, a devoted father; and the public and departmental confidence he enjoyed acting favourably upon an amiable nature, disposed him to feel friendly towards the successive Assistant Commissioners he had seen pass through that very room. There had been three in his time. The first one, a soldierly, abrupt, red-faced person, with white eyebrows and an explosive temper, could be managed with a silken thread. He left on reaching the age limit. The second, a perfect gentleman, knowing his own and everybody else’s place to a nicety, on resigning to take up a higher appointment out of England got decorated for (really) Inspector Heat’s services. To work with him had been a pride and a pleasure. The third, a bit of a dark horse from the first, was at the end of eighteen months something of a dark horse still to the department. Upon the whole Chief Inspector Heat believed him to be in the main harmless—odd-looking, but harmless. He was speaking now, and the Chief Inspector listened with outward deference (which means nothing, being a matter of duty) and inwardly with benevolent toleration. “Michaelis reported himself before leaving London for the country?” “Yes, sir. He did.” “And what may he be doing there?” continued the Assistant Commissioner, who was perfectly informed on that point. Fitted with painful tightness into an old wooden arm-chair, before a worm-eaten oak table in an upstairs room of a four-roomed cottage with a roof of moss-grown tiles, Michaelis was writing night and day in a shaky, slanting hand that “Autobiography of a Prisoner” which was to be like a book of Revelation in the history of mankind. The conditions of confined space, seclusion, and solitude in a small four-roomed cottage were favourable to his inspiration. It was like being in prison, except that one was never disturbed for the odious purpose of taking exercise according to the tyrannical regulations of his old home in the penitentiary. He could not tell whether the sun still shone on the earth or not. The perspiration of the literary labour dropped from his brow. A delightful enthusiasm urged him on. It was the liberation of his inner life, the letting out of his soul into the wide world. And the zeal of his guileless vanity (first awakened by the offer of five hundred pounds from a publisher) seemed something predestined and holy. “It would be, of course, most desirable to be informed exactly,” insisted the Assistant Commissioner uncandidly. Chief Inspector Heat, conscious of renewed irritation at this display of scrupulousness, said that the county police had been notified from the first of Michaelis’ arrival, and that a full report could be obtained in a few hours. A wire to the superintendent— Thus he spoke, rather slowly, while his mind seemed already to be weighing the consequences. A slight knitting of the brow was the outward sign of this. But he was interrupted by a question. “You’ve sent that wire already?” “No, sir,” he answered, as if surprised. The Assistant Commissioner uncrossed his legs suddenly. The briskness of that movement contrasted with the casual way in which he threw out a suggestion. “Would you think that Michaelis had anything to do with the preparation of that bomb, for instance?” The Chief Inspector assumed a reflective manner. “I wouldn’t say so. There’s no necessity to say anything at present. He associates with men who are classed as dangerous. He was made a delegate of the Red Committee less than a year after his release on licence. A sort of compliment, I suppose.” And the Chief Inspector laughed a little angrily, a little scornfully. With a man of that sort scrupulousness was a misplaced and even an illegal sentiment. The celebrity bestowed upon Michaelis on his release two years ago by some emotional journalists in want of special copy had rankled ever since in his breast. It was perfectly legal to arrest that man on the barest suspicion. It was legal and expedient on the face of it. His two former chiefs would have seen the point at once; whereas this one, without saying either yes or no, sat there, as if lost in a dream. Moreover, besides being legal and expedient, the arrest of Michaelis solved a little personal difficulty which worried Chief Inspector Heat somewhat. This difficulty had its bearing upon his reputation, upon his comfort, and even upon the efficient performance of his duties. For, if Michaelis no doubt knew something about this outrage, the Chief Inspector was fairly certain that he did not know too much. This was just as well. He knew much less—the Chief Inspector was positive—than certain other individuals he had in his mind, but whose arrest seemed to him inexpedient, besides being a more complicated matter, on account of the rules of the game. The rules of the game did not protect so much Michaelis, who was an ex-convict. It would be stupid not to take advantage of legal facilities, and the journalists who had written him up with emotional gush would be ready to write him down with emotional indignation. This prospect, viewed with confidence, had the attraction of a personal triumph for Chief Inspector Heat. And deep down in his blameless bosom of an average married citizen, almost unconscious but potent nevertheless, the dislike of being compelled by events to meddle with the desperate ferocity of the Professor had its say. This dislike had been strengthened by the chance meeting in the lane. The encounter did not leave behind with Chief Inspector Heat that satisfactory sense of superiority the members of the police force get from the unofficial but intimate side of their intercourse with the criminal classes, by which the vanity of power is soothed, and the vulgar love of domination over our fellow-creatures is flattered as worthily as it deserves. The perfect anarchist was not recognised as a fellow-creature by Chief Inspector Heat. He was impossible—a mad dog to be left alone. Not that the Chief Inspector was afraid of him; on the contrary, he meant to have him some day. But not yet; he meant to get hold of him in his own time, properly and effectively according to the rules of the game. The present was not the right time for attempting that feat, not the right time for many reasons, personal and of public service. This being the strong feeling of Inspector Heat, it appeared to him just and proper that this affair should be shunted off its obscure and inconvenient track, leading goodness knows where, into a quiet (and lawful) siding called Michaelis. And he repeated, as if reconsidering the suggestion conscientiously: “The bomb. No, I would not say that exactly. We may never find that out. But it’s clear that he is connected with this in some way, which we can find out without much trouble.” His countenance had that look of grave, overbearing indifference once well known and much dreaded by the better sort of thieves. Chief Inspector Heat, though what is called a man, was not a smiling animal. But his inward state was that of satisfaction at the passively receptive attitude of the Assistant Commissioner, who murmured gently: “And you really think that the investigation should be made in that direction?” “I do, sir.” “Quite convinced? “I am, sir. That’s the true line for us to take.” The Assistant Commissioner withdrew the support of his hand from his reclining head with a suddenness that, considering his languid attitude, seemed to menace his whole person with collapse. But, on the contrary, he sat up, extremely alert, behind the great writing-table on which his hand had fallen with the sound of a sharp blow. “What I want to know is what put it out of your head till now.” “Put it out of my head,” repeated the Chief Inspector very slowly. “Yes. Till you were called into this room—you know.” The Chief Inspector felt as if the air between his clothing and his skin had become unpleasantly hot. It was the sensation of an unprecedented and incredible experience. “Of course,” he said, exaggerating the deliberation of his utterance to the utmost limits of possibility, “if there is a reason, of which I know nothing, for not interfering with the convict Michaelis, perhaps it’s just as well I didn’t start the county police after him.” This took such a long time to say that the unflagging attention of the Assistant Commissioner seemed a wonderful feat of endurance. His retort came without delay. “No reason whatever that I know of. Come, Chief Inspector, this finessing with me is highly improper on your part—highly improper. And it’s also unfair, you know. You shouldn’t leave me to puzzle things out for myself like this. Really, I am surprised.” He paused, then added smoothly: “I need scarcely tell you that this conversation is altogether unofficial.” These words were far from pacifying the Chief Inspector. The indignation of a betrayed tight-rope performer was strong within him. In his pride of a trusted servant he was affected by the assurance that the rope was not shaken for the purpose of breaking his neck, as by an exhibition of impudence. As if anybody were afraid! Assistant Commissioners come and go, but a valuable Chief Inspector is not an ephemeral office phenomenon. He was not afraid of getting a broken neck. To have his performance spoiled was more than enough to account for the glow of honest indignation. And as thought is no respecter of persons, the thought of Chief Inspector Heat took a threatening and prophetic shape. “You, my boy,” he said to himself, keeping his round and habitually roving eyes fastened upon the Assistant Commissioner’s face—“you, my boy, you don’t know your place, and your place won’t know you very long either, I bet.” As if in provoking answer to that thought, something like the ghost of an amiable smile passed on the lips of the Assistant Commissioner. His manner was easy and business-like while he persisted in administering another shake to the tight rope. “Let us come now to what you have discovered on the spot, Chief Inspector,” he said. “A fool and his job are soon parted,” went on the train of prophetic thought in Chief Inspector Heat’s head. But it was immediately followed by the reflection that a higher official, even when “fired out” (this was the precise image), has still the time as he flies through the door to launch a nasty kick at the shin-bones of a subordinate. Without softening very much the basilisk nature of his stare, he said impassively: “We are coming to that part of my investigation, sir.” “That’s right. Well, what have you brought away from it?” The Chief Inspector, who had made up his mind to jump off the rope, came to the ground with gloomy frankness. “I’ve brought away an address,” he said, pulling out of his pocket without haste a singed rag of dark blue cloth. “This belongs to the overcoat the fellow who got himself blown to pieces was wearing. Of course, the overcoat may not have been his, and may even have been stolen. But that’s not at all probable if you look at this.” The Chief Inspector, stepping up to the table, smoothed out carefully the rag of blue cloth. He had picked it up from the repulsive heap in the mortuary, because a tailor’s name is found sometimes under the collar. It is not often of much use, but still—He only half expected to find anything useful, but certainly he did not expect to find—not under the collar at all, but stitched carefully on the under side of the lapel—a square piece of calico with an address written on it in marking ink. The Chief Inspector removed his smoothing hand. “I carried it off with me without anybody taking notice,” he said. “I thought it best. It can always be produced if required.” The Assistant Commissioner, rising a little in his chair, pulled the cloth over to his side of the table. He sat looking at it in silence. Only the number 32 and the name of Brett Street were written in marking ink on a piece of calico slightly larger than an ordinary cigarette paper. He was genuinely surprised. “Can’t understand why he should have gone about labelled like this,” he said, looking up at Chief Inspector Heat. “It’s a most extraordinary thing.” “I met once in the smoking-room of a hotel an old gentleman who went about with his name and address sewn on in all his coats in case of an accident or sudden illness,” said the Chief Inspector. “He professed to be eighty-four years old, but he didn’t look his age. He told me he was also afraid of losing his memory suddenly, like those people he has been reading of in the papers.” A question from the Assistant Commissioner, who wanted to know what was No. 32 Brett Street, interrupted that reminiscence abruptly. The Chief Inspector, driven down to the ground by unfair artifices, had elected to walk the path of unreserved openness. If he believed firmly that to know too much was not good for the department, the judicious holding back of knowledge was as far as his loyalty dared to go for the good of the service. If the Assistant Commissioner wanted to mismanage this affair nothing, of course, could prevent him. But, on his own part, he now saw no reason for a display of alacrity. So he answered concisely: “It’s a shop, sir.” The Assistant Commissioner, with his eyes lowered on the rag of blue cloth, waited for more information. As that did not come he proceeded to obtain it by a series of questions propounded with gentle patience. Thus he acquired an idea of the nature of Mr Verloc’s commerce, of his personal appearance, and heard at last his name. In a pause the Assistant Commissioner raised his eyes, and discovered some animation on the Chief Inspector’s face. They looked at each other in silence. “Of course,” said the latter, “the department has no record of that man.” “Did any of my predecessors have any knowledge of what you have told me now?” asked the Assistant Commissioner, putting his elbows on the table and raising his joined hands before his face, as if about to offer prayer, only that his eyes had not a pious expression. “No, sir; certainly not. What would have been the object? That sort of man could never be produced publicly to any good purpose. It was sufficient for me to know who he was, and to make use of him in a way that could be used publicly.” “And do you think that sort of private knowledge consistent with the official position you occupy?” “Perfectly, sir. I think it’s quite proper. I will take the liberty to tell you, sir, that it makes me what I am—and I am looked upon as a man who knows his work. It’s a private affair of my own. A personal friend of mine in the French police gave me the hint that the fellow was an Embassy spy. Private friendship, private information, private use of it—that’s how I look upon it.” The Assistant Commissioner after remarking to himself that the mental state of the renowned Chief Inspector seemed to affect the outline of his lower jaw, as if the lively sense of his high professional distinction had been located in that part of his anatomy, dismissed the point for the moment with a calm “I see.” Then leaning his cheek on his joined hands: “Well then—speaking privately if you like—how long have you been in private touch with this Embassy spy?” To this inquiry the private answer of the Chief Inspector, so private that it was never shaped into audible words, was: “Long before you were even thought of for your place here.” The so-to-speak public utterance was much more precise. “I saw him for the first time in my life a little more than seven years ago, when two Imperial Highnesses and the Imperial Chancellor were on a visit here. I was put in charge of all the arrangements for looking after them. Baron Stott-Wartenheim was Ambassador then. He was a very nervous old gentleman. One evening, three days before the Guildhall Banquet, he sent word that he wanted to see me for a moment. I was downstairs, and the carriages were at the door to take the Imperial Highnesses and the Chancellor to the opera. I went up at once. I found the Baron walking up and down his bedroom in a pitiable state of distress, squeezing his hands together. He assured me he had the fullest confidence in our police and in my abilities, but he had there a man just come over from Paris whose information could be trusted implicity. He wanted me to hear what that man had to say. He took me at once into a dressing-room next door, where I saw a big fellow in a heavy overcoat sitting all alone on a chair, and holding his hat and stick in one hand. The Baron said to him in French ‘Speak, my friend.’ The light in that room was not very good. I talked with him for some five minutes perhaps. He certainly gave me a piece of very startling news. Then the Baron took me aside nervously to praise him up to me, and when I turned round again I discovered that the fellow had vanished like a ghost. Got up and sneaked out down some back stairs, I suppose. There was no time to run after him, as I had to hurry off after the Ambassador down the great staircase, and see the party started safe for the opera. However, I acted upon the information that very night. Whether it was perfectly correct or not, it did look serious enough. Very likely it saved us from an ugly trouble on the day of the Imperial visit to the City. “Some time later, a month or so after my promotion to Chief Inspector, my attention was attracted to a big burly man, I thought I had seen somewhere before, coming out in a hurry from a jeweller’s shop in the Strand. I went after him, as it was on my way towards Charing Cross, and there seeing one of our detectives across the road, I beckoned him over, and pointed out the fellow to him, with instructions to watch his movements for a couple of days, and then report to me. No later than next afternoon my man turned up to tell me that the fellow had married his landlady’s daughter at a registrar’s office that very day at 11.30 a.m., and had gone off with her to Margate for a week. Our man had seen the luggage being put on the cab. There were some old Paris labels on one of the bags. Somehow I couldn’t get the fellow out of my head, and the very next time I had to go to Paris on service I spoke about him to that friend of mine in the Paris police. My friend said: ‘From what you tell me I think you must mean a rather well-known hanger-on and emissary of the Revolutionary Red Committee. He says he is an Englishman by birth. We have an idea that he has been for a good few years now a secret agent of one of the foreign Embassies in London.’ This woke up my memory completely. He was the vanishing fellow I saw sitting on a chair in Baron Stott-Wartenheim’s bathroom. I told my friend that he was quite right. The fellow was a secret agent to my certain knowledge. Afterwards my friend took the trouble to ferret out the complete record of that man for me. I thought I had better know all there was to know; but I don’t suppose you want to hear his history now, sir?” The Assistant Commissioner shook his supported head. “The history of your relations with that useful personage is the only thing that matters just now,” he said, closing slowly his weary, deep-set eyes, and then opening them swiftly with a greatly refreshed glance. “There’s nothing official about them,” said the Chief Inspector bitterly. “I went into his shop one evening, told him who I was, and reminded him of our first meeting. He didn’t as much as twitch an eyebrow. He said that he was married and settled now, and that all he wanted was not to be interfered in his little business. I took it upon myself to promise him that, as long as he didn’t go in for anything obviously outrageous, he would be left alone by the police. That was worth something to him, because a word from us to the Custom-House people would have been enough to get some of these packages he gets from Paris and Brussels opened in Dover, with confiscation to follow for certain, and perhaps a prosecution as well at the end of it.” “That’s a very precarious trade,” murmured the Assistant Commissioner. “Why did he go in for that?” The Chief Inspector raised scornful eyebrows dispassionately. “Most likely got a connection—friends on the Continent—amongst people who deal in such wares. They would be just the sort he would consort with. He’s a lazy dog, too—like the rest of them.” “What do you get from him in exchange for your protection?” The Chief Inspector was not inclined to enlarge on the value of Mr Verloc’s services. “He would not be much good to anybody but myself. One has got to know a good deal beforehand to make use of a man like that. I can understand the sort of hint he can give. And when I want a hint he can generally furnish it to me.” The Chief Inspector lost himself suddenly in a discreet reflective mood; and the Assistant Commissioner repressed a smile at the fleeting thought that the reputation of Chief Inspector Heat might possibly have been made in a great part by the Secret Agent Verloc. “In a more general way of being of use, all our men of the Special Crimes section on duty at Charing Cross and Victoria have orders to take careful notice of anybody they may see with him. He meets the new arrivals frequently, and afterwards keeps track of them. He seems to have been told off for that sort of duty. When I want an address in a hurry, I can always get it from him. Of course, I know how to manage our relations. I haven’t seen him to speak to three times in the last two years. I drop him a line, unsigned, and he answers me in the same way at my private address.” From time to time the Assistant Commissioner gave an almost imperceptible nod. The Chief Inspector added that he did not suppose Mr Verloc to be deep in the confidence of the prominent members of the Revolutionary International Council, but that he was generally trusted of that there could be no doubt. “Whenever I’ve had reason to think there was something in the wind,” he concluded, “I’ve always found he could tell me something worth knowing.” The Assistant Commissioner made a significant remark. “He failed you this time.” “Neither had I wind of anything in any other way,” retorted Chief Inspector Heat. “I asked him nothing, so he could tell me nothing. He isn’t one of our men. It isn’t as if he were in our pay.” “No,” muttered the Assistant Commissioner. “He’s a spy in the pay of a foreign government. We could never confess to him.” “I must do my work in my own way,” declared the Chief Inspector. “When it comes to that I would deal with the devil himself, and take the consequences. There are things not fit for everybody to know.” “Your idea of secrecy seems to consist in keeping the chief of your department in the dark. That’s stretching it perhaps a little too far, isn’t it? He lives over his shop?” “Who—Verloc? Oh yes. He lives over his shop. The wife’s mother, I fancy, lives with them.” “Is the house watched?” “Oh dear, no. It wouldn’t do. Certain people who come there are watched. My opinion is that he knows nothing of this affair.” “How do you account for this?” The Assistant Commissioner nodded at the cloth rag lying before him on the table. “I don’t account for it at all, sir. It’s simply unaccountable. It can’t be explained by what I know.” The Chief Inspector made those admissions with the frankness of a man whose reputation is established as if on a rock. “At any rate not at this present moment. I think that the man who had most to do with it will turn out to be Michaelis.” “You do?” “Yes, sir; because I can answer for all the others.” “What about that other man supposed to have escaped from the park?” “I should think he’s far away by this time,” opined the Chief Inspector. The Assistant Commissioner looked hard at him, and rose suddenly, as though having made up his mind to some course of action. As a matter of fact, he had that very moment succumbed to a fascinating temptation. The Chief Inspector heard himself dismissed with instructions to meet his superior early next morning for further consultation upon the case. He listened with an impenetrable face, and walked out of the room with measured steps. Whatever might have been the plans of the Assistant Commissioner they had nothing to do with that desk work, which was the bane of his existence because of its confined nature and apparent lack of reality. It could not have had, or else the general air of alacrity that came upon the Assistant Commissioner would have been inexplicable. As soon as he was left alone he looked for his hat impulsively, and put it on his head. Having done that, he sat down again to reconsider the whole matter. But as his mind was already made up, this did not take long. And before Chief Inspector Heat had gone very far on the way home, he also left the building. CHAPTER VII The Assistant Commissioner walked along a short and narrow street like a wet, muddy trench, then crossing a very broad thoroughfare entered a public edifice, and sought speech with a young private secretary (unpaid) of a great personage. This fair, smooth-faced young man, whose symmetrically arranged hair gave him the air of a large and neat schoolboy, met the Assistant Commissioner’s request with a doubtful look, and spoke with bated breath. “Would he see you? I don’t know about that. He has walked over from the House an hour ago to talk with the permanent Under-Secretary, and now he’s ready to walk back again. He might have sent for him; but he does it for the sake of a little exercise, I suppose. It’s all the exercise he can find time for while this session lasts. I don’t complain; I rather enjoy these little strolls. He leans on my arm, and doesn’t open his lips. But, I say, he’s very tired, and—well—not in the sweetest of tempers just now.” “It’s in connection with that Greenwich affair.” “Oh! I say! He’s very bitter against you people. But I will go and see, if you insist.” “Do. That’s a good fellow,” said the Assistant Commissioner. The unpaid secretary admired this pluck. Composing for himself an innocent face, he opened a door, and went in with the assurance of a nice and privileged child. And presently he reappeared, with a nod to the Assistant Commissioner, who passing through the same door left open for him, found himself with the great personage in a large room. Vast in bulk and stature, with a long white face, which, broadened at the base by a big double chin, appeared egg-shaped in the fringe of thin greyish whisker, the great personage seemed an expanding man. Unfortunate from a tailoring point of view, the cross-folds in the middle of a buttoned black coat added to the impression, as if the fastenings of the garment were tried to the utmost. From the head, set upward on a thick neck, the eyes, with puffy lower lids, stared with a haughty droop on each side of a hooked aggressive nose, nobly salient in the vast pale circumference of the face. A shiny silk hat and a pair of worn gloves lying ready on the end of a long table looked expanded too, enormous. He stood on the hearthrug in big, roomy boots, and uttered no word of greeting. “I would like to know if this is the beginning of another dynamite campaign,” he asked at once in a deep, very smooth voice. “Don’t go into details. I have no time for that.” The Assistant Commissioner’s figure before this big and rustic Presence had the frail slenderness of a reed addressing an oak. And indeed the unbroken record of that man’s descent surpassed in the number of centuries the age of the oldest oak in the country. “No. As far as one can be positive about anything I can assure you that it is not.” “Yes. But your idea of assurances over there,” said the great man, with a contemptuous wave of his hand towards a window giving on the broad thoroughfare, “seems to consist mainly in making the Secretary of State look a fool. I have been told positively in this very room less than a month ago that nothing of the sort was even possible.” The Assistant Commissioner glanced in the direction of the window calmly. “You will allow me to remark, Sir Ethelred, that so far I have had no opportunity to give you assurances of any kind.” The haughty droop of the eyes was focussed now upon the Assistant Commissioner. “True,” confessed the deep, smooth voice. “I sent for Heat. You are still rather a novice in your new berth. And how are you getting on over there?” “I believe I am learning something every day.” “Of course, of course. I hope you will get on.” “Thank you, Sir Ethelred. I’ve learned something to-day, and even within the last hour or so. There is much in this affair of a kind that does not meet the eye in a usual anarchist outrage, even if one looked into it as deep as can be. That’s why I am here.” The great man put his arms akimbo, the backs of his big hands resting on his hips. “Very well. Go on. Only no details, pray. Spare me the details.” “You shall not be troubled with them, Sir Ethelred,” the Assistant Commissioner began, with a calm and untroubled assurance. While he was speaking the hands on the face of the clock behind the great man’s back—a heavy, glistening affair of massive scrolls in the same dark marble as the mantelpiece, and with a ghostly, evanescent tick—had moved through the space of seven minutes. He spoke with a studious fidelity to a parenthetical manner, into which every little fact—that is, every detail—fitted with delightful ease. Not a murmur nor even a movement hinted at interruption. The great Personage might have been the statue of one of his own princely ancestors stripped of a crusader’s war harness, and put into an ill-fitting frock coat. The Assistant Commissioner felt as though he were at liberty to talk for an hour. But he kept his head, and at the end of the time mentioned above he broke off with a sudden conclusion, which, reproducing the opening statement, pleasantly surprised Sir Ethelred by its apparent swiftness and force. “The kind of thing which meets us under the surface of this affair, otherwise without gravity, is unusual—in this precise form at least—and requires special treatment.” The tone of Sir Ethelred was deepened, full of conviction. “I should think so—involving the Ambassador of a foreign power!” “Oh! The Ambassador!” protested the other, erect and slender, allowing himself a mere half smile. “It would be stupid of me to advance anything of the kind. And it is absolutely unnecessary, because if I am right in my surmises, whether ambassador or hall porter it’s a mere detail.” Sir Ethelred opened a wide mouth, like a cavern, into which the hooked nose seemed anxious to peer; there came from it a subdued rolling sound, as from a distant organ with the scornful indignation stop. “No! These people are too impossible. What do they mean by importing their methods of Crim-Tartary here? A Turk would have more decency.” “You forget, Sir Ethelred, that strictly speaking we know nothing positively—as yet.” “No! But how would you define it? Shortly?” “Barefaced audacity amounting to childishness of a peculiar sort.” “We can’t put up with the innocence of nasty little children,” said the great and expanded personage, expanding a little more, as it were. The haughty drooping glance struck crushingly the carpet at the Assistant Commissioner’s feet. “They’ll have to get a hard rap on the knuckles over this affair. We must be in a position to—What is your general idea, stated shortly? No need to go into details.” “No, Sir Ethelred. In principle, I should lay it down that the existence of secret agents should not be tolerated, as tending to augment the positive dangers of the evil against which they are used. That the spy will fabricate his information is a mere commonplace. But in the sphere of political and revolutionary action, relying partly on violence, the professional spy has every facility to fabricate the very facts themselves, and will spread the double evil of emulation in one direction, and of panic, hasty legislation, unreflecting hate, on the other. However, this is an imperfect world—” The deep-voiced Presence on the hearthrug, motionless, with big elbows stuck out, said hastily: “Be lucid, please.” “Yes, Sir Ethelred—An imperfect world. Therefore directly the character of this affair suggested itself to me, I thought it should be dealt with with special secrecy, and ventured to come over here.” “That’s right,” approved the great Personage, glancing down complacently over his double chin. “I am glad there’s somebody over at your shop who thinks that the Secretary of State may be trusted now and then.” The Assistant Commissioner had an amused smile. “I was really thinking that it might be better at this stage for Heat to be replaced by—” “What! Heat? An ass—eh?” exclaimed the great man, with distinct animosity. “Not at all. Pray, Sir Ethelred, don’t put that unjust interpretation on my remarks.” “Then what? Too clever by half?” “Neither—at least not as a rule. All the grounds of my surmises I have from him. The only thing I’ve discovered by myself is that he has been making use of that man privately. Who could blame him? He’s an old police hand. He told me virtually that he must have tools to work with. It occurred to me that this tool should be surrendered to the Special Crimes division as a whole, instead of remaining the private property of Chief Inspector Heat. I extend my conception of our departmental duties to the suppression of the secret agent. But Chief Inspector Heat is an old departmental hand. He would accuse me of perverting its morality and attacking its efficiency. He would define it bitterly as protection extended to the criminal class of revolutionists. It would mean just that to him.” “Yes. But what do you mean?” “I mean to say, first, that there’s but poor comfort in being able to declare that any given act of violence—damaging property or destroying life—is not the work of anarchism at all, but of something else altogether—some species of authorised scoundrelism. This, I fancy, is much more frequent than we suppose. Next, it’s obvious that the existence of these people in the pay of foreign governments destroys in a measure the efficiency of our supervision. A spy of that sort can afford to be more reckless than the most reckless of conspirators. His occupation is free from all restraint. He’s without as much faith as is necessary for complete negation, and without that much law as is implied in lawlessness. Thirdly, the existence of these spies amongst the revolutionary groups, which we are reproached for harbouring here, does away with all certitude. You have received a reassuring statement from Chief Inspector Heat some time ago. It was by no means groundless—and yet this episode happens. I call it an episode, because this affair, I make bold to say, is episodic; it is no part of any general scheme, however wild. The very peculiarities which surprise and perplex Chief Inspector Heat establish its character in my eyes. I am keeping clear of details, Sir Ethelred.” The Personage on the hearthrug had been listening with profound attention. “Just so. Be as concise as you can.” The Assistant Commissioner intimated by an earnest deferential gesture that he was anxious to be concise. “There is a peculiar stupidity and feebleness in the conduct of this affair which gives me excellent hopes of getting behind it and finding there something else than an individual freak of fanaticism. For it is a planned thing, undoubtedly. The actual perpetrator seems to have been led by the hand to the spot, and then abandoned hurriedly to his own devices. The inference is that he was imported from abroad for the purpose of committing this outrage. At the same time one is forced to the conclusion that he did not know enough English to ask his way, unless one were to accept the fantastic theory that he was a deaf mute. I wonder now—But this is idle. He has destroyed himself by an accident, obviously. Not an extraordinary accident. But an extraordinary little fact remains: the address on his clothing discovered by the merest accident, too. It is an incredible little fact, so incredible that the explanation which will account for it is bound to touch the bottom of this affair. Instead of instructing Heat to go on with this case, my intention is to seek this explanation personally—by myself, I mean—where it may be picked up. That is in a certain shop in Brett Street, and on the lips of a certain secret agent once upon a time the confidential and trusted spy of the late Baron Stott-Wartenheim, Ambassador of a Great Power to the Court of St James.” The Assistant Commissioner paused, then added: “Those fellows are a perfect pest.” In order to raise his drooping glance to the speaker’s face, the Personage on the hearthrug had gradually tilted his head farther back, which gave him an aspect of extraordinary haughtiness. “Why not leave it to Heat?” “Because he is an old departmental hand. They have their own morality. My line of inquiry would appear to him an awful perversion of duty. For him the plain duty is to fasten the guilt upon as many prominent anarchists as he can on some slight indications he had picked up in the course of his investigation on the spot; whereas I, he would say, am bent upon vindicating their innocence. I am trying to be as lucid as I can in presenting this obscure matter to you without details.” “He would, would he?” muttered the proud head of Sir Ethelred from its lofty elevation. “I am afraid so—with an indignation and disgust of which you or I can have no idea. He’s an excellent servant. We must not put an undue strain on his loyalty. That’s always a mistake. Besides, I want a free hand—a freer hand than it would be perhaps advisable to give Chief Inspector Heat. I haven’t the slightest wish to spare this man Verloc. He will, I imagine, be extremely startled to find his connection with this affair, whatever it may be, brought home to him so quickly. Frightening him will not be very difficult. But our true objective lies behind him somewhere. I want your authority to give him such assurances of personal safety as I may think proper.” “Certainly,” said the Personage on the hearthrug. “Find out as much as you can; find it out in your own way.” “I must set about it without loss of time, this very evening,” said the Assistant Commissioner. Sir Ethelred shifted one hand under his coat tails, and tilting back his head, looked at him steadily. “We’ll have a late sitting to-night,” he said. “Come to the House with your discoveries if we are not gone home. I’ll warn Toodles to look out for you. He’ll take you into my room.” The numerous family and the wide connections of the youthful-looking Private Secretary cherished for him the hope of an austere and exalted destiny. Meantime the social sphere he adorned in his hours of idleness chose to pet him under the above nickname. And Sir Ethelred, hearing it on the lips of his wife and girls every day (mostly at breakfast-time), had conferred upon it the dignity of unsmiling adoption. The Assistant Commissioner was surprised and gratified extremely. “I shall certainly bring my discoveries to the House on the chance of you having the time to—” “I won’t have the time,” interrupted the great Personage. “But I will see you. I haven’t the time now—And you are going yourself?” “Yes, Sir Ethelred. I think it the best way.” The Personage had tilted his head so far back that, in order to keep the Assistant Commissioner under his observation, he had to nearly close his eyes. “H’m. Ha! And how do you propose—Will you assume a disguise?” “Hardly a disguise! I’ll change my clothes, of course.” “Of course,” repeated the great man, with a sort of absent-minded loftiness. He turned his big head slowly, and over his shoulder gave a haughty oblique stare to the ponderous marble timepiece with the sly, feeble tick. The gilt hands had taken the opportunity to steal through no less than five and twenty minutes behind his back. The Assistant Commissioner, who could not see them, grew a little nervous in the interval. But the great man presented to him a calm and undismayed face. “Very well,” he said, and paused, as if in deliberate contempt of the official clock. “But what first put you in motion in this direction?” “I have been always of opinion,” began the Assistant Commissioner. “Ah. Yes! Opinion. That’s of course. But the immediate motive?” “What shall I say, Sir Ethelred? A new man’s antagonism to old methods. A desire to know something at first hand. Some impatience. It’s my old work, but the harness is different. It has been chafing me a little in one or two tender places.” “I hope you’ll get on over there,” said the great man kindly, extending his hand, soft to the touch, but broad and powerful like the hand of a glorified farmer. The Assistant Commissioner shook it, and withdrew. In the outer room Toodles, who had been waiting perched on the edge of a table, advanced to meet him, subduing his natural buoyancy. “Well? Satisfactory?” he asked, with airy importance. “Perfectly. You’ve earned my undying gratitude,” answered the Assistant Commissioner, whose long face looked wooden in contrast with the peculiar character of the other’s gravity, which seemed perpetually ready to break into ripples and chuckles. “That’s all right. But seriously, you can’t imagine how irritated he is by the attacks on his Bill for the Nationalisation of Fisheries. They call it the beginning of social revolution. Of course, it is a revolutionary measure. But these fellows have no decency. The personal attacks—” “I read the papers,” remarked the Assistant Commissioner. “Odious? Eh? And you have no notion what a mass of work he has got to get through every day. He does it all himself. Seems unable to trust anyone with these Fisheries.” “And yet he’s given a whole half hour to the consideration of my very small sprat,” interjected the Assistant Commissioner. “Small! Is it? I’m glad to hear that. But it’s a pity you didn’t keep away, then. This fight takes it out of him frightfully. The man’s getting exhausted. I feel it by the way he leans on my arm as we walk over. And, I say, is he safe in the streets? Mullins has been marching his men up here this afternoon. There’s a constable stuck by every lamp-post, and every second person we meet between this and Palace Yard is an obvious ‘tec.’ It will get on his nerves presently. I say, these foreign scoundrels aren’t likely to throw something at him—are they? It would be a national calamity. The country can’t spare him.” “Not to mention yourself. He leans on your arm,” suggested the Assistant Commissioner soberly. “You would both go.” “It would be an easy way for a young man to go down into history? Not so many British Ministers have been assassinated as to make it a minor incident. But seriously now—” “I am afraid that if you want to go down into history you’ll have to do something for it. Seriously, there’s no danger whatever for both of you but from overwork.” The sympathetic Toodles welcomed this opening for a chuckle. “The Fisheries won’t kill me. I am used to late hours,” he declared, with ingenuous levity. But, feeling an instant compunction, he began to assume an air of statesman-like moodiness, as one draws on a glove. “His massive intellect will stand any amount of work. It’s his nerves that I am afraid of. The reactionary gang, with that abusive brute Cheeseman at their head, insult him every night.” “If he will insist on beginning a revolution!” murmured the Assistant Commissioner. “The time has come, and he is the only man great enough for the work,” protested the revolutionary Toodles, flaring up under the calm, speculative gaze of the Assistant Commissioner. Somewhere in a corridor a distant bell tinkled urgently, and with devoted vigilance the young man pricked up his ears at the sound. “He’s ready to go now,” he exclaimed in a whisper, snatched up his hat, and vanished from the room. The Assistant Commissioner went out by another door in a less elastic manner. Again he crossed the wide thoroughfare, walked along a narrow street, and re-entered hastily his own departmental buildings. He kept up this accelerated pace to the door of his private room. Before he had closed it fairly his eyes sought his desk. He stood still for a moment, then walked up, looked all round on the floor, sat down in his chair, rang a bell, and waited. “Chief Inspector Heat gone yet?” “Yes, sir. Went away half-an-hour ago.” He nodded. “That will do.” And sitting still, with his hat pushed off his forehead, he thought that it was just like Heat’s confounded cheek to carry off quietly the only piece of material evidence. But he thought this without animosity. Old and valued servants will take liberties. The piece of overcoat with the address sewn on was certainly not a thing to leave about. Dismissing from his mind this manifestation of Chief Inspector Heat’s mistrust, he wrote and despatched a note to his wife, charging her to make his apologies to Michaelis’ great lady, with whom they were engaged to dine that evening. The short jacket and the low, round hat he assumed in a sort of curtained alcove containing a washstand, a row of wooden pegs and a shelf, brought out wonderfully the length of his grave, brown face. He stepped back into the full light of the room, looking like the vision of a cool, reflective Don Quixote, with the sunken eyes of a dark enthusiast and a very deliberate manner. He left the scene of his daily labours quickly like an unobtrusive shadow. His descent into the street was like the descent into a slimy aquarium from which the water had been run off. A murky, gloomy dampness enveloped him. The walls of the houses were wet, the mud of the roadway glistened with an effect of phosphorescence, and when he emerged into the Strand out of a narrow street by the side of Charing Cross Station the genius of the locality assimilated him. He might have been but one more of the queer foreign fish that can be seen of an evening about there flitting round the dark corners. He came to a stand on the very edge of the pavement, and waited. His exercised eyes had made out in the confused movements of lights and shadows thronging the roadway the crawling approach of a hansom. He gave no sign; but when the low step gliding along the curbstone came to his feet he dodged in skilfully in front of the big turning wheel, and spoke up through the little trap door almost before the man gazing supinely ahead from his perch was aware of having been boarded by a fare. It was not a long drive. It ended by signal abruptly, nowhere in particular, between two lamp-posts before a large drapery establishment—a long range of shops already lapped up in sheets of corrugated iron for the night. Tendering a coin through the trap door the fare slipped out and away, leaving an effect of uncanny, eccentric ghastliness upon the driver’s mind. But the size of the coin was satisfactory to his touch, and his education not being literary, he remained untroubled by the fear of finding it presently turned to a dead leaf in his pocket. Raised above the world of fares by the nature of his calling, he contemplated their actions with a limited interest. The sharp pulling of his horse right round expressed his philosophy. Meantime the Assistant Commissioner was already giving his order to a waiter in a little Italian restaurant round the corner—one of those traps for the hungry, long and narrow, baited with a perspective of mirrors and white napery; without air, but with an atmosphere of their own—an atmosphere of fraudulent cookery mocking an abject mankind in the most pressing of its miserable necessities. In this immoral atmosphere the Assistant Commissioner, reflecting upon his enterprise, seemed to lose some more of his identity. He had a sense of loneliness, of evil freedom. It was rather pleasant. When, after paying for his short meal, he stood up and waited for his change, he saw himself in the sheet of glass, and was struck by his foreign appearance. He contemplated his own image with a melancholy and inquisitive gaze, then by sudden inspiration raised the collar of his jacket. This arrangement appeared to him commendable, and he completed it by giving an upward twist to the ends of his black moustache. He was satisfied by the subtle modification of his personal aspect caused by these small changes. “That’ll do very well,” he thought. “I’ll get a little wet, a little splashed—” He became aware of the waiter at his elbow and of a small pile of silver coins on the edge of the table before him. The waiter kept one eye on it, while his other eye followed the long back of a tall, not very young girl, who passed up to a distant table looking perfectly sightless and altogether unapproachable. She seemed to be a habitual customer. On going out the Assistant Commissioner made to himself the observation that the patrons of the place had lost in the frequentation of fraudulent cookery all their national and private characteristics. And this was strange, since the Italian restaurant is such a peculiarly British institution. But these people were as denationalised as the dishes set before them with every circumstance of unstamped respectability. Neither was their personality stamped in any way, professionally, socially or racially. They seemed created for the Italian restaurant, unless the Italian restaurant had been perchance created for them. But that last hypothesis was unthinkable, since one could not place them anywhere outside those special establishments. One never met these enigmatical persons elsewhere. It was impossible to form a precise idea what occupations they followed by day and where they went to bed at night. And he himself had become unplaced. It would have been impossible for anybody to guess his occupation. As to going to bed, there was a doubt even in his own mind. Not indeed in regard to his domicile itself, but very much so in respect of the time when he would be able to return there. A pleasurable feeling of independence possessed him when he heard the glass doors swing to behind his back with a sort of imperfect baffled thud. He advanced at once into an immensity of greasy slime and damp plaster interspersed with lamps, and enveloped, oppressed, penetrated, choked, and suffocated by the blackness of a wet London night, which is composed of soot and drops of water. Brett Street was not very far away. It branched off, narrow, from the side of an open triangular space surrounded by dark and mysterious houses, temples of petty commerce emptied of traders for the night. Only a fruiterer’s stall at the corner made a violent blaze of light and colour. Beyond all was black, and the few people passing in that direction vanished at one stride beyond the glowing heaps of oranges and lemons. No footsteps echoed. They would never be heard of again. The adventurous head of the Special Crimes Department watched these disappearances from a distance with an interested eye. He felt light-hearted, as though he had been ambushed all alone in a jungle many thousands of miles away from departmental desks and official inkstands. This joyousness and dispersion of thought before a task of some importance seems to prove that this world of ours is not such a very serious affair after all. For the Assistant Commissioner was not constitutionally inclined to levity. The policeman on the beat projected his sombre and moving form against the luminous glory of oranges and lemons, and entered Brett Street without haste. The Assistant Commissioner, as though he were a member of the criminal classes, lingered out of sight, awaiting his return. But this constable seemed to be lost for ever to the force. He never returned: must have gone out at the other end of Brett Street. The Assistant Commissioner, reaching this conclusion, entered the street in his turn, and came upon a large van arrested in front of the dimly lit window-panes of a carter’s eating-house. The man was refreshing himself inside, and the horses, their big heads lowered to the ground, fed out of nose-bags steadily. Farther on, on the opposite side of the street, another suspect patch of dim light issued from Mr Verloc’s shop front, hung with papers, heaving with vague piles of cardboard boxes and the shapes of books. The Assistant Commissioner stood observing it across the roadway. There could be no mistake. By the side of the front window, encumbered by the shadows of nondescript things, the door, standing ajar, let escape on the pavement a narrow, clear streak of gas-light within. Behind the Assistant Commissioner the van and horses, merged into one mass, seemed something alive—a square-backed black monster blocking half the street, with sudden iron-shod stampings, fierce jingles, and heavy, blowing sighs. The harshly festive, ill-omened glare of a large and prosperous public-house faced the other end of Brett Street across a wide road. This barrier of blazing lights, opposing the shadows gathered about the humble abode of Mr Verloc’s domestic happiness, seemed to drive the obscurity of the street back upon itself, make it more sullen, brooding, and sinister. CHAPTER VIII Having infused by persistent importunities some sort of heat into the chilly interest of several licensed victuallers (the acquaintances once upon a time of her late unlucky husband), Mrs Verloc’s mother had at last secured her admission to certain almshouses founded by a wealthy innkeeper for the destitute widows of the trade. This end, conceived in the astuteness of her uneasy heart, the old woman had pursued with secrecy and determination. That was the time when her daughter Winnie could not help passing a remark to Mr Verloc that “mother has been spending half-crowns and five shillings almost every day this last week in cab fares.” But the remark was not made grudgingly. Winnie respected her mother’s infirmities. She was only a little surprised at this sudden mania for locomotion. Mr Verloc, who was sufficiently magnificent in his way, had grunted the remark impatiently aside as interfering with his meditations. These were frequent, deep, and prolonged; they bore upon a matter more important than five shillings. Distinctly more important, and beyond all comparison more difficult to consider in all its aspects with philosophical serenity. Her object attained in astute secrecy, the heroic old woman had made a clean breast of it to Mrs Verloc. Her soul was triumphant and her heart tremulous. Inwardly she quaked, because she dreaded and admired the calm, self-contained character of her daughter Winnie, whose displeasure was made redoubtable by a diversity of dreadful silences. But she did not allow her inward apprehensions to rob her of the advantage of venerable placidity conferred upon her outward person by her triple chin, the floating ampleness of her ancient form, and the impotent condition of her legs. The shock of the information was so unexpected that Mrs Verloc, against her usual practice when addressed, interrupted the domestic occupation she was engaged upon. It was the dusting of the furniture in the parlour behind the shop. She turned her head towards her mother. “Whatever did you want to do that for?” she exclaimed, in scandalised astonishment. The shock must have been severe to make her depart from that distant and uninquiring acceptance of facts which was her force and her safeguard in life. “Weren’t you made comfortable enough here?” She had lapsed into these inquiries, but next moment she saved the consistency of her conduct by resuming her dusting, while the old woman sat scared and dumb under her dingy white cap and lustreless dark wig. Winnie finished the chair, and ran the duster along the mahogany at the back of the horse-hair sofa on which Mr Verloc loved to take his ease in hat and overcoat. She was intent on her work, but presently she permitted herself another question. “How in the world did you manage it, mother?” As not affecting the inwardness of things, which it was Mrs Verloc’s principle to ignore, this curiosity was excusable. It bore merely on the methods. The old woman welcomed it eagerly as bringing forward something that could be talked about with much sincerity. She favoured her daughter by an exhaustive answer, full of names and enriched by side comments upon the ravages of time as observed in the alteration of human countenances. The names were principally the names of licensed victuallers—“poor daddy’s friends, my dear.” She enlarged with special appreciation on the kindness and condescension of a large brewer, a Baronet and an M. P., the Chairman of the Governors of the Charity. She expressed herself thus warmly because she had been allowed to interview by appointment his Private Secretary—“a very polite gentleman, all in black, with a gentle, sad voice, but so very, very thin and quiet. He was like a shadow, my dear.” Winnie, prolonging her dusting operations till the tale was told to the end, walked out of the parlour into the kitchen (down two steps) in her usual manner, without the slightest comment. Shedding a few tears in sign of rejoicing at her daughter’s mansuetude in this terrible affair, Mrs Verloc’s mother gave play to her astuteness in the direction of her furniture, because it was her own; and sometimes she wished it hadn’t been. Heroism is all very well, but there are circumstances when the disposal of a few tables and chairs, brass bedsteads, and so on, may be big with remote and disastrous consequences. She required a few pieces herself, the Foundation which, after many importunities, had gathered her to its charitable breast, giving nothing but bare planks and cheaply papered bricks to the objects of its solicitude. The delicacy guiding her choice to the least valuable and most dilapidated articles passed unacknowledged, because Winnie’s philosophy consisted in not taking notice of the inside of facts; she assumed that mother took what suited her best. As to Mr Verloc, his intense meditation, like a sort of Chinese wall, isolated him completely from the phenomena of this world of vain effort and illusory appearances. Her selection made, the disposal of the rest became a perplexing question in a particular way. She was leaving it in Brett Street, of course. But she had two children. Winnie was provided for by her sensible union with that excellent husband, Mr Verloc. Stevie was destitute—and a little peculiar. His position had to be considered before the claims of legal justice and even the promptings of partiality. The possession of the furniture would not be in any sense a provision. He ought to have it—the poor boy. But to give it to him would be like tampering with his position of complete dependence. It was a sort of claim which she feared to weaken. Moreover, the susceptibilities of Mr Verloc would perhaps not brook being beholden to his brother-in-law for the chairs he sat on. In a long experience of gentlemen lodgers, Mrs Verloc’s mother had acquired a dismal but resigned notion of the fantastic side of human nature. What if Mr Verloc suddenly took it into his head to tell Stevie to take his blessed sticks somewhere out of that? A division, on the other hand, however carefully made, might give some cause of offence to Winnie. No, Stevie must remain destitute and dependent. And at the moment of leaving Brett Street she had said to her daughter: “No use waiting till I am dead, is there? Everything I leave here is altogether your own now, my dear.” Winnie, with her hat on, silent behind her mother’s back, went on arranging the collar of the old woman’s cloak. She got her hand-bag, an umbrella, with an impassive face. The time had come for the expenditure of the sum of three-and-sixpence on what might well be supposed the last cab drive of Mrs Verloc’s mother’s life. They went out at the shop door. The conveyance awaiting them would have illustrated the proverb that “truth can be more cruel than caricature,” if such a proverb existed. Crawling behind an infirm horse, a metropolitan hackney carriage drew up on wobbly wheels and with a maimed driver on the box. This last peculiarity caused some embarrassment. Catching sight of a hooked iron contrivance protruding from the left sleeve of the man’s coat, Mrs Verloc’s mother lost suddenly the heroic courage of these days. She really couldn’t trust herself. “What do you think, Winnie?” She hung back. The passionate expostulations of the big-faced cabman seemed to be squeezed out of a blocked throat. Leaning over from his box, he whispered with mysterious indignation. What was the matter now? Was it possible to treat a man so? His enormous and unwashed countenance flamed red in the muddy stretch of the street. Was it likely they would have given him a licence, he inquired desperately, if— The police constable of the locality quieted him by a friendly glance; then addressing himself to the two women without marked consideration, said: “He’s been driving a cab for twenty years. I never knew him to have an accident.” “Accident!” shouted the driver in a scornful whisper. The policeman’s testimony settled it. The modest assemblage of seven people, mostly under age, dispersed. Winnie followed her mother into the cab. Stevie climbed on the box. His vacant mouth and distressed eyes depicted the state of his mind in regard to the transactions which were taking place. In the narrow streets the progress of the journey was made sensible to those within by the near fronts of the houses gliding past slowly and shakily, with a great rattle and jingling of glass, as if about to collapse behind the cab; and the infirm horse, with the harness hung over his sharp backbone flapping very loose about his thighs, appeared to be dancing mincingly on his toes with infinite patience. Later on, in the wider space of Whitehall, all visual evidences of motion became imperceptible. The rattle and jingle of glass went on indefinitely in front of the long Treasury building—and time itself seemed to stand still. At last Winnie observed: “This isn’t a very good horse.” Her eyes gleamed in the shadow of the cab straight ahead, immovable. On the box, Stevie shut his vacant mouth first, in order to ejaculate earnestly: “Don’t.” The driver, holding high the reins twisted around the hook, took no notice. Perhaps he had not heard. Stevie’s breast heaved. “Don’t whip.” The man turned slowly his bloated and sodden face of many colours bristling with white hairs. His little red eyes glistened with moisture. His big lips had a violet tint. They remained closed. With the dirty back of his whip-hand he rubbed the stubble sprouting on his enormous chin. “You mustn’t,” stammered out Stevie violently. “It hurts.” “Mustn’t whip,” queried the other in a thoughtful whisper, and immediately whipped. He did this, not because his soul was cruel and his heart evil, but because he had to earn his fare. And for a time the walls of St Stephen’s, with its towers and pinnacles, contemplated in immobility and silence a cab that jingled. It rolled too, however. But on the bridge there was a commotion. Stevie suddenly proceeded to get down from the box. There were shouts on the pavement, people ran forward, the driver pulled up, whispering curses of indignation and astonishment. Winnie lowered the window, and put her head out, white as a ghost. In the depths of the cab, her mother was exclaiming, in tones of anguish: “Is that boy hurt? Is that boy hurt?” Stevie was not hurt, he had not even fallen, but excitement as usual had robbed him of the power of connected speech. He could do no more than stammer at the window. “Too heavy. Too heavy.” Winnie put out her hand on to his shoulder. “Stevie! Get up on the box directly, and don’t try to get down again.” “No. No. Walk. Must walk.” In trying to state the nature of that necessity he stammered himself into utter incoherence. No physical impossibility stood in the way of his whim. Stevie could have managed easily to keep pace with the infirm, dancing horse without getting out of breath. But his sister withheld her consent decisively. “The idea! Whoever heard of such a thing! Run after a cab!” Her mother, frightened and helpless in the depths of the conveyance, entreated: “Oh, don’t let him, Winnie. He’ll get lost. Don’t let him.” “Certainly not. What next! Mr Verloc will be sorry to hear of this nonsense, Stevie,—I can tell you. He won’t be happy at all.” The idea of Mr Verloc’s grief and unhappiness acting as usual powerfully upon Stevie’s fundamentally docile disposition, he abandoned all resistance, and climbed up again on the box, with a face of despair. The cabby turned at him his enormous and inflamed countenance truculently. “Don’t you go for trying this silly game again, young fellow.” After delivering himself thus in a stern whisper, strained almost to extinction, he drove on, ruminating solemnly. To his mind the incident remained somewhat obscure. But his intellect, though it had lost its pristine vivacity in the benumbing years of sedentary exposure to the weather, lacked not independence or sanity. Gravely he dismissed the hypothesis of Stevie being a drunken young nipper. Inside the cab the spell of silence, in which the two women had endured shoulder to shoulder the jolting, rattling, and jingling of the journey, had been broken by Stevie’s outbreak. Winnie raised her voice. “You’ve done what you wanted, mother. You’ll have only yourself to thank for it if you aren’t happy afterwards. And I don’t think you’ll be. That I don’t. Weren’t you comfortable enough in the house? Whatever people’ll think of us—you throwing yourself like this on a Charity?” “My dear,” screamed the old woman earnestly above the noise, “you’ve been the best of daughters to me. As to Mr Verloc—there—” Words failing her on the subject of Mr Verloc’s excellence, she turned her old tearful eyes to the roof of the cab. Then she averted her head on the pretence of looking out of the window, as if to judge of their progress. It was insignificant, and went on close to the curbstone. Night, the early dirty night, the sinister, noisy, hopeless and rowdy night of South London, had overtaken her on her last cab drive. In the gas-light of the low-fronted shops her big cheeks glowed with an orange hue under a black and mauve bonnet. Mrs Verloc’s mother’s complexion had become yellow by the effect of age and from a natural predisposition to biliousness, favoured by the trials of a difficult and worried existence, first as wife, then as widow. It was a complexion, that under the influence of a blush would take on an orange tint. And this woman, modest indeed but hardened in the fires of adversity, of an age, moreover, when blushes are not expected, had positively blushed before her daughter. In the privacy of a four-wheeler, on her way to a charity cottage (one of a row) which by the exiguity of its dimensions and the simplicity of its accommodation, might well have been devised in kindness as a place of training for the still more straitened circumstances of the grave, she was forced to hide from her own child a blush of remorse and shame. Whatever people will think? She knew very well what they did think, the people Winnie had in her mind—the old friends of her husband, and others too, whose interest she had solicited with such flattering success. She had not known before what a good beggar she could be. But she guessed very well what inference was drawn from her application. On account of that shrinking delicacy, which exists side by side with aggressive brutality in masculine nature, the inquiries into her circumstances had not been pushed very far. She had checked them by a visible compression of the lips and some display of an emotion determined to be eloquently silent. And the men would become suddenly incurious, after the manner of their kind. She congratulated herself more than once on having nothing to do with women, who being naturally more callous and avid of details, would have been anxious to be exactly informed by what sort of unkind conduct her daughter and son-in-law had driven her to that sad extremity. It was only before the Secretary of the great brewer M. P. and Chairman of the Charity, who, acting for his principal, felt bound to be conscientiously inquisitive as to the real circumstances of the applicant, that she had burst into tears outright and aloud, as a cornered woman will weep. The thin and polite gentleman, after contemplating her with an air of being “struck all of a heap,” abandoned his position under the cover of soothing remarks. She must not distress herself. The deed of the Charity did not absolutely specify “childless widows.” In fact, it did not by any means disqualify her. But the discretion of the Committee must be an informed discretion. One could understand very well her unwillingness to be a burden, etc. etc. Thereupon, to his profound disappointment, Mrs Verloc’s mother wept some more with an augmented vehemence. The tears of that large female in a dark, dusty wig, and ancient silk dress festooned with dingy white cotton lace, were the tears of genuine distress. She had wept because she was heroic and unscrupulous and full of love for both her children. Girls frequently get sacrificed to the welfare of the boys. In this case she was sacrificing Winnie. By the suppression of truth she was slandering her. Of course, Winnie was independent, and need not care for the opinion of people that she would never see and who would never see her; whereas poor Stevie had nothing in the world he could call his own except his mother’s heroism and unscrupulousness. The first sense of security following on Winnie’s marriage wore off in time (for nothing lasts), and Mrs Verloc’s mother, in the seclusion of the back bedroom, had recalled the teaching of that experience which the world impresses upon a widowed woman. But she had recalled it without vain bitterness; her store of resignation amounted almost to dignity. She reflected stoically that everything decays, wears out, in this world; that the way of kindness should be made easy to the well disposed; that her daughter Winnie was a most devoted sister, and a very self-confident wife indeed. As regards Winnie’s sisterly devotion, her stoicism flinched. She excepted that sentiment from the rule of decay affecting all things human and some things divine. She could not help it; not to do so would have frightened her too much. But in considering the conditions of her daughter’s married state, she rejected firmly all flattering illusions. She took the cold and reasonable view that the less strain put on Mr Verloc’s kindness the longer its effects were likely to last. That excellent man loved his wife, of course, but he would, no doubt, prefer to keep as few of her relations as was consistent with the proper display of that sentiment. It would be better if its whole effect were concentrated on poor Stevie. And the heroic old woman resolved on going away from her children as an act of devotion and as a move of deep policy. The “virtue” of this policy consisted in this (Mrs Verloc’s mother was subtle in her way), that Stevie’s moral claim would be strengthened. The poor boy—a good, useful boy, if a little peculiar—had not a sufficient standing. He had been taken over with his mother, somewhat in the same way as the furniture of the Belgravian mansion had been taken over, as if on the ground of belonging to her exclusively. What will happen, she asked herself (for Mrs Verloc’s mother was in a measure imaginative), when I die? And when she asked herself that question it was with dread. It was also terrible to think that she would not then have the means of knowing what happened to the poor boy. But by making him over to his sister, by going thus away, she gave him the advantage of a directly dependent position. This was the more subtle sanction of Mrs Verloc’s mother’s heroism and unscrupulousness. Her act of abandonment was really an arrangement for settling her son permanently in life. Other people made material sacrifices for such an object, she in that way. It was the only way. Moreover, she would be able to see how it worked. Ill or well she would avoid the horrible incertitude on the death-bed. But it was hard, hard, cruelly hard. The cab rattled, jingled, jolted; in fact, the last was quite extraordinary. By its disproportionate violence and magnitude it obliterated every sensation of onward movement; and the effect was of being shaken in a stationary apparatus like a mediæval device for the punishment of crime, or some very newfangled invention for the cure of a sluggish liver. It was extremely distressing; and the raising of Mrs Verloc’s mother’s voice sounded like a wail of pain. “I know, my dear, you’ll come to see me as often as you can spare the time. Won’t you?” “Of course,” answered Winnie shortly, staring straight before her. And the cab jolted in front of a steamy, greasy shop in a blaze of gas and in the smell of fried fish. The old woman raised a wail again. “And, my dear, I must see that poor boy every Sunday. He won’t mind spending the day with his old mother—” Winnie screamed out stolidly: “Mind! I should think not. That poor boy will miss you something cruel. I wish you had thought a little of that, mother.” Not think of it! The heroic woman swallowed a playful and inconvenient object like a billiard ball, which had tried to jump out of her throat. Winnie sat mute for a while, pouting at the front of the cab, then snapped out, which was an unusual tone with her: “I expect I’ll have a job with him at first, he’ll be that restless—” “Whatever you do, don’t let him worry your husband, my dear.” Thus they discussed on familiar lines the bearings of a new situation. And the cab jolted. Mrs Verloc’s mother expressed some misgivings. Could Stevie be trusted to come all that way alone? Winnie maintained that he was much less “absent-minded” now. They agreed as to that. It could not be denied. Much less—hardly at all. They shouted at each other in the jingle with comparative cheerfulness. But suddenly the maternal anxiety broke out afresh. There were two omnibuses to take, and a short walk between. It was too difficult! The old woman gave way to grief and consternation. Winnie stared forward. “Don’t you upset yourself like this, mother. You must see him, of course.” “No, my dear. I’ll try not to.” She mopped her streaming eyes. “But you can’t spare the time to come with him, and if he should forget himself and lose his way and somebody spoke to him sharply, his name and address may slip his memory, and he’ll remain lost for days and days—” The vision of a workhouse infirmary for poor Stevie—if only during inquiries—wrung her heart. For she was a proud woman. Winnie’s stare had grown hard, intent, inventive. “I can’t bring him to you myself every week,” she cried. “But don’t you worry, mother. I’ll see to it that he don’t get lost for long.” They felt a peculiar bump; a vision of brick pillars lingered before the rattling windows of the cab; a sudden cessation of atrocious jolting and uproarious jingling dazed the two women. What had happened? They sat motionless and scared in the profound stillness, till the door came open, and a rough, strained whispering was heard: “Here you are!” A range of gabled little houses, each with one dim yellow window, on the ground floor, surrounded the dark open space of a grass plot planted with shrubs and railed off from the patchwork of lights and shadows in the wide road, resounding with the dull rumble of traffic. Before the door of one of these tiny houses—one without a light in the little downstairs window—the cab had come to a standstill. Mrs Verloc’s mother got out first, backwards, with a key in her hand. Winnie lingered on the flagstone path to pay the cabman. Stevie, after helping to carry inside a lot of small parcels, came out and stood under the light of a gas-lamp belonging to the Charity. The cabman looked at the pieces of silver, which, appearing very minute in his big, grimy palm, symbolised the insignificant results which reward the ambitious courage and toil of a mankind whose day is short on this earth of evil. He had been paid decently—four one-shilling pieces—and he contemplated them in perfect stillness, as if they had been the surprising terms of a melancholy problem. The slow transfer of that treasure to an inner pocket demanded much laborious groping in the depths of decayed clothing. His form was squat and without flexibility. Stevie, slender, his shoulders a little up, and his hands thrust deep in the side pockets of his warm overcoat, stood at the edge of the path, pouting. The cabman, pausing in his deliberate movements, seemed struck by some misty recollection. “Oh! ’Ere you are, young fellow,” he whispered. “You’ll know him again—won’t you?” Stevie was staring at the horse, whose hind quarters appeared unduly elevated by the effect of emaciation. The little stiff tail seemed to have been fitted in for a heartless joke; and at the other end the thin, flat neck, like a plank covered with old horse-hide, drooped to the ground under the weight of an enormous bony head. The ears hung at different angles, negligently; and the macabre figure of that mute dweller on the earth steamed straight up from ribs and backbone in the muggy stillness of the air. The cabman struck lightly Stevie’s breast with the iron hook protruding from a ragged, greasy sleeve. “Look ’ere, young feller. ’Ow’d _you_ like to sit behind this ’oss up to two o’clock in the morning p’raps?” Stevie looked vacantly into the fierce little eyes with red-edged lids. “He ain’t lame,” pursued the other, whispering with energy. “He ain’t got no sore places on ’im. ’Ere he is. ’Ow would _you_ like—” His strained, extinct voice invested his utterance with a character of vehement secrecy. Stevie’s vacant gaze was changing slowly into dread. “You may well look! Till three and four o’clock in the morning. Cold and ’ungry. Looking for fares. Drunks.” His jovial purple cheeks bristled with white hairs; and like Virgil’s Silenus, who, his face smeared with the juice of berries, discoursed of Olympian Gods to the innocent shepherds of Sicily, he talked to Stevie of domestic matters and the affairs of men whose sufferings are great and immortality by no means assured. “I am a night cabby, I am,” he whispered, with a sort of boastful exasperation. “I’ve got to take out what they will blooming well give me at the yard. I’ve got my missus and four kids at ’ome.” The monstrous nature of that declaration of paternity seemed to strike the world dumb. A silence reigned during which the flanks of the old horse, the steed of apocalyptic misery, smoked upwards in the light of the charitable gas-lamp. The cabman grunted, then added in his mysterious whisper: “This ain’t an easy world.” Stevie’s face had been twitching for some time, and at last his feelings burst out in their usual concise form. “Bad! Bad!” His gaze remained fixed on the ribs of the horse, self-conscious and sombre, as though he were afraid to look about him at the badness of the world. And his slenderness, his rosy lips and pale, clear complexion, gave him the aspect of a delicate boy, notwithstanding the fluffy growth of golden hair on his cheeks. He pouted in a scared way like a child. The cabman, short and broad, eyed him with his fierce little eyes that seemed to smart in a clear and corroding liquid. “’Ard on ’osses, but dam’ sight ’arder on poor chaps like me,” he wheezed just audibly. “Poor! Poor!” stammered out Stevie, pushing his hands deeper into his pockets with convulsive sympathy. He could say nothing; for the tenderness to all pain and all misery, the desire to make the horse happy and the cabman happy, had reached the point of a bizarre longing to take them to bed with him. And that, he knew, was impossible. For Stevie was not mad. It was, as it were, a symbolic longing; and at the same time it was very distinct, because springing from experience, the mother of wisdom. Thus when as a child he cowered in a dark corner scared, wretched, sore, and miserable with the black, black misery of the soul, his sister Winnie used to come along, and carry him off to bed with her, as into a heaven of consoling peace. Stevie, though apt to forget mere facts, such as his name and address for instance, had a faithful memory of sensations. To be taken into a bed of compassion was the supreme remedy, with the only one disadvantage of being difficult of application on a large scale. And looking at the cabman, Stevie perceived this clearly, because he was reasonable. The cabman went on with his leisurely preparations as if Stevie had not existed. He made as if to hoist himself on the box, but at the last moment from some obscure motive, perhaps merely from disgust with carriage exercise, desisted. He approached instead the motionless partner of his labours, and stooping to seize the bridle, lifted up the big, weary head to the height of his shoulder with one effort of his right arm, like a feat of strength. “Come on,” he whispered secretly. Limping, he led the cab away. There was an air of austerity in this departure, the scrunched gravel of the drive crying out under the slowly turning wheels, the horse’s lean thighs moving with ascetic deliberation away from the light into the obscurity of the open space bordered dimly by the pointed roofs and the feebly shining windows of the little alms-houses. The plaint of the gravel travelled slowly all round the drive. Between the lamps of the charitable gateway the slow cortege reappeared, lighted up for a moment, the short, thick man limping busily, with the horse’s head held aloft in his fist, the lank animal walking in stiff and forlorn dignity, the dark, low box on wheels rolling behind comically with an air of waddling. They turned to the left. There was a pub down the street, within fifty yards of the gate. Stevie left alone beside the private lamp-post of the Charity, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, glared with vacant sulkiness. At the bottom of his pockets his incapable weak hands were clinched hard into a pair of angry fists. In the face of anything which affected directly or indirectly his morbid dread of pain, Stevie ended by turning vicious. A magnanimous indignation swelled his frail chest to bursting, and caused his candid eyes to squint. Supremely wise in knowing his own powerlessness, Stevie was not wise enough to restrain his passions. The tenderness of his universal charity had two phases as indissolubly joined and connected as the reverse and obverse sides of a medal. The anguish of immoderate compassion was succeeded by the pain of an innocent but pitiless rage. Those two states expressing themselves outwardly by the same signs of futile bodily agitation, his sister Winnie soothed his excitement without ever fathoming its twofold character. Mrs Verloc wasted no portion of this transient life in seeking for fundamental information. This is a sort of economy having all the appearances and some of the advantages of prudence. Obviously it may be good for one not to know too much. And such a view accords very well with constitutional indolence. On that evening on which it may be said that Mrs Verloc’s mother having parted for good from her children had also departed this life, Winnie Verloc did not investigate her brother’s psychology. The poor boy was excited, of course. After once more assuring the old woman on the threshold that she would know how to guard against the risk of Stevie losing himself for very long on his pilgrimages of filial piety, she took her brother’s arm to walk away. Stevie did not even mutter to himself, but with the special sense of sisterly devotion developed in her earliest infancy, she felt that the boy was very much excited indeed. Holding tight to his arm, under the appearance of leaning on it, she thought of some words suitable to the occasion. “Now, Stevie, you must look well after me at the crossings, and get first into the ’bus, like a good brother.” This appeal to manly protection was received by Stevie with his usual docility. It flattered him. He raised his head and threw out his chest. “Don’t be nervous, Winnie. Mustn’t be nervous! ’Bus all right,” he answered in a brusque, slurring stammer partaking of the timorousness of a child and the resolution of a man. He advanced fearlessly with the woman on his arm, but his lower lip dropped. Nevertheless, on the pavement of the squalid and wide thoroughfare, whose poverty in all the amenities of life stood foolishly exposed by a mad profusion of gas-lights, their resemblance to each other was so pronounced as to strike the casual passers-by. Before the doors of the public-house at the corner, where the profusion of gas-light reached the height of positive wickedness, a four-wheeled cab standing by the curbstone with no one on the box, seemed cast out into the gutter on account of irremediable decay. Mrs Verloc recognised the conveyance. Its aspect was so profoundly lamentable, with such a perfection of grotesque misery and weirdness of macabre detail, as if it were the Cab of Death itself, that Mrs Verloc, with that ready compassion of a woman for a horse (when she is not sitting behind him), exclaimed vaguely: “Poor brute!” Hanging back suddenly, Stevie inflicted an arresting jerk upon his sister. “Poor! Poor!” he ejaculated appreciatively. “Cabman poor too. He told me himself.” The contemplation of the infirm and lonely steed overcame him. Jostled, but obstinate, he would remain there, trying to express the view newly opened to his sympathies of the human and equine misery in close association. But it was very difficult. “Poor brute, poor people!” was all he could repeat. It did not seem forcible enough, and he came to a stop with an angry splutter: “Shame!” Stevie was no master of phrases, and perhaps for that very reason his thoughts lacked clearness and precision. But he felt with greater completeness and some profundity. That little word contained all his sense of indignation and horror at one sort of wretchedness having to feed upon the anguish of the other—at the poor cabman beating the poor horse in the name, as it were, of his poor kids at home. And Stevie knew what it was to be beaten. He knew it from experience. It was a bad world. Bad! Bad! Mrs Verloc, his only sister, guardian, and protector, could not pretend to such depths of insight. Moreover, she had not experienced the magic of the cabman’s eloquence. She was in the dark as to the inwardness of the word “Shame.” And she said placidly: “Come along, Stevie. You can’t help that.” The docile Stevie went along; but now he went along without pride, shamblingly, and muttering half words, and even words that would have been whole if they had not been made up of halves that did not belong to each other. It was as though he had been trying to fit all the words he could remember to his sentiments in order to get some sort of corresponding idea. And, as a matter of fact, he got it at last. He hung back to utter it at once. “Bad world for poor people.” Directly he had expressed that thought he became aware that it was familiar to him already in all its consequences. This circumstance strengthened his conviction immensely, but also augmented his indignation. Somebody, he felt, ought to be punished for it—punished with great severity. Being no sceptic, but a moral creature, he was in a manner at the mercy of his righteous passions. “Beastly!” he added concisely. It was clear to Mrs Verloc that he was greatly excited. “Nobody can help that,” she said. “Do come along. Is that the way you’re taking care of me?” Stevie mended his pace obediently. He prided himself on being a good brother. His morality, which was very complete, demanded that from him. Yet he was pained at the information imparted by his sister Winnie who was good. Nobody could help that! He came along gloomily, but presently he brightened up. Like the rest of mankind, perplexed by the mystery of the universe, he had his moments of consoling trust in the organised powers of the earth. “Police,” he suggested confidently. “The police aren’t for that,” observed Mrs Verloc cursorily, hurrying on her way. Stevie’s face lengthened considerably. He was thinking. The more intense his thinking, the slacker was the droop of his lower jaw. And it was with an aspect of hopeless vacancy that he gave up his intellectual enterprise. “Not for that?” he mumbled, resigned but surprised. “Not for that?” He had formed for himself an ideal conception of the metropolitan police as a sort of benevolent institution for the suppression of evil. The notion of benevolence especially was very closely associated with his sense of the power of the men in blue. He had liked all police constables tenderly, with a guileless trustfulness. And he was pained. He was irritated, too, by a suspicion of duplicity in the members of the force. For Stevie was frank and as open as the day himself. What did they mean by pretending then? Unlike his sister, who put her trust in face values, he wished to go to the bottom of the matter. He carried on his inquiry by means of an angry challenge. “What for are they then, Winn? What are they for? Tell me.” Winnie disliked controversy. But fearing most a fit of black depression consequent on Stevie missing his mother very much at first, she did not altogether decline the discussion. Guiltless of all irony, she answered yet in a form which was not perhaps unnatural in the wife of Mr Verloc, Delegate of the Central Red Committee, personal friend of certain anarchists, and a votary of social revolution. “Don’t you know what the police are for, Stevie? They are there so that them as have nothing shouldn’t take anything away from them who have.” She avoided using the verb “to steal,” because it always made her brother uncomfortable. For Stevie was delicately honest. Certain simple principles had been instilled into him so anxiously (on account of his “queerness”) that the mere names of certain transgressions filled him with horror. He had been always easily impressed by speeches. He was impressed and startled now, and his intelligence was very alert. “What?” he asked at once anxiously. “Not even if they were hungry? Mustn’t they?” The two had paused in their walk. “Not if they were ever so,” said Mrs Verloc, with the equanimity of a person untroubled by the problem of the distribution of wealth, and exploring the perspective of the roadway for an omnibus of the right colour. “Certainly not. But what’s the use of talking about all that? You aren’t ever hungry.” She cast a swift glance at the boy, like a young man, by her side. She saw him amiable, attractive, affectionate, and only a little, a very little, peculiar. And she could not see him otherwise, for he was connected with what there was of the salt of passion in her tasteless life—the passion of indignation, of courage, of pity, and even of self-sacrifice. She did not add: “And you aren’t likely ever to be as long as I live.” But she might very well have done so, since she had taken effectual steps to that end. Mr Verloc was a very good husband. It was her honest impression that nobody could help liking the boy. She cried out suddenly: “Quick, Stevie. Stop that green ’bus.” And Stevie, tremulous and important with his sister Winnie on his arm, flung up the other high above his head at the approaching ’bus, with complete success. An hour afterwards Mr Verloc raised his eyes from a newspaper he was reading, or at any rate looking at, behind the counter, and in the expiring clatter of the door-bell beheld Winnie, his wife, enter and cross the shop on her way upstairs, followed by Stevie, his brother-in-law. The sight of his wife was agreeable to Mr Verloc. It was his idiosyncrasy. The figure of his brother-in-law remained imperceptible to him because of the morose thoughtfulness that lately had fallen like a veil between Mr Verloc and the appearances of the world of senses. He looked after his wife fixedly, without a word, as though she had been a phantom. His voice for home use was husky and placid, but now it was heard not at all. It was not heard at supper, to which he was called by his wife in the usual brief manner: “Adolf.” He sat down to consume it without conviction, wearing his hat pushed far back on his head. It was not devotion to an outdoor life, but the frequentation of foreign cafés which was responsible for that habit, investing with a character of unceremonious impermanency Mr Verloc’s steady fidelity to his own fireside. Twice at the clatter of the cracked bell he arose without a word, disappeared into the shop, and came back silently. During these absences Mrs Verloc, becoming acutely aware of the vacant place at her right hand, missed her mother very much, and stared stonily; while Stevie, from the same reason, kept on shuffling his feet, as though the floor under the table were uncomfortably hot. When Mr Verloc returned to sit in his place, like the very embodiment of silence, the character of Mrs Verloc’s stare underwent a subtle change, and Stevie ceased to fidget with his feet, because of his great and awed regard for his sister’s husband. He directed at him glances of respectful compassion. Mr Verloc was sorry. His sister Winnie had impressed upon him (in the omnibus) that Mr Verloc would be found at home in a state of sorrow, and must not be worried. His father’s anger, the irritability of gentlemen lodgers, and Mr Verloc’s predisposition to immoderate grief, had been the main sanctions of Stevie’s self-restraint. Of these sentiments, all easily provoked, but not always easy to understand, the last had the greatest moral efficiency—because Mr Verloc was _good_. His mother and his sister had established that ethical fact on an unshakable foundation. They had established, erected, consecrated it behind Mr Verloc’s back, for reasons that had nothing to do with abstract morality. And Mr Verloc was not aware of it. It is but bare justice to him to say that he had no notion of appearing good to Stevie. Yet so it was. He was even the only man so qualified in Stevie’s knowledge, because the gentlemen lodgers had been too transient and too remote to have anything very distinct about them but perhaps their boots; and as regards the disciplinary measures of his father, the desolation of his mother and sister shrank from setting up a theory of goodness before the victim. It would have been too cruel. And it was even possible that Stevie would not have believed them. As far as Mr Verloc was concerned, nothing could stand in the way of Stevie’s belief. Mr Verloc was obviously yet mysteriously _good_. And the grief of a good man is august. Stevie gave glances of reverential compassion to his brother-in-law. Mr Verloc was sorry. The brother of Winnie had never before felt himself in such close communion with the mystery of that man’s goodness. It was an understandable sorrow. And Stevie himself was sorry. He was very sorry. The same sort of sorrow. And his attention being drawn to this unpleasant state, Stevie shuffled his feet. His feelings were habitually manifested by the agitation of his limbs. “Keep your feet quiet, dear,” said Mrs Verloc, with authority and tenderness; then turning towards her husband in an indifferent voice, the masterly achievement of instinctive tact: “Are you going out to-night?” she asked. The mere suggestion seemed repugnant to Mr Verloc. He shook his head moodily, and then sat still with downcast eyes, looking at the piece of cheese on his plate for a whole minute. At the end of that time he got up, and went out—went right out in the clatter of the shop-door bell. He acted thus inconsistently, not from any desire to make himself unpleasant, but because of an unconquerable restlessness. It was no earthly good going out. He could not find anywhere in London what he wanted. But he went out. He led a cortege of dismal thoughts along dark streets, through lighted streets, in and out of two flash bars, as if in a half-hearted attempt to make a night of it, and finally back again to his menaced home, where he sat down fatigued behind the counter, and they crowded urgently round him, like a pack of hungry black hounds. After locking up the house and putting out the gas he took them upstairs with him—a dreadful escort for a man going to bed. His wife had preceded him some time before, and with her ample form defined vaguely under the counterpane, her head on the pillow, and a hand under the cheek offered to his distraction the view of early drowsiness arguing the possession of an equable soul. Her big eyes stared wide open, inert and dark against the snowy whiteness of the linen. She did not move. She had an equable soul. She felt profoundly that things do not stand much looking into. She made her force and her wisdom of that instinct. But the taciturnity of Mr Verloc had been lying heavily upon her for a good many days. It was, as a matter of fact, affecting her nerves. Recumbent and motionless, she said placidly: “You’ll catch cold walking about in your socks like this.” This speech, becoming the solicitude of the wife and the prudence of the woman, took Mr Verloc unawares. He had left his boots downstairs, but he had forgotten to put on his slippers, and he had been turning about the bedroom on noiseless pads like a bear in a cage. At the sound of his wife’s voice he stopped and stared at her with a somnambulistic, expressionless gaze so long that Mrs Verloc moved her limbs slightly under the bed-clothes. But she did not move her black head sunk in the white pillow one hand under her cheek and the big, dark, unwinking eyes. Under her husband’s expressionless stare, and remembering her mother’s empty room across the landing, she felt an acute pang of loneliness. She had never been parted from her mother before. They had stood by each other. She felt that they had, and she said to herself that now mother was gone—gone for good. Mrs Verloc had no illusions. Stevie remained, however. And she said: “Mother’s done what she wanted to do. There’s no sense in it that I can see. I’m sure she couldn’t have thought you had enough of her. It’s perfectly wicked, leaving us like that.” Mr Verloc was not a well-read person; his range of allusive phrases was limited, but there was a peculiar aptness in circumstances which made him think of rats leaving a doomed ship. He very nearly said so. He had grown suspicious and embittered. Could it be that the old woman had such an excellent nose? But the unreasonableness of such a suspicion was patent, and Mr Verloc held his tongue. Not altogether, however. He muttered heavily: “Perhaps it’s just as well.” He began to undress. Mrs Verloc kept very still, perfectly still, with her eyes fixed in a dreamy, quiet stare. And her heart for the fraction of a second seemed to stand still too. That night she was “not quite herself,” as the saying is, and it was borne upon her with some force that a simple sentence may hold several diverse meanings—mostly disagreeable. How was it just as well? And why? But she did not allow herself to fall into the idleness of barren speculation. She was rather confirmed in her belief that things did not stand being looked into. Practical and subtle in her way, she brought Stevie to the front without loss of time, because in her the singleness of purpose had the unerring nature and the force of an instinct. “What I am going to do to cheer up that boy for the first few days I’m sure I don’t know. He’ll be worrying himself from morning till night before he gets used to mother being away. And he’s such a good boy. I couldn’t do without him.” Mr Verloc went on divesting himself of his clothing with the unnoticing inward concentration of a man undressing in the solitude of a vast and hopeless desert. For thus inhospitably did this fair earth, our common inheritance, present itself to the mental vision of Mr Verloc. All was so still without and within that the lonely ticking of the clock on the landing stole into the room as if for the sake of company. Mr Verloc, getting into bed on his own side, remained prone and mute behind Mrs Verloc’s back. His thick arms rested abandoned on the outside of the counterpane like dropped weapons, like discarded tools. At that moment he was within a hair’s breadth of making a clean breast of it all to his wife. The moment seemed propitious. Looking out of the corners of his eyes, he saw her ample shoulders draped in white, the back of her head, with the hair done for the night in three plaits tied up with black tapes at the ends. And he forbore. Mr Verloc loved his wife as a wife should be loved—that is, maritally, with the regard one has for one’s chief possession. This head arranged for the night, those ample shoulders, had an aspect of familiar sacredness—the sacredness of domestic peace. She moved not, massive and shapeless like a recumbent statue in the rough; he remembered her wide-open eyes looking into the empty room. She was mysterious, with the mysteriousness of living beings. The far-famed secret agent [delta] of the late Baron Stott-Wartenheim’s alarmist despatches was not the man to break into such mysteries. He was easily intimidated. And he was also indolent, with the indolence which is so often the secret of good nature. He forbore touching that mystery out of love, timidity, and indolence. There would be always time enough. For several minutes he bore his sufferings silently in the drowsy silence of the room. And then he disturbed it by a resolute declaration. “I am going on the Continent to-morrow.” His wife might have fallen asleep already. He could not tell. As a matter of fact, Mrs Verloc had heard him. Her eyes remained very wide open, and she lay very still, confirmed in her instinctive conviction that things don’t bear looking into very much. And yet it was nothing very unusual for Mr Verloc to take such a trip. He renewed his stock from Paris and Brussels. Often he went over to make his purchases personally. A little select connection of amateurs was forming around the shop in Brett Street, a secret connection eminently proper for any business undertaken by Mr Verloc, who, by a mystic accord of temperament and necessity, had been set apart to be a secret agent all his life. He waited for a while, then added: “I’ll be away a week or perhaps a fortnight. Get Mrs Neale to come for the day.” Mrs Neale was the charwoman of Brett Street. Victim of her marriage with a debauched joiner, she was oppressed by the needs of many infant children. Red-armed, and aproned in coarse sacking up to the arm-pits, she exhaled the anguish of the poor in a breath of soap-suds and rum, in the uproar of scrubbing, in the clatter of tin pails. Mrs Verloc, full of deep purpose, spoke in the tone of the shallowest indifference. “There is no need to have the woman here all day. I shall do very well with Stevie.” She let the lonely clock on the landing count off fifteen ticks into the abyss of eternity, and asked: “Shall I put the light out?” Mr Verloc snapped at his wife huskily. “Put it out.” CHAPTER IX Mr Verloc returning from the Continent at the end of ten days, brought back a mind evidently unrefreshed by the wonders of foreign travel and a countenance unlighted by the joys of home-coming. He entered in the clatter of the shop bell with an air of sombre and vexed exhaustion. His bag in hand, his head lowered, he strode straight behind the counter, and let himself fall into the chair, as though he had tramped all the way from Dover. It was early morning. Stevie, dusting various objects displayed in the front windows, turned to gape at him with reverence and awe. “Here!” said Mr Verloc, giving a slight kick to the gladstone bag on the floor; and Stevie flung himself upon it, seized it, bore it off with triumphant devotion. He was so prompt that Mr Verloc was distinctly surprised. Already at the clatter of the shop bell Mrs Neale, blackleading the parlour grate, had looked through the door, and rising from her knees had gone, aproned, and grimy with everlasting toil, to tell Mrs Verloc in the kitchen that “there was the master come back.” Winnie came no farther than the inner shop door. “You’ll want some breakfast,” she said from a distance. Mr Verloc moved his hands slightly, as if overcome by an impossible suggestion. But once enticed into the parlour he did not reject the food set before him. He ate as if in a public place, his hat pushed off his forehead, the skirts of his heavy overcoat hanging in a triangle on each side of the chair. And across the length of the table covered with brown oil-cloth Winnie, his wife, talked evenly at him the wifely talk, as artfully adapted, no doubt, to the circumstances of this return as the talk of Penelope to the return of the wandering Odysseus. Mrs Verloc, however, had done no weaving during her husband’s absence. But she had had all the upstairs room cleaned thoroughly, had sold some wares, had seen Mr Michaelis several times. He had told her the last time that he was going away to live in a cottage in the country, somewhere on the London, Chatham, and Dover line. Karl Yundt had come too, once, led under the arm by that “wicked old housekeeper of his.” He was “a disgusting old man.” Of Comrade Ossipon, whom she had received curtly, entrenched behind the counter with a stony face and a faraway gaze, she said nothing, her mental reference to the robust anarchist being marked by a short pause, with the faintest possible blush. And bringing in her brother Stevie as soon as she could into the current of domestic events, she mentioned that the boy had moped a good deal. “It’s all along of mother leaving us like this.” Mr Verloc neither said, “Damn!” nor yet “Stevie be hanged!” And Mrs Verloc, not let into the secret of his thoughts, failed to appreciate the generosity of this restraint. “It isn’t that he doesn’t work as well as ever,” she continued. “He’s been making himself very useful. You’d think he couldn’t do enough for us.” Mr Verloc directed a casual and somnolent glance at Stevie, who sat on his right, delicate, pale-faced, his rosy mouth open vacantly. It was not a critical glance. It had no intention. And if Mr Verloc thought for a moment that his wife’s brother looked uncommonly useless, it was only a dull and fleeting thought, devoid of that force and durability which enables sometimes a thought to move the world. Leaning back, Mr Verloc uncovered his head. Before his extended arm could put down the hat Stevie pounced upon it, and bore it off reverently into the kitchen. And again Mr Verloc was surprised. “You could do anything with that boy, Adolf,” Mrs Verloc said, with her best air of inflexible calmness. “He would go through fire for you. He—” She paused attentive, her ear turned towards the door of the kitchen. There Mrs Neale was scrubbing the floor. At Stevie’s appearance she groaned lamentably, having observed that he could be induced easily to bestow for the benefit of her infant children the shilling his sister Winnie presented him with from time to time. On all fours amongst the puddles, wet and begrimed, like a sort of amphibious and domestic animal living in ash-bins and dirty water, she uttered the usual exordium: “It’s all very well for you, kept doing nothing like a gentleman.” And she followed it with the everlasting plaint of the poor, pathetically mendacious, miserably authenticated by the horrible breath of cheap rum and soap-suds. She scrubbed hard, snuffling all the time, and talking volubly. And she was sincere. And on each side of her thin red nose her bleared, misty eyes swam in tears, because she felt really the want of some sort of stimulant in the morning. In the parlour Mrs Verloc observed, with knowledge: “There’s Mrs Neale at it again with her harrowing tales about her little children. They can’t be all so little as she makes them out. Some of them must be big enough by now to try to do something for themselves. It only makes Stevie angry.” These words were confirmed by a thud as of a fist striking the kitchen table. In the normal evolution of his sympathy Stevie had become angry on discovering that he had no shilling in his pocket. In his inability to relieve at once Mrs Neale’s “little ’uns’” privations, he felt that somebody should be made to suffer for it. Mrs Verloc rose, and went into the kitchen to “stop that nonsense.” And she did it firmly but gently. She was well aware that directly Mrs Neale received her money she went round the corner to drink ardent spirits in a mean and musty public-house—the unavoidable station on the _via dolorosa_ of her life. Mrs Verloc’s comment upon this practice had an unexpected profundity, as coming from a person disinclined to look under the surface of things. “Of course, what is she to do to keep up? If I were like Mrs Neale I expect I wouldn’t act any different.” In the afternoon of the same day, as Mr Verloc, coming with a start out of the last of a long series of dozes before the parlour fire, declared his intention of going out for a walk, Winnie said from the shop: “I wish you would take that boy out with you, Adolf.” For the third time that day Mr Verloc was surprised. He stared stupidly at his wife. She continued in her steady manner. The boy, whenever he was not doing anything, moped in the house. It made her uneasy; it made her nervous, she confessed. And that from the calm Winnie sounded like exaggeration. But, in truth, Stevie moped in the striking fashion of an unhappy domestic animal. He would go up on the dark landing, to sit on the floor at the foot of the tall clock, with his knees drawn up and his head in his hands. To come upon his pallid face, with its big eyes gleaming in the dusk, was discomposing; to think of him up there was uncomfortable. Mr Verloc got used to the startling novelty of the idea. He was fond of his wife as a man should be—that is, generously. But a weighty objection presented itself to his mind, and he formulated it. “He’ll lose sight of me perhaps, and get lost in the street,” he said. Mrs Verloc shook her head competently. “He won’t. You don’t know him. That boy just worships you. But if you should miss him—” Mrs Verloc paused for a moment, but only for a moment. “You just go on, and have your walk out. Don’t worry. He’ll be all right. He’s sure to turn up safe here before very long.” This optimism procured for Mr Verloc his fourth surprise of the day. “Is he?” he grunted doubtfully. But perhaps his brother-in-law was not such an idiot as he looked. His wife would know best. He turned away his heavy eyes, saying huskily: “Well, let him come along, then,” and relapsed into the clutches of black care, that perhaps prefers to sit behind a horseman, but knows also how to tread close on the heels of people not sufficiently well off to keep horses—like Mr Verloc, for instance. Winnie, at the shop door, did not see this fatal attendant upon Mr Verloc’s walks. She watched the two figures down the squalid street, one tall and burly, the other slight and short, with a thin neck, and the peaked shoulders raised slightly under the large semi-transparent ears. The material of their overcoats was the same, their hats were black and round in shape. Inspired by the similarity of wearing apparel, Mrs Verloc gave rein to her fancy. “Might be father and son,” she said to herself. She thought also that Mr Verloc was as much of a father as poor Stevie ever had in his life. She was aware also that it was her work. And with peaceful pride she congratulated herself on a certain resolution she had taken a few years before. It had cost her some effort, and even a few tears. She congratulated herself still more on observing in the course of days that Mr Verloc seemed to be taking kindly to Stevie’s companionship. Now, when ready to go out for his walk, Mr Verloc called aloud to the boy, in the spirit, no doubt, in which a man invites the attendance of the household dog, though, of course, in a different manner. In the house Mr Verloc could be detected staring curiously at Stevie a good deal. His own demeanour had changed. Taciturn still, he was not so listless. Mrs Verloc thought that he was rather jumpy at times. It might have been regarded as an improvement. As to Stevie, he moped no longer at the foot of the clock, but muttered to himself in corners instead in a threatening tone. When asked “What is it you’re saying, Stevie?” he merely opened his mouth, and squinted at his sister. At odd times he clenched his fists without apparent cause, and when discovered in solitude would be scowling at the wall, with the sheet of paper and the pencil given him for drawing circles lying blank and idle on the kitchen table. This was a change, but it was no improvement. Mrs Verloc including all these vagaries under the general definition of excitement, began to fear that Stevie was hearing more than was good for him of her husband’s conversations with his friends. During his “walks” Mr Verloc, of course, met and conversed with various persons. It could hardly be otherwise. His walks were an integral part of his outdoor activities, which his wife had never looked deeply into. Mrs Verloc felt that the position was delicate, but she faced it with the same impenetrable calmness which impressed and even astonished the customers of the shop and made the other visitors keep their distance a little wonderingly. No! She feared that there were things not good for Stevie to hear of, she told her husband. It only excited the poor boy, because he could not help them being so. Nobody could. It was in the shop. Mr Verloc made no comment. He made no retort, and yet the retort was obvious. But he refrained from pointing out to his wife that the idea of making Stevie the companion of his walks was her own, and nobody else’s. At that moment, to an impartial observer, Mr Verloc would have appeared more than human in his magnanimity. He took down a small cardboard box from a shelf, peeped in to see that the contents were all right, and put it down gently on the counter. Not till that was done did he break the silence, to the effect that most likely Stevie would profit greatly by being sent out of town for a while; only he supposed his wife could not get on without him. “Could not get on without him!” repeated Mrs Verloc slowly. “I couldn’t get on without him if it were for his good! The idea! Of course, I can get on without him. But there’s nowhere for him to go.” Mr Verloc got out some brown paper and a ball of string; and meanwhile he muttered that Michaelis was living in a little cottage in the country. Michaelis wouldn’t mind giving Stevie a room to sleep in. There were no visitors and no talk there. Michaelis was writing a book. Mrs Verloc declared her affection for Michaelis; mentioned her abhorrence of Karl Yundt, “nasty old man”; and of Ossipon she said nothing. As to Stevie, he could be no other than very pleased. Mr Michaelis was always so nice and kind to him. He seemed to like the boy. Well, the boy was a good boy. “You too seem to have grown quite fond of him of late,” she added, after a pause, with her inflexible assurance. Mr Verloc tying up the cardboard box into a parcel for the post, broke the string by an injudicious jerk, and muttered several swear words confidentially to himself. Then raising his tone to the usual husky mutter, he announced his willingness to take Stevie into the country himself, and leave him all safe with Michaelis. He carried out this scheme on the very next day. Stevie offered no objection. He seemed rather eager, in a bewildered sort of way. He turned his candid gaze inquisitively to Mr Verloc’s heavy countenance at frequent intervals, especially when his sister was not looking at him. His expression was proud, apprehensive, and concentrated, like that of a small child entrusted for the first time with a box of matches and the permission to strike a light. But Mrs Verloc, gratified by her brother’s docility, recommended him not to dirty his clothes unduly in the country. At this Stevie gave his sister, guardian and protector a look, which for the first time in his life seemed to lack the quality of perfect childlike trustfulness. It was haughtily gloomy. Mrs Verloc smiled. “Goodness me! You needn’t be offended. You know you do get yourself very untidy when you get a chance, Stevie.” Mr Verloc was already gone some way down the street. Thus in consequence of her mother’s heroic proceedings, and of her brother’s absence on this villegiature, Mrs Verloc found herself oftener than usual all alone not only in the shop, but in the house. For Mr Verloc had to take his walks. She was alone longer than usual on the day of the attempted bomb outrage in Greenwich Park, because Mr Verloc went out very early that morning and did not come back till nearly dusk. She did not mind being alone. She had no desire to go out. The weather was too bad, and the shop was cosier than the streets. Sitting behind the counter with some sewing, she did not raise her eyes from her work when Mr Verloc entered in the aggressive clatter of the bell. She had recognised his step on the pavement outside. She did not raise her eyes, but as Mr Verloc, silent, and with his hat rammed down upon his forehead, made straight for the parlour door, she said serenely: “What a wretched day. You’ve been perhaps to see Stevie?” “No! I haven’t,” said Mr Verloc softly, and slammed the glazed parlour door behind him with unexpected energy. For some time Mrs Verloc remained quiescent, with her work dropped in her lap, before she put it away under the counter and got up to light the gas. This done, she went into the parlour on her way to the kitchen. Mr Verloc would want his tea presently. Confident of the power of her charms, Winnie did not expect from her husband in the daily intercourse of their married life a ceremonious amenity of address and courtliness of manner; vain and antiquated forms at best, probably never very exactly observed, discarded nowadays even in the highest spheres, and always foreign to the standards of her class. She did not look for courtesies from him. But he was a good husband, and she had a loyal respect for his rights. Mrs Verloc would have gone through the parlour and on to her domestic duties in the kitchen with the perfect serenity of a woman sure of the power of her charms. But a slight, very slight, and rapid rattling sound grew upon her hearing. Bizarre and incomprehensible, it arrested Mrs Verloc’s attention. Then as its character became plain to the ear she stopped short, amazed and concerned. Striking a match on the box she held in her hand, she turned on and lighted, above the parlour table, one of the two gas-burners, which, being defective, first whistled as if astonished, and then went on purring comfortably like a cat. Mr Verloc, against his usual practice, had thrown off his overcoat. It was lying on the sofa. His hat, which he must also have thrown off, rested overturned under the edge of the sofa. He had dragged a chair in front of the fireplace, and his feet planted inside the fender, his head held between his hands, he was hanging low over the glowing grate. His teeth rattled with an ungovernable violence, causing his whole enormous back to tremble at the same rate. Mrs Verloc was startled. “You’ve been getting wet,” she said. “Not very,” Mr Verloc managed to falter out, in a profound shudder. By a great effort he suppressed the rattling of his teeth. “I’ll have you laid up on my hands,” she said, with genuine uneasiness. “I don’t think so,” remarked Mr Verloc, snuffling huskily. He had certainly contrived somehow to catch an abominable cold between seven in the morning and five in the afternoon. Mrs Verloc looked at his bowed back. “Where have you been to-day?” she asked. “Nowhere,” answered Mr Verloc in a low, choked nasal tone. His attitude suggested aggrieved sulks or a severe headache. The unsufficiency and uncandidness of his answer became painfully apparent in the dead silence of the room. He snuffled apologetically, and added: “I’ve been to the bank.” Mrs Verloc became attentive. “You have!” she said dispassionately. “What for?” Mr Verloc mumbled, with his nose over the grate, and with marked unwillingness. “Draw the money out!” “What do you mean? All of it?” “Yes. All of it.” Mrs Verloc spread out with care the scanty table-cloth, got two knives and two forks out of the table drawer, and suddenly stopped in her methodical proceedings. “What did you do that for?” “May want it soon,” snuffled vaguely Mr Verloc, who was coming to the end of his calculated indiscretions. “I don’t know what you mean,” remarked his wife in a tone perfectly casual, but standing stock still between the table and the cupboard. “You know you can trust me,” Mr Verloc remarked to the grate, with hoarse feeling. Mrs Verloc turned slowly towards the cupboard, saying with deliberation: “Oh yes. I can trust you.” And she went on with her methodical proceedings. She laid two plates, got the bread, the butter, going to and fro quietly between the table and the cupboard in the peace and silence of her home. On the point of taking out the jam, she reflected practically: “He will be feeling hungry, having been away all day,” and she returned to the cupboard once more to get the cold beef. She set it under the purring gas-jet, and with a passing glance at her motionless husband hugging the fire, she went (down two steps) into the kitchen. It was only when coming back, carving knife and fork in hand, that she spoke again. “If I hadn’t trusted you I wouldn’t have married you.” Bowed under the overmantel, Mr Verloc, holding his head in both hands, seemed to have gone to sleep. Winnie made the tea, and called out in an undertone: “Adolf.” Mr Verloc got up at once, and staggered a little before he sat down at the table. His wife examining the sharp edge of the carving knife, placed it on the dish, and called his attention to the cold beef. He remained insensible to the suggestion, with his chin on his breast. “You should feed your cold,” Mrs Verloc said dogmatically. He looked up, and shook his head. His eyes were bloodshot and his face red. His fingers had ruffled his hair into a dissipated untidiness. Altogether he had a disreputable aspect, expressive of the discomfort, the irritation and the gloom following a heavy debauch. But Mr Verloc was not a debauched man. In his conduct he was respectable. His appearance might have been the effect of a feverish cold. He drank three cups of tea, but abstained from food entirely. He recoiled from it with sombre aversion when urged by Mrs Verloc, who said at last: “Aren’t your feet wet? You had better put on your slippers. You aren’t going out any more this evening.” Mr Verloc intimated by morose grunts and signs that his feet were not wet, and that anyhow he did not care. The proposal as to slippers was disregarded as beneath his notice. But the question of going out in the evening received an unexpected development. It was not of going out in the evening that Mr Verloc was thinking. His thoughts embraced a vaster scheme. From moody and incomplete phrases it became apparent that Mr Verloc had been considering the expediency of emigrating. It was not very clear whether he had in his mind France or California. The utter unexpectedness, improbability, and inconceivableness of such an event robbed this vague declaration of all its effect. Mrs Verloc, as placidly as if her husband had been threatening her with the end of the world, said: “The idea!” Mr Verloc declared himself sick and tired of everything, and besides—She interrupted him. “You’ve a bad cold.” It was indeed obvious that Mr Verloc was not in his usual state, physically and even mentally. A sombre irresolution held him silent for a while. Then he murmured a few ominous generalities on the theme of necessity. “Will have to,” repeated Winnie, sitting calmly back, with folded arms, opposite her husband. “I should like to know who’s to make you. You ain’t a slave. No one need be a slave in this country—and don’t you make yourself one.” She paused, and with invincible and steady candour. “The business isn’t so bad,” she went on. “You’ve a comfortable home.” She glanced all round the parlour, from the corner cupboard to the good fire in the grate. Ensconced cosily behind the shop of doubtful wares, with the mysteriously dim window, and its door suspiciously ajar in the obscure and narrow street, it was in all essentials of domestic propriety and domestic comfort a respectable home. Her devoted affection missed out of it her brother Stevie, now enjoying a damp villegiature in the Kentish lanes under the care of Mr Michaelis. She missed him poignantly, with all the force of her protecting passion. This was the boy’s home too—the roof, the cupboard, the stoked grate. On this thought Mrs Verloc rose, and walking to the other end of the table, said in the fulness of her heart: “And you are not tired of me.” Mr Verloc made no sound. Winnie leaned on his shoulder from behind, and pressed her lips to his forehead. Thus she lingered. Not a whisper reached them from the outside world. The sound of footsteps on the pavement died out in the discreet dimness of the shop. Only the gas-jet above the table went on purring equably in the brooding silence of the parlour. During the contact of that unexpected and lingering kiss Mr Verloc, gripping with both hands the edges of his chair, preserved a hieratic immobility. When the pressure was removed he let go the chair, rose, and went to stand before the fireplace. He turned no longer his back to the room. With his features swollen and an air of being drugged, he followed his wife’s movements with his eyes. Mrs Verloc went about serenely, clearing up the table. Her tranquil voice commented the idea thrown out in a reasonable and domestic tone. It wouldn’t stand examination. She condemned it from every point of view. But her only real concern was Stevie’s welfare. He appeared to her thought in that connection as sufficiently “peculiar” not to be taken rashly abroad. And that was all. But talking round that vital point, she approached absolute vehemence in her delivery. Meanwhile, with brusque movements, she arrayed herself in an apron for the washing up of cups. And as if excited by the sound of her uncontradicted voice, she went so far as to say in a tone almost tart: “If you go abroad you’ll have to go without me.” “You know I wouldn’t,” said Mr Verloc huskily, and the unresonant voice of his private life trembled with an enigmatical emotion. Already Mrs Verloc was regretting her words. They had sounded more unkind than she meant them to be. They had also the unwisdom of unnecessary things. In fact, she had not meant them at all. It was a sort of phrase that is suggested by the demon of perverse inspiration. But she knew a way to make it as if it had not been. She turned her head over her shoulder and gave that man planted heavily in front of the fireplace a glance, half arch, half cruel, out of her large eyes—a glance of which the Winnie of the Belgravian mansion days would have been incapable, because of her respectability and her ignorance. But the man was her husband now, and she was no longer ignorant. She kept it on him for a whole second, with her grave face motionless like a mask, while she said playfully: “You couldn’t. You would miss me too much.” Mr Verloc started forward. “Exactly,” he said in a louder tone, throwing his arms out and making a step towards her. Something wild and doubtful in his expression made it appear uncertain whether he meant to strangle or to embrace his wife. But Mrs Verloc’s attention was called away from that manifestation by the clatter of the shop bell. “Shop, Adolf. You go.” He stopped, his arms came down slowly. “You go,” repeated Mrs Verloc. “I’ve got my apron on.” Mr Verloc obeyed woodenly, stony-eyed, and like an automaton whose face had been painted red. And this resemblance to a mechanical figure went so far that he had an automaton’s absurd air of being aware of the machinery inside of him. He closed the parlour door, and Mrs Verloc moving briskly, carried the tray into the kitchen. She washed the cups and some other things before she stopped in her work to listen. No sound reached her. The customer was a long time in the shop. It was a customer, because if he had not been Mr Verloc would have taken him inside. Undoing the strings of her apron with a jerk, she threw it on a chair, and walked back to the parlour slowly. At that precise moment Mr Verloc entered from the shop. He had gone in red. He came out a strange papery white. His face, losing its drugged, feverish stupor, had in that short time acquired a bewildered and harassed expression. He walked straight to the sofa, and stood looking down at his overcoat lying there, as though he were afraid to touch it. “What’s the matter?” asked Mrs Verloc in a subdued voice. Through the door left ajar she could see that the customer was not gone yet. “I find I’ll have to go out this evening,” said Mr Verloc. He did not attempt to pick up his outer garment. Without a word Winnie made for the shop, and shutting the door after her, walked in behind the counter. She did not look overtly at the customer till she had established herself comfortably on the chair. But by that time she had noted that he was tall and thin, and wore his moustaches twisted up. In fact, he gave the sharp points a twist just then. His long, bony face rose out of a turned-up collar. He was a little splashed, a little wet. A dark man, with the ridge of the cheek-bone well defined under the slightly hollow temple. A complete stranger. Not a customer either. Mrs Verloc looked at him placidly. “You came over from the Continent?” she said after a time. The long, thin stranger, without exactly looking at Mrs Verloc, answered only by a faint and peculiar smile. Mrs Verloc’s steady, incurious gaze rested on him. “You understand English, don’t you?” “Oh yes. I understand English.” There was nothing foreign in his accent, except that he seemed in his slow enunciation to be taking pains with it. And Mrs Verloc, in her varied experience, had come to the conclusion that some foreigners could speak better English than the natives. She said, looking at the door of the parlour fixedly: “You don’t think perhaps of staying in England for good?” The stranger gave her again a silent smile. He had a kindly mouth and probing eyes. And he shook his head a little sadly, it seemed. “My husband will see you through all right. Meantime for a few days you couldn’t do better than take lodgings with Mr Giugliani. Continental Hotel it’s called. Private. It’s quiet. My husband will take you there.” “A good idea,” said the thin, dark man, whose glance had hardened suddenly. “You knew Mr Verloc before—didn’t you? Perhaps in France?” “I have heard of him,” admitted the visitor in his slow, painstaking tone, which yet had a certain curtness of intention. There was a pause. Then he spoke again, in a far less elaborate manner. “Your husband has not gone out to wait for me in the street by chance?” “In the street!” repeated Mrs Verloc, surprised. “He couldn’t. There’s no other door to the house.” For a moment she sat impassive, then left her seat to go and peep through the glazed door. Suddenly she opened it, and disappeared into the parlour. Mr Verloc had done no more than put on his overcoat. But why he should remain afterwards leaning over the table propped up on his two arms as though he were feeling giddy or sick, she could not understand. “Adolf,” she called out half aloud; and when he had raised himself: “Do you know that man?” she asked rapidly. “I’ve heard of him,” whispered uneasily Mr Verloc, darting a wild glance at the door. Mrs Verloc’s fine, incurious eyes lighted up with a flash of abhorrence. “One of Karl Yundt’s friends—beastly old man.” “No! No!” protested Mr Verloc, busy fishing for his hat. But when he got it from under the sofa he held it as if he did not know the use of a hat. “Well—he’s waiting for you,” said Mrs Verloc at last. “I say, Adolf, he ain’t one of them Embassy people you have been bothered with of late?” “Bothered with Embassy people,” repeated Mr Verloc, with a heavy start of surprise and fear. “Who’s been talking to you of the Embassy people?” “Yourself.” “I! I! Talked of the Embassy to you!” Mr Verloc seemed scared and bewildered beyond measure. His wife explained: “You’ve been talking a little in your sleep of late, Adolf.” “What—what did I say? What do you know?” “Nothing much. It seemed mostly nonsense. Enough to let me guess that something worried you.” Mr Verloc rammed his hat on his head. A crimson flood of anger ran over his face. “Nonsense—eh? The Embassy people! I would cut their hearts out one after another. But let them look out. I’ve got a tongue in my head.” He fumed, pacing up and down between the table and the sofa, his open overcoat catching against the angles. The red flood of anger ebbed out, and left his face all white, with quivering nostrils. Mrs Verloc, for the purposes of practical existence, put down these appearances to the cold. “Well,” she said, “get rid of the man, whoever he is, as soon as you can, and come back home to me. You want looking after for a day or two.” Mr Verloc calmed down, and, with resolution imprinted on his pale face, had already opened the door, when his wife called him back in a whisper: “Adolf! Adolf!” He came back startled. “What about that money you drew out?” she asked. “You’ve got it in your pocket? Hadn’t you better—” Mr Verloc gazed stupidly into the palm of his wife’s extended hand for some time before he slapped his brow. “Money! Yes! Yes! I didn’t know what you meant.” He drew out of his breast pocket a new pigskin pocket-book. Mrs Verloc received it without another word, and stood still till the bell, clattering after Mr Verloc and Mr Verloc’s visitor, had quieted down. Only then she peeped in at the amount, drawing the notes out for the purpose. After this inspection she looked round thoughtfully, with an air of mistrust in the silence and solitude of the house. This abode of her married life appeared to her as lonely and unsafe as though it had been situated in the midst of a forest. No receptacle she could think of amongst the solid, heavy furniture seemed other but flimsy and particularly tempting to her conception of a house-breaker. It was an ideal conception, endowed with sublime faculties and a miraculous insight. The till was not to be thought of. It was the first spot a thief would make for. Mrs Verloc unfastening hastily a couple of hooks, slipped the pocket-book under the bodice of her dress. Having thus disposed of her husband’s capital, she was rather glad to hear the clatter of the door bell, announcing an arrival. Assuming the fixed, unabashed stare and the stony expression reserved for the casual customer, she walked in behind the counter. A man standing in the middle of the shop was inspecting it with a swift, cool, all-round glance. His eyes ran over the walls, took in the ceiling, noted the floor—all in a moment. The points of a long fair moustache fell below the line of the jaw. He smiled the smile of an old if distant acquaintance, and Mrs Verloc remembered having seen him before. Not a customer. She softened her “customer stare” to mere indifference, and faced him across the counter. He approached, on his side, confidentially, but not too markedly so. “Husband at home, Mrs Verloc?” he asked in an easy, full tone. “No. He’s gone out.” “I am sorry for that. I’ve called to get from him a little private information.” This was the exact truth. Chief Inspector Heat had been all the way home, and had even gone so far as to think of getting into his slippers, since practically he was, he told himself, chucked out of that case. He indulged in some scornful and in a few angry thoughts, and found the occupation so unsatisfactory that he resolved to seek relief out of doors. Nothing prevented him paying a friendly call to Mr Verloc, casually as it were. It was in the character of a private citizen that walking out privately he made use of his customary conveyances. Their general direction was towards Mr Verloc’s home. Chief Inspector Heat respected his own private character so consistently that he took especial pains to avoid all the police constables on point and patrol duty in the vicinity of Brett Street. This precaution was much more necessary for a man of his standing than for an obscure Assistant Commissioner. Private Citizen Heat entered the street, manoeuvring in a way which in a member of the criminal classes would have been stigmatised as slinking. The piece of cloth picked up in Greenwich was in his pocket. Not that he had the slightest intention of producing it in his private capacity. On the contrary, he wanted to know just what Mr Verloc would be disposed to say voluntarily. He hoped Mr Verloc’s talk would be of a nature to incriminate Michaelis. It was a conscientiously professional hope in the main, but not without its moral value. For Chief Inspector Heat was a servant of justice. Finding Mr Verloc from home, he felt disappointed. “I would wait for him a little if I were sure he wouldn’t be long,” he said. Mrs Verloc volunteered no assurance of any kind. “The information I need is quite private,” he repeated. “You understand what I mean? I wonder if you could give me a notion where he’s gone to?” Mrs Verloc shook her head. “Can’t say.” She turned away to range some boxes on the shelves behind the counter. Chief Inspector Heat looked at her thoughtfully for a time. “I suppose you know who I am?” he said. Mrs Verloc glanced over her shoulder. Chief Inspector Heat was amazed at her coolness. “Come! You know I am in the police,” he said sharply. “I don’t trouble my head much about it,” Mrs Verloc remarked, returning to the ranging of her boxes. “My name is Heat. Chief Inspector Heat of the Special Crimes section.” Mrs Verloc adjusted nicely in its place a small cardboard box, and turning round, faced him again, heavy-eyed, with idle hands hanging down. A silence reigned for a time. “So your husband went out a quarter of an hour ago! And he didn’t say when he would be back?” “He didn’t go out alone,” Mrs Verloc let fall negligently. “A friend?” Mrs Verloc touched the back of her hair. It was in perfect order. “A stranger who called.” “I see. What sort of man was that stranger? Would you mind telling me?” Mrs Verloc did not mind. And when Chief Inspector Heat heard of a man dark, thin, with a long face and turned up moustaches, he gave signs of perturbation, and exclaimed: “Dash me if I didn’t think so! He hasn’t lost any time.” He was intensely disgusted in the secrecy of his heart at the unofficial conduct of his immediate chief. But he was not quixotic. He lost all desire to await Mr Verloc’s return. What they had gone out for he did not know, but he imagined it possible that they would return together. The case is not followed properly, it’s being tampered with, he thought bitterly. “I am afraid I haven’t time to wait for your husband,” he said. Mrs Verloc received this declaration listlessly. Her detachment had impressed Chief Inspector Heat all along. At this precise moment it whetted his curiosity. Chief Inspector Heat hung in the wind, swayed by his passions like the most private of citizens. “I think,” he said, looking at her steadily, “that you could give me a pretty good notion of what’s going on if you liked.” Forcing her fine, inert eyes to return his gaze, Mrs Verloc murmured: “Going on! What _is_ going on?” “Why, the affair I came to talk about a little with your husband.” That day Mrs Verloc had glanced at a morning paper as usual. But she had not stirred out of doors. The newsboys never invaded Brett Street. It was not a street for their business. And the echo of their cries drifting along the populous thoroughfares, expired between the dirty brick walls without reaching the threshold of the shop. Her husband had not brought an evening paper home. At any rate she had not seen it. Mrs Verloc knew nothing whatever of any affair. And she said so, with a genuine note of wonder in her quiet voice. Chief Inspector Heat did not believe for a moment in so much ignorance. Curtly, without amiability, he stated the bare fact. Mrs Verloc turned away her eyes. “I call it silly,” she pronounced slowly. She paused. “We ain’t downtrodden slaves here.” The Chief Inspector waited watchfully. Nothing more came. “And your husband didn’t mention anything to you when he came home?” Mrs Verloc simply turned her face from right to left in sign of negation. A languid, baffling silence reigned in the shop. Chief Inspector Heat felt provoked beyond endurance. “There was another small matter,” he began in a detached tone, “which I wanted to speak to your husband about. There came into our hands a—a—what we believe is—a stolen overcoat.” Mrs Verloc, with her mind specially aware of thieves that evening, touched lightly the bosom of her dress. “We have lost no overcoat,” she said calmly. “That’s funny,” continued Private Citizen Heat. “I see you keep a lot of marking ink here—” He took up a small bottle, and looked at it against the gas-jet in the middle of the shop. “Purple—isn’t it?” he remarked, setting it down again. “As I said, it’s strange. Because the overcoat has got a label sewn on the inside with your address written in marking ink.” Mrs Verloc leaned over the counter with a low exclamation. “That’s my brother’s, then.” “Where’s your brother? Can I see him?” asked the Chief Inspector briskly. Mrs Verloc leaned a little more over the counter. “No. He isn’t here. I wrote that label myself.” “Where’s your brother now?” “He’s been away living with—a friend—in the country.” “The overcoat comes from the country. And what’s the name of the friend?” “Michaelis,” confessed Mrs Verloc in an awed whisper. The Chief Inspector let out a whistle. His eyes snapped. “Just so. Capital. And your brother now, what’s he like—a sturdy, darkish chap—eh?” “Oh no,” exclaimed Mrs Verloc fervently. “That must be the thief. Stevie’s slight and fair.” “Good,” said the Chief Inspector in an approving tone. And while Mrs Verloc, wavering between alarm and wonder, stared at him, he sought for information. Why have the address sewn like this inside the coat? And he heard that the mangled remains he had inspected that morning with extreme repugnance were those of a youth, nervous, absent-minded, peculiar, and also that the woman who was speaking to him had had the charge of that boy since he was a baby. “Easily excitable?” he suggested. “Oh yes. He is. But how did he come to lose his coat—” Chief Inspector Heat suddenly pulled out a pink newspaper he had bought less than half-an-hour ago. He was interested in horses. Forced by his calling into an attitude of doubt and suspicion towards his fellow-citizens, Chief Inspector Heat relieved the instinct of credulity implanted in the human breast by putting unbounded faith in the sporting prophets of that particular evening publication. Dropping the extra special on to the counter, he plunged his hand again into his pocket, and pulling out the piece of cloth fate had presented him with out of a heap of things that seemed to have been collected in shambles and rag shops, he offered it to Mrs Verloc for inspection. “I suppose you recognise this?” She took it mechanically in both her hands. Her eyes seemed to grow bigger as she looked. “Yes,” she whispered, then raised her head, and staggered backward a little. “Whatever for is it torn out like this?” The Chief Inspector snatched across the counter the cloth out of her hands, and she sat heavily on the chair. He thought: identification’s perfect. And in that moment he had a glimpse into the whole amazing truth. Verloc was the “other man.” “Mrs Verloc,” he said, “it strikes me that you know more of this bomb affair than even you yourself are aware of.” Mrs Verloc sat still, amazed, lost in boundless astonishment. What was the connection? And she became so rigid all over that she was not able to turn her head at the clatter of the bell, which caused the private investigator Heat to spin round on his heel. Mr Verloc had shut the door, and for a moment the two men looked at each other. Mr Verloc, without looking at his wife, walked up to the Chief Inspector, who was relieved to see him return alone. “You here!” muttered Mr Verloc heavily. “Who are you after?” “No one,” said Chief Inspector Heat in a low tone. “Look here, I would like a word or two with you.” Mr Verloc, still pale, had brought an air of resolution with him. Still he didn’t look at his wife. He said: “Come in here, then.” And he led the way into the parlour. The door was hardly shut when Mrs Verloc, jumping up from the chair, ran to it as if to fling it open, but instead of doing so fell on her knees, with her ear to the keyhole. The two men must have stopped directly they were through, because she heard plainly the Chief Inspector’s voice, though she could not see his finger pressed against her husband’s breast emphatically. “You are the other man, Verloc. Two men were seen entering the park.” And the voice of Mr Verloc said: “Well, take me now. What’s to prevent you? You have the right.” “Oh no! I know too well who you have been giving yourself away to. He’ll have to manage this little affair all by himself. But don’t you make a mistake, it’s I who found you out.” Then she heard only muttering. Inspector Heat must have been showing to Mr Verloc the piece of Stevie’s overcoat, because Stevie’s sister, guardian, and protector heard her husband a little louder. “I never noticed that she had hit upon that dodge.” Again for a time Mrs Verloc heard nothing but murmurs, whose mysteriousness was less nightmarish to her brain than the horrible suggestions of shaped words. Then Chief Inspector Heat, on the other side of the door, raised his voice. “You must have been mad.” And Mr Verloc’s voice answered, with a sort of gloomy fury: “I have been mad for a month or more, but I am not mad now. It’s all over. It shall all come out of my head, and hang the consequences.” There was a silence, and then Private Citizen Heat murmured: “What’s coming out?” “Everything,” exclaimed the voice of Mr Verloc, and then sank very low. After a while it rose again. “You have known me for several years now, and you’ve found me useful, too. You know I was a straight man. Yes, straight.” This appeal to old acquaintance must have been extremely distasteful to the Chief Inspector. His voice took on a warning note. “Don’t you trust so much to what you have been promised. If I were you I would clear out. I don’t think we will run after you.” Mr Verloc was heard to laugh a little. “Oh yes; you hope the others will get rid of me for you—don’t you? No, no; you don’t shake me off now. I have been a straight man to those people too long, and now everything must come out.” “Let it come out, then,” the indifferent voice of Chief Inspector Heat assented. “But tell me now how did you get away.” “I was making for Chesterfield Walk,” Mrs Verloc heard her husband’s voice, “when I heard the bang. I started running then. Fog. I saw no one till I was past the end of George Street. Don’t think I met anyone till then.” “So easy as that!” marvelled the voice of Chief Inspector Heat. “The bang startled you, eh?” “Yes; it came too soon,” confessed the gloomy, husky voice of Mr Verloc. Mrs Verloc pressed her ear to the keyhole; her lips were blue, her hands cold as ice, and her pale face, in which the two eyes seemed like two black holes, felt to her as if it were enveloped in flames. On the other side of the door the voices sank very low. She caught words now and then, sometimes in her husband’s voice, sometimes in the smooth tones of the Chief Inspector. She heard this last say: “We believe he stumbled against the root of a tree?” There was a husky, voluble murmur, which lasted for some time, and then the Chief Inspector, as if answering some inquiry, spoke emphatically. “Of course. Blown to small bits: limbs, gravel, clothing, bones, splinters—all mixed up together. I tell you they had to fetch a shovel to gather him up with.” Mrs Verloc sprang up suddenly from her crouching position, and stopping her ears, reeled to and fro between the counter and the shelves on the wall towards the chair. Her crazed eyes noted the sporting sheet left by the Chief Inspector, and as she knocked herself against the counter she snatched it up, fell into the chair, tore the optimistic, rosy sheet right across in trying to open it, then flung it on the floor. On the other side of the door, Chief Inspector Heat was saying to Mr Verloc, the secret agent: “So your defence will be practically a full confession?” “It will. I am going to tell the whole story.” “You won’t be believed as much as you fancy you will.” And the Chief Inspector remained thoughtful. The turn this affair was taking meant the disclosure of many things—the laying waste of fields of knowledge, which, cultivated by a capable man, had a distinct value for the individual and for the society. It was sorry, sorry meddling. It would leave Michaelis unscathed; it would drag to light the Professor’s home industry; disorganise the whole system of supervision; make no end of a row in the papers, which, from that point of view, appeared to him by a sudden illumination as invariably written by fools for the reading of imbeciles. Mentally he agreed with the words Mr Verloc let fall at last in answer to his last remark. “Perhaps not. But it will upset many things. I have been a straight man, and I shall keep straight in this—” “If they let you,” said the Chief Inspector cynically. “You will be preached to, no doubt, before they put you into the dock. And in the end you may yet get let in for a sentence that will surprise you. I wouldn’t trust too much the gentleman who’s been talking to you.” Mr Verloc listened, frowning. “My advice to you is to clear out while you may. I have no instructions. There are some of them,” continued Chief Inspector Heat, laying a peculiar stress on the word “them,” “who think you are already out of the world.” “Indeed!” Mr Verloc was moved to say. Though since his return from Greenwich he had spent most of his time sitting in the tap-room of an obscure little public-house, he could hardly have hoped for such favourable news. “That’s the impression about you.” The Chief Inspector nodded at him. “Vanish. Clear out.” “Where to?” snarled Mr Verloc. He raised his head, and gazing at the closed door of the parlour, muttered feelingly: “I only wish you would take me away to-night. I would go quietly.” “I daresay,” assented sardonically the Chief Inspector, following the direction of his glance. The brow of Mr Verloc broke into slight moisture. He lowered his husky voice confidentially before the unmoved Chief Inspector. “The lad was half-witted, irresponsible. Any court would have seen that at once. Only fit for the asylum. And that was the worst that would’ve happened to him if—” The Chief Inspector, his hand on the door handle, whispered into Mr Verloc’s face. “He may’ve been half-witted, but you must have been crazy. What drove you off your head like this?” Mr Verloc, thinking of Mr Vladimir, did not hesitate in the choice of words. “A Hyperborean swine,” he hissed forcibly. “A what you might call a—a gentleman.” The Chief Inspector, steady-eyed, nodded briefly his comprehension, and opened the door. Mrs Verloc, behind the counter, might have heard but did not see his departure, pursued by the aggressive clatter of the bell. She sat at her post of duty behind the counter. She sat rigidly erect in the chair with two dirty pink pieces of paper lying spread out at her feet. The palms of her hands were pressed convulsively to her face, with the tips of the fingers contracted against the forehead, as though the skin had been a mask which she was ready to tear off violently. The perfect immobility of her pose expressed the agitation of rage and despair, all the potential violence of tragic passions, better than any shallow display of shrieks, with the beating of a distracted head against the walls, could have done. Chief Inspector Heat, crossing the shop at his busy, swinging pace, gave her only a cursory glance. And when the cracked bell ceased to tremble on its curved ribbon of steel nothing stirred near Mrs Verloc, as if her attitude had the locking power of a spell. Even the butterfly-shaped gas flames posed on the ends of the suspended T-bracket burned without a quiver. In that shop of shady wares fitted with deal shelves painted a dull brown, which seemed to devour the sheen of the light, the gold circlet of the wedding ring on Mrs Verloc’s left hand glittered exceedingly with the untarnished glory of a piece from some splendid treasure of jewels, dropped in a dust-bin. CHAPTER X The Assistant Commissioner, driven rapidly in a hansom from the neighbourhood of Soho in the direction of Westminster, got out at the very centre of the Empire on which the sun never sets. Some stalwart constables, who did not seem particularly impressed by the duty of watching the august spot, saluted him. Penetrating through a portal by no means lofty into the precincts of the House which is _the_ House, _par excellence_ in the minds of many millions of men, he was met at last by the volatile and revolutionary Toodles. That neat and nice young man concealed his astonishment at the early appearance of the Assistant Commissioner, whom he had been told to look out for some time about midnight. His turning up so early he concluded to be the sign that things, whatever they were, had gone wrong. With an extremely ready sympathy, which in nice youngsters goes often with a joyous temperament, he felt sorry for the great Presence he called “The Chief,” and also for the Assistant Commissioner, whose face appeared to him more ominously wooden than ever before, and quite wonderfully long. “What a queer, foreign-looking chap he is,” he thought to himself, smiling from a distance with friendly buoyancy. And directly they came together he began to talk with the kind intention of burying the awkwardness of failure under a heap of words. It looked as if the great assault threatened for that night were going to fizzle out. An inferior henchman of “that brute Cheeseman” was up boring mercilessly a very thin House with some shamelessly cooked statistics. He, Toodles, hoped he would bore them into a count out every minute. But then he might be only marking time to let that guzzling Cheeseman dine at his leisure. Anyway, the Chief could not be persuaded to go home. “He will see you at once, I think. He’s sitting all alone in his room thinking of all the fishes of the sea,” concluded Toodles airily. “Come along.” Notwithstanding the kindness of his disposition, the young private secretary (unpaid) was accessible to the common failings of humanity. He did not wish to harrow the feelings of the Assistant Commissioner, who looked to him uncommonly like a man who has made a mess of his job. But his curiosity was too strong to be restrained by mere compassion. He could not help, as they went along, to throw over his shoulder lightly: “And your sprat?” “Got him,” answered the Assistant Commissioner with a concision which did not mean to be repellent in the least. “Good. You’ve no idea how these great men dislike to be disappointed in small things.” After this profound observation the experienced Toodles seemed to reflect. At any rate he said nothing for quite two seconds. Then: “I’m glad. But—I say—is it really such a very small thing as you make it out?” “Do you know what may be done with a sprat?” the Assistant Commissioner asked in his turn. “He’s sometimes put into a sardine box,” chuckled Toodles, whose erudition on the subject of the fishing industry was fresh and, in comparison with his ignorance of all other industrial matters, immense. “There are sardine canneries on the Spanish coast which—” The Assistant Commissioner interrupted the apprentice statesman. “Yes. Yes. But a sprat is also thrown away sometimes in order to catch a whale.” “A whale. Phew!” exclaimed Toodles, with bated breath. “You’re after a whale, then?” “Not exactly. What I am after is more like a dog-fish. You don’t know perhaps what a dog-fish is like.” “Yes; I do. We’re buried in special books up to our necks—whole shelves full of them—with plates. . . . It’s a noxious, rascally-looking, altogether detestable beast, with a sort of smooth face and moustaches.” “Described to a T,” commended the Assistant Commissioner. “Only mine is clean-shaven altogether. You’ve seen him. It’s a witty fish.” “I have seen him!” said Toodles incredulously. “I can’t conceive where I could have seen him.” “At the Explorers, I should say,” dropped the Assistant Commissioner calmly. At the name of that extremely exclusive club Toodles looked scared, and stopped short. “Nonsense,” he protested, but in an awe-struck tone. “What do you mean? A member?” “Honorary,” muttered the Assistant Commissioner through his teeth. “Heavens!” Toodles looked so thunderstruck that the Assistant Commissioner smiled faintly. “That’s between ourselves strictly,” he said. “That’s the beastliest thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” declared Toodles feebly, as if astonishment had robbed him of all his buoyant strength in a second. The Assistant Commissioner gave him an unsmiling glance. Till they came to the door of the great man’s room, Toodles preserved a scandalised and solemn silence, as though he were offended with the Assistant Commissioner for exposing such an unsavoury and disturbing fact. It revolutionised his idea of the Explorers’ Club’s extreme selectness, of its social purity. Toodles was revolutionary only in politics; his social beliefs and personal feelings he wished to preserve unchanged through all the years allotted to him on this earth which, upon the whole, he believed to be a nice place to live on. He stood aside. “Go in without knocking,” he said. Shades of green silk fitted low over all the lights imparted to the room something of a forest’s deep gloom. The haughty eyes were physically the great man’s weak point. This point was wrapped up in secrecy. When an opportunity offered, he rested them conscientiously. The Assistant Commissioner entering saw at first only a big pale hand supporting a big head, and concealing the upper part of a big pale face. An open despatch-box stood on the writing-table near a few oblong sheets of paper and a scattered handful of quill pens. There was absolutely nothing else on the large flat surface except a little bronze statuette draped in a toga, mysteriously watchful in its shadowy immobility. The Assistant Commissioner, invited to take a chair, sat down. In the dim light, the salient points of his personality, the long face, the black hair, his lankness, made him look more foreign than ever. The great man manifested no surprise, no eagerness, no sentiment whatever. The attitude in which he rested his menaced eyes was profoundly meditative. He did not alter it the least bit. But his tone was not dreamy. “Well! What is it that you’ve found out already? You came upon something unexpected on the first step.” “Not exactly unexpected, Sir Ethelred. What I mainly came upon was a psychological state.” The Great Presence made a slight movement. “You must be lucid, please.” “Yes, Sir Ethelred. You know no doubt that most criminals at some time or other feel an irresistible need of confessing—of making a clean breast of it to somebody—to anybody. And they do it often to the police. In that Verloc whom Heat wished so much to screen I’ve found a man in that particular psychological state. The man, figuratively speaking, flung himself on my breast. It was enough on my part to whisper to him who I was and to add ‘I know that you are at the bottom of this affair.’ It must have seemed miraculous to him that we should know already, but he took it all in the stride. The wonderfulness of it never checked him for a moment. There remained for me only to put to him the two questions: Who put you up to it? and Who was the man who did it? He answered the first with remarkable emphasis. As to the second question, I gather that the fellow with the bomb was his brother-in-law—quite a lad—a weak-minded creature. . . . It is rather a curious affair—too long perhaps to state fully just now.” “What then have you learned?” asked the great man. “First, I’ve learned that the ex-convict Michaelis had nothing to do with it, though indeed the lad had been living with him temporarily in the country up to eight o’clock this morning. It is more than likely that Michaelis knows nothing of it to this moment.” “You are positive as to that?” asked the great man. “Quite certain, Sir Ethelred. This fellow Verloc went there this morning, and took away the lad on the pretence of going out for a walk in the lanes. As it was not the first time that he did this, Michaelis could not have the slightest suspicion of anything unusual. For the rest, Sir Ethelred, the indignation of this man Verloc had left nothing in doubt—nothing whatever. He had been driven out of his mind almost by an extraordinary performance, which for you or me it would be difficult to take as seriously meant, but which produced a great impression obviously on him.” The Assistant Commissioner then imparted briefly to the great man, who sat still, resting his eyes under the screen of his hand, Mr Verloc’s appreciation of Mr Vladimir’s proceedings and character. The Assistant Commissioner did not seem to refuse it a certain amount of competency. But the great personage remarked: “All this seems very fantastic.” “Doesn’t it? One would think a ferocious joke. But our man took it seriously, it appears. He felt himself threatened. In the time, you know, he was in direct communication with old Stott-Wartenheim himself, and had come to regard his services as indispensable. It was an extremely rude awakening. I imagine that he lost his head. He became angry and frightened. Upon my word, my impression is that he thought these Embassy people quite capable not only to throw him out but, to give him away too in some manner or other—” “How long were you with him,” interrupted the Presence from behind his big hand. “Some forty minutes, Sir Ethelred, in a house of bad repute called Continental Hotel, closeted in a room which by-the-by I took for the night. I found him under the influence of that reaction which follows the effort of crime. The man cannot be defined as a hardened criminal. It is obvious that he did not plan the death of that wretched lad—his brother-in-law. That was a shock to him—I could see that. Perhaps he is a man of strong sensibilities. Perhaps he was even fond of the lad—who knows? He might have hoped that the fellow would get clear away; in which case it would have been almost impossible to bring this thing home to anyone. At any rate he risked consciously nothing more but arrest for him.” The Assistant Commissioner paused in his speculations to reflect for a moment. “Though how, in that last case, he could hope to have his own share in the business concealed is more than I can tell,” he continued, in his ignorance of poor Stevie’s devotion to Mr Verloc (who was _good_), and of his truly peculiar dumbness, which in the old affair of fireworks on the stairs had for many years resisted entreaties, coaxing, anger, and other means of investigation used by his beloved sister. For Stevie was loyal. . . . “No, I can’t imagine. It’s possible that he never thought of that at all. It sounds an extravagant way of putting it, Sir Ethelred, but his state of dismay suggested to me an impulsive man who, after committing suicide with the notion that it would end all his troubles, had discovered that it did nothing of the kind.” The Assistant Commissioner gave this definition in an apologetic voice. But in truth there is a sort of lucidity proper to extravagant language, and the great man was not offended. A slight jerky movement of the big body half lost in the gloom of the green silk shades, of the big head leaning on the big hand, accompanied an intermittent stifled but powerful sound. The great man had laughed. “What have you done with him?” The Assistant Commissioner answered very readily: “As he seemed very anxious to get back to his wife in the shop I let him go, Sir Ethelred.” “You did? But the fellow will disappear.” “Pardon me. I don’t think so. Where could he go to? Moreover, you must remember that he has got to think of the danger from his comrades too. He’s there at his post. How could he explain leaving it? But even if there were no obstacles to his freedom of action he would do nothing. At present he hasn’t enough moral energy to take a resolution of any sort. Permit me also to point out that if I had detained him we would have been committed to a course of action on which I wished to know your precise intentions first.” The great personage rose heavily, an imposing shadowy form in the greenish gloom of the room. “I’ll see the Attorney-General to-night, and will send for you to-morrow morning. Is there anything more you’d wish to tell me now?” The Assistant Commissioner had stood up also, slender and flexible. “I think not, Sir Ethelred, unless I were to enter into details which—” “No. No details, please.” The great shadowy form seemed to shrink away as if in physical dread of details; then came forward, expanded, enormous, and weighty, offering a large hand. “And you say that this man has got a wife?” “Yes, Sir Ethelred,” said the Assistant Commissioner, pressing deferentially the extended hand. “A genuine wife and a genuinely, respectably, marital relation. He told me that after his interview at the Embassy he would have thrown everything up, would have tried to sell his shop, and leave the country, only he felt certain that his wife would not even hear of going abroad. Nothing could be more characteristic of the respectable bond than that,” went on, with a touch of grimness, the Assistant Commissioner, whose own wife too had refused to hear of going abroad. “Yes, a genuine wife. And the victim was a genuine brother-in-law. From a certain point of view we are here in the presence of a domestic drama.” The Assistant Commissioner laughed a little; but the great man’s thoughts seemed to have wandered far away, perhaps to the questions of his country’s domestic policy, the battle-ground of his crusading valour against the paynim Cheeseman. The Assistant Commissioner withdrew quietly, unnoticed, as if already forgotten. He had his own crusading instincts. This affair, which, in one way or another, disgusted Chief Inspector Heat, seemed to him a providentially given starting-point for a crusade. He had it much at heart to begin. He walked slowly home, meditating that enterprise on the way, and thinking over Mr Verloc’s psychology in a composite mood of repugnance and satisfaction. He walked all the way home. Finding the drawing-room dark, he went upstairs, and spent some time between the bedroom and the dressing-room, changing his clothes, going to and fro with the air of a thoughtful somnambulist. But he shook it off before going out again to join his wife at the house of the great lady patroness of Michaelis. He knew he would be welcomed there. On entering the smaller of the two drawing-rooms he saw his wife in a small group near the piano. A youngish composer in pass of becoming famous was discoursing from a music stool to two thick men whose backs looked old, and three slender women whose backs looked young. Behind the screen the great lady had only two persons with her: a man and a woman, who sat side by side on arm-chairs at the foot of her couch. She extended her hand to the Assistant Commissioner. “I never hoped to see you here to-night. Annie told me—” “Yes. I had no idea myself that my work would be over so soon.” The Assistant Commissioner added in a low tone: “I am glad to tell you that Michaelis is altogether clear of this—” The patroness of the ex-convict received this assurance indignantly. “Why? Were your people stupid enough to connect him with—” “Not stupid,” interrupted the Assistant Commissioner, contradicting deferentially. “Clever enough—quite clever enough for that.” A silence fell. The man at the foot of the couch had stopped speaking to the lady, and looked on with a faint smile. “I don’t know whether you ever met before,” said the great lady. Mr Vladimir and the Assistant Commissioner, introduced, acknowledged each other’s existence with punctilious and guarded courtesy. “He’s been frightening me,” declared suddenly the lady who sat by the side of Mr Vladimir, with an inclination of the head towards that gentleman. The Assistant Commissioner knew the lady. “You do not look frightened,” he pronounced, after surveying her conscientiously with his tired and equable gaze. He was thinking meantime to himself that in this house one met everybody sooner or later. Mr Vladimir’s rosy countenance was wreathed in smiles, because he was witty, but his eyes remained serious, like the eyes of convinced man. “Well, he tried to at least,” amended the lady. “Force of habit perhaps,” said the Assistant Commissioner, moved by an irresistible inspiration. “He has been threatening society with all sorts of horrors,” continued the lady, whose enunciation was caressing and slow, “apropos of this explosion in Greenwich Park. It appears we all ought to quake in our shoes at what’s coming if those people are not suppressed all over the world. I had no idea this was such a grave affair.” Mr Vladimir, affecting not to listen, leaned towards the couch, talking amiably in subdued tones, but he heard the Assistant Commissioner say: “I’ve no doubt that Mr Vladimir has a very precise notion of the true importance of this affair.” Mr Vladimir asked himself what that confounded and intrusive policeman was driving at. Descended from generations victimised by the instruments of an arbitrary power, he was racially, nationally, and individually afraid of the police. It was an inherited weakness, altogether independent of his judgment, of his reason, of his experience. He was born to it. But that sentiment, which resembled the irrational horror some people have of cats, did not stand in the way of his immense contempt for the English police. He finished the sentence addressed to the great lady, and turned slightly in his chair. “You mean that we have a great experience of these people. Yes; indeed, we suffer greatly from their activity, while you”—Mr Vladimir hesitated for a moment, in smiling perplexity—“while you suffer their presence gladly in your midst,” he finished, displaying a dimple on each clean-shaven cheek. Then he added more gravely: “I may even say—because you do.” When Mr Vladimir ceased speaking the Assistant Commissioner lowered his glance, and the conversation dropped. Almost immediately afterwards Mr Vladimir took leave. Directly his back was turned on the couch the Assistant Commissioner rose too. “I thought you were going to stay and take Annie home,” said the lady patroness of Michaelis. “I find that I’ve yet a little work to do to-night.” “In connection—?” “Well, yes—in a way.” “Tell me, what is it really—this horror?” “It’s difficult to say what it is, but it may yet be a _cause célèbre_,” said the Assistant Commissioner. He left the drawing-room hurriedly, and found Mr Vladimir still in the hall, wrapping up his throat carefully in a large silk handkerchief. Behind him a footman waited, holding his overcoat. Another stood ready to open the door. The Assistant Commissioner was duly helped into his coat, and let out at once. After descending the front steps he stopped, as if to consider the way he should take. On seeing this through the door held open, Mr Vladimir lingered in the hall to get out a cigar and asked for a light. It was furnished to him by an elderly man out of livery with an air of calm solicitude. But the match went out; the footman then closed the door, and Mr Vladimir lighted his large Havana with leisurely care. When at last he got out of the house, he saw with disgust the “confounded policeman” still standing on the pavement. “Can he be waiting for me,” thought Mr Vladimir, looking up and down for some signs of a hansom. He saw none. A couple of carriages waited by the curbstone, their lamps blazing steadily, the horses standing perfectly still, as if carved in stone, the coachmen sitting motionless under the big fur capes, without as much as a quiver stirring the white thongs of their big whips. Mr Vladimir walked on, and the “confounded policeman” fell into step at his elbow. He said nothing. At the end of the fourth stride Mr Vladimir felt infuriated and uneasy. This could not last. “Rotten weather,” he growled savagely. “Mild,” said the Assistant Commissioner without passion. He remained silent for a little while. “We’ve got hold of a man called Verloc,” he announced casually. Mr Vladimir did not stumble, did not stagger back, did not change his stride. But he could not prevent himself from exclaiming: “What?” The Assistant Commissioner did not repeat his statement. “You know him,” he went on in the same tone. Mr Vladimir stopped, and became guttural. “What makes you say that?” “I don’t. It’s Verloc who says that.” “A lying dog of some sort,” said Mr Vladimir in somewhat Oriental phraseology. But in his heart he was almost awed by the miraculous cleverness of the English police. The change of his opinion on the subject was so violent that it made him for a moment feel slightly sick. He threw away his cigar, and moved on. “What pleased me most in this affair,” the Assistant went on, talking slowly, “is that it makes such an excellent starting-point for a piece of work which I’ve felt must be taken in hand—that is, the clearing out of this country of all the foreign political spies, police, and that sort of—of—dogs. In my opinion they are a ghastly nuisance; also an element of danger. But we can’t very well seek them out individually. The only way is to make their employment unpleasant to their employers. The thing’s becoming indecent. And dangerous too, for us, here.” Mr Vladimir stopped again for a moment. “What do you mean?” “The prosecution of this Verloc will demonstrate to the public both the danger and the indecency.” “Nobody will believe what a man of that sort says,” said Mr Vladimir contemptuously. “The wealth and precision of detail will carry conviction to the great mass of the public,” advanced the Assistant Commissioner gently. “So that is seriously what you mean to do.” “We’ve got the man; we have no choice.” “You will be only feeding up the lying spirit of these revolutionary scoundrels,” Mr Vladimir protested. “What do you want to make a scandal for?—from morality—or what?” Mr Vladimir’s anxiety was obvious. The Assistant Commissioner having ascertained in this way that there must be some truth in the summary statements of Mr Verloc, said indifferently: “There’s a practical side too. We have really enough to do to look after the genuine article. You can’t say we are not effective. But we don’t intend to let ourselves be bothered by shams under any pretext whatever.” Mr Vladimir’s tone became lofty. “For my part, I can’t share your view. It is selfish. My sentiments for my own country cannot be doubted; but I’ve always felt that we ought to be good Europeans besides—I mean governments and men.” “Yes,” said the Assistant Commissioner simply. “Only you look at Europe from its other end. But,” he went on in a good-natured tone, “the foreign governments cannot complain of the inefficiency of our police. Look at this outrage; a case specially difficult to trace inasmuch as it was a sham. In less than twelve hours we have established the identity of a man literally blown to shreds, have found the organiser of the attempt, and have had a glimpse of the inciter behind him. And we could have gone further; only we stopped at the limits of our territory.” “So this instructive crime was planned abroad,” Mr Vladimir said quickly. “You admit it was planned abroad?” “Theoretically. Theoretically only, on foreign territory; abroad only by a fiction,” said the Assistant Commissioner, alluding to the character of Embassies, which are supposed to be part and parcel of the country to which they belong. “But that’s a detail. I talked to you of this business because it’s your government that grumbles most at our police. You see that we are not so bad. I wanted particularly to tell you of our success.” “I’m sure I’m very grateful,” muttered Mr Vladimir through his teeth. “We can put our finger on every anarchist here,” went on the Assistant Commissioner, as though he were quoting Chief Inspector Heat. “All that’s wanted now is to do away with the agent provocateur to make everything safe.” Mr Vladimir held up his hand to a passing hansom. “You’re not going in here,” remarked the Assistant Commissioner, looking at a building of noble proportions and hospitable aspect, with the light of a great hall falling through its glass doors on a broad flight of steps. But Mr Vladimir, sitting, stony-eyed, inside the hansom, drove off without a word. The Assistant Commissioner himself did not turn into the noble building. It was the Explorers’ Club. The thought passed through his mind that Mr Vladimir, honorary member, would not be seen very often there in the future. He looked at his watch. It was only half-past ten. He had had a very full evening. CHAPTER XI After Chief Inspector Heat had left him Mr Verloc moved about the parlour. From time to time he eyed his wife through the open door. “She knows all about it now,” he thought to himself with commiseration for her sorrow and with some satisfaction as regarded himself. Mr Verloc’s soul, if lacking greatness perhaps, was capable of tender sentiments. The prospect of having to break the news to her had put him into a fever. Chief Inspector Heat had relieved him of the task. That was good as far as it went. It remained for him now to face her grief. Mr Verloc had never expected to have to face it on account of death, whose catastrophic character cannot be argued away by sophisticated reasoning or persuasive eloquence. Mr Verloc never meant Stevie to perish with such abrupt violence. He did not mean him to perish at all. Stevie dead was a much greater nuisance than ever he had been when alive. Mr Verloc had augured a favourable issue to his enterprise, basing himself not on Stevie’s intelligence, which sometimes plays queer tricks with a man, but on the blind docility and on the blind devotion of the boy. Though not much of a psychologist, Mr Verloc had gauged the depth of Stevie’s fanaticism. He dared cherish the hope of Stevie walking away from the walls of the Observatory as he had been instructed to do, taking the way shown to him several times previously, and rejoining his brother-in-law, the wise and good Mr Verloc, outside the precincts of the park. Fifteen minutes ought to have been enough for the veriest fool to deposit the engine and walk away. And the Professor had guaranteed more than fifteen minutes. But Stevie had stumbled within five minutes of being left to himself. And Mr Verloc was shaken morally to pieces. He had foreseen everything but that. He had foreseen Stevie distracted and lost—sought for—found in some police station or provincial workhouse in the end. He had foreseen Stevie arrested, and was not afraid, because Mr Verloc had a great opinion of Stevie’s loyalty, which had been carefully indoctrinated with the necessity of silence in the course of many walks. Like a peripatetic philosopher, Mr Verloc, strolling along the streets of London, had modified Stevie’s view of the police by conversations full of subtle reasonings. Never had a sage a more attentive and admiring disciple. The submission and worship were so apparent that Mr Verloc had come to feel something like a liking for the boy. In any case, he had not foreseen the swift bringing home of his connection. That his wife should hit upon the precaution of sewing the boy’s address inside his overcoat was the last thing Mr Verloc would have thought of. One can’t think of everything. That was what she meant when she said that he need not worry if he lost Stevie during their walks. She had assured him that the boy would turn up all right. Well, he had turned up with a vengeance! “Well, well,” muttered Mr Verloc in his wonder. What did she mean by it? Spare him the trouble of keeping an anxious eye on Stevie? Most likely she had meant well. Only she ought to have told him of the precaution she had taken. Mr Verloc walked behind the counter of the shop. His intention was not to overwhelm his wife with bitter reproaches. Mr Verloc felt no bitterness. The unexpected march of events had converted him to the doctrine of fatalism. Nothing could be helped now. He said: “I didn’t mean any harm to come to the boy.” Mrs Verloc shuddered at the sound of her husband’s voice. She did not uncover her face. The trusted secret agent of the late Baron Stott-Wartenheim looked at her for a time with a heavy, persistent, undiscerning glance. The torn evening paper was lying at her feet. It could not have told her much. Mr Verloc felt the need of talking to his wife. “It’s that damned Heat—eh?” he said. “He upset you. He’s a brute, blurting it out like this to a woman. I made myself ill thinking how to break it to you. I sat for hours in the little parlour of Cheshire Cheese thinking over the best way. You understand I never meant any harm to come to that boy.” Mr Verloc, the Secret Agent, was speaking the truth. It was his marital affection that had received the greatest shock from the premature explosion. He added: “I didn’t feel particularly gay sitting there and thinking of you.” He observed another slight shudder of his wife, which affected his sensibility. As she persisted in hiding her face in her hands, he thought he had better leave her alone for a while. On this delicate impulse Mr Verloc withdrew into the parlour again, where the gas jet purred like a contented cat. Mrs Verloc’s wifely forethought had left the cold beef on the table with carving knife and fork and half a loaf of bread for Mr Verloc’s supper. He noticed all these things now for the first time, and cutting himself a piece of bread and meat, began to eat. His appetite did not proceed from callousness. Mr Verloc had not eaten any breakfast that day. He had left his home fasting. Not being an energetic man, he found his resolution in nervous excitement, which seemed to hold him mainly by the throat. He could not have swallowed anything solid. Michaelis’ cottage was as destitute of provisions as the cell of a prisoner. The ticket-of-leave apostle lived on a little milk and crusts of stale bread. Moreover, when Mr Verloc arrived he had already gone upstairs after his frugal meal. Absorbed in the toil and delight of literary composition, he had not even answered Mr Verloc’s shout up the little staircase. “I am taking this young fellow home for a day or two.” And, in truth, Mr Verloc did not wait for an answer, but had marched out of the cottage at once, followed by the obedient Stevie. Now that all action was over and his fate taken out of his hands with unexpected swiftness, Mr Verloc felt terribly empty physically. He carved the meat, cut the bread, and devoured his supper standing by the table, and now and then casting a glance towards his wife. Her prolonged immobility disturbed the comfort of his refection. He walked again into the shop, and came up very close to her. This sorrow with a veiled face made Mr Verloc uneasy. He expected, of course, his wife to be very much upset, but he wanted her to pull herself together. He needed all her assistance and all her loyalty in these new conjunctures his fatalism had already accepted. “Can’t be helped,” he said in a tone of gloomy sympathy. “Come, Winnie, we’ve got to think of to-morrow. You’ll want all your wits about you after I am taken away.” He paused. Mrs Verloc’s breast heaved convulsively. This was not reassuring to Mr Verloc, in whose view the newly created situation required from the two people most concerned in it calmness, decision, and other qualities incompatible with the mental disorder of passionate sorrow. Mr Verloc was a humane man; he had come home prepared to allow every latitude to his wife’s affection for her brother. Only he did not understand either the nature or the whole extent of that sentiment. And in this he was excusable, since it was impossible for him to understand it without ceasing to be himself. He was startled and disappointed, and his speech conveyed it by a certain roughness of tone. “You might look at a fellow,” he observed after waiting a while. As if forced through the hands covering Mrs Verloc’s face the answer came, deadened, almost pitiful. “I don’t want to look at you as long as I live.” “Eh? What!” Mr Verloc was merely startled by the superficial and literal meaning of this declaration. It was obviously unreasonable, the mere cry of exaggerated grief. He threw over it the mantle of his marital indulgence. The mind of Mr Verloc lacked profundity. Under the mistaken impression that the value of individuals consists in what they are in themselves, he could not possibly comprehend the value of Stevie in the eyes of Mrs Verloc. She was taking it confoundedly hard, he thought to himself. It was all the fault of that damned Heat. What did he want to upset the woman for? But she mustn’t be allowed, for her own good, to carry on so till she got quite beside herself. “Look here! You can’t sit like this in the shop,” he said with affected severity, in which there was some real annoyance; for urgent practical matters must be talked over if they had to sit up all night. “Somebody might come in at any minute,” he added, and waited again. No effect was produced, and the idea of the finality of death occurred to Mr Verloc during the pause. He changed his tone. “Come. This won’t bring him back,” he said gently, feeling ready to take her in his arms and press her to his breast, where impatience and compassion dwelt side by side. But except for a short shudder Mrs Verloc remained apparently unaffected by the force of that terrible truism. It was Mr Verloc himself who was moved. He was moved in his simplicity to urge moderation by asserting the claims of his own personality. “Do be reasonable, Winnie. What would it have been if you had lost me!” He had vaguely expected to hear her cry out. But she did not budge. She leaned back a little, quieted down to a complete unreadable stillness. Mr Verloc’s heart began to beat faster with exasperation and something resembling alarm. He laid his hand on her shoulder, saying: “Don’t be a fool, Winnie.” She gave no sign. It was impossible to talk to any purpose with a woman whose face one cannot see. Mr Verloc caught hold of his wife’s wrists. But her hands seemed glued fast. She swayed forward bodily to his tug, and nearly went off the chair. Startled to feel her so helplessly limp, he was trying to put her back on the chair when she stiffened suddenly all over, tore herself out of his hands, ran out of the shop, across the parlour, and into the kitchen. This was very swift. He had just a glimpse of her face and that much of her eyes that he knew she had not looked at him. It all had the appearance of a struggle for the possession of a chair, because Mr Verloc instantly took his wife’s place in it. Mr Verloc did not cover his face with his hands, but a sombre thoughtfulness veiled his features. A term of imprisonment could not be avoided. He did not wish now to avoid it. A prison was a place as safe from certain unlawful vengeances as the grave, with this advantage, that in a prison there is room for hope. What he saw before him was a term of imprisonment, an early release and then life abroad somewhere, such as he had contemplated already, in case of failure. Well, it was a failure, if not exactly the sort of failure he had feared. It had been so near success that he could have positively terrified Mr Vladimir out of his ferocious scoffing with this proof of occult efficiency. So at least it seemed now to Mr Verloc. His prestige with the Embassy would have been immense if—if his wife had not had the unlucky notion of sewing on the address inside Stevie’s overcoat. Mr Verloc, who was no fool, had soon perceived the extraordinary character of the influence he had over Stevie, though he did not understand exactly its origin—the doctrine of his supreme wisdom and goodness inculcated by two anxious women. In all the eventualities he had foreseen Mr Verloc had calculated with correct insight on Stevie’s instinctive loyalty and blind discretion. The eventuality he had not foreseen had appalled him as a humane man and a fond husband. From every other point of view it was rather advantageous. Nothing can equal the everlasting discretion of death. Mr Verloc, sitting perplexed and frightened in the small parlour of the Cheshire Cheese, could not help acknowledging that to himself, because his sensibility did not stand in the way of his judgment. Stevie’s violent disintegration, however disturbing to think about, only assured the success; for, of course, the knocking down of a wall was not the aim of Mr Vladimir’s menaces, but the production of a moral effect. With much trouble and distress on Mr Verloc’s part the effect might be said to have been produced. When, however, most unexpectedly, it came home to roost in Brett Street, Mr Verloc, who had been struggling like a man in a nightmare for the preservation of his position, accepted the blow in the spirit of a convinced fatalist. The position was gone through no one’s fault really. A small, tiny fact had done it. It was like slipping on a bit of orange peel in the dark and breaking your leg. Mr Verloc drew a weary breath. He nourished no resentment against his wife. He thought: She will have to look after the shop while they keep me locked up. And thinking also how cruelly she would miss Stevie at first, he felt greatly concerned about her health and spirits. How would she stand her solitude—absolutely alone in that house? It would not do for her to break down while he was locked up? What would become of the shop then? The shop was an asset. Though Mr Verloc’s fatalism accepted his undoing as a secret agent, he had no mind to be utterly ruined, mostly, it must be owned, from regard for his wife. Silent, and out of his line of sight in the kitchen, she frightened him. If only she had had her mother with her. But that silly old woman—An angry dismay possessed Mr Verloc. He must talk with his wife. He could tell her certainly that a man does get desperate under certain circumstances. But he did not go incontinently to impart to her that information. First of all, it was clear to him that this evening was no time for business. He got up to close the street door and put the gas out in the shop. Having thus assured a solitude around his hearthstone Mr Verloc walked into the parlour, and glanced down into the kitchen. Mrs Verloc was sitting in the place where poor Stevie usually established himself of an evening with paper and pencil for the pastime of drawing these coruscations of innumerable circles suggesting chaos and eternity. Her arms were folded on the table, and her head was lying on her arms. Mr Verloc contemplated her back and the arrangement of her hair for a time, then walked away from the kitchen door. Mrs Verloc’s philosophical, almost disdainful incuriosity, the foundation of their accord in domestic life made it extremely difficult to get into contact with her, now this tragic necessity had arisen. Mr Verloc felt this difficulty acutely. He turned around the table in the parlour with his usual air of a large animal in a cage. Curiosity being one of the forms of self-revelation, a systematically incurious person remains always partly mysterious. Every time he passed near the door Mr Verloc glanced at his wife uneasily. It was not that he was afraid of her. Mr Verloc imagined himself loved by that woman. But she had not accustomed him to make confidences. And the confidence he had to make was of a profound psychological order. How with his want of practice could he tell her what he himself felt but vaguely: that there are conspiracies of fatal destiny, that a notion grows in a mind sometimes till it acquires an outward existence, an independent power of its own, and even a suggestive voice? He could not inform her that a man may be haunted by a fat, witty, clean-shaved face till the wildest expedient to get rid of it appears a child of wisdom. On this mental reference to a First Secretary of a great Embassy, Mr Verloc stopped in the doorway, and looking down into the kitchen with an angry face and clenched fists, addressed his wife. “You don’t know what a brute I had to deal with.” He started off to make another perambulation of the table; then when he had come to the door again he stopped, glaring in from the height of two steps. “A silly, jeering, dangerous brute, with no more sense than—After all these years! A man like me! And I have been playing my head at that game. You didn’t know. Quite right, too. What was the good of telling you that I stood the risk of having a knife stuck into me any time these seven years we’ve been married? I am not a chap to worry a woman that’s fond of me. You had no business to know.” Mr Verloc took another turn round the parlour, fuming. “A venomous beast,” he began again from the doorway. “Drive me out into a ditch to starve for a joke. I could see he thought it was a damned good joke. A man like me! Look here! Some of the highest in the world got to thank me for walking on their two legs to this day. That’s the man you’ve got married to, my girl!” He perceived that his wife had sat up. Mrs Verloc’s arms remained lying stretched on the table. Mr Verloc watched at her back as if he could read there the effect of his words. “There isn’t a murdering plot for the last eleven years that I hadn’t my finger in at the risk of my life. There’s scores of these revolutionists I’ve sent off, with their bombs in their blamed pockets, to get themselves caught on the frontier. The old Baron knew what I was worth to his country. And here suddenly a swine comes along—an ignorant, overbearing swine.” Mr Verloc, stepping slowly down two steps, entered the kitchen, took a tumbler off the dresser, and holding it in his hand, approached the sink, without looking at his wife. “It wasn’t the old Baron who would have had the wicked folly of getting me to call on him at eleven in the morning. There are two or three in this town that, if they had seen me going in, would have made no bones about knocking me on the head sooner or later. It was a silly, murderous trick to expose for nothing a man—like me.” Mr Verloc, turning on the tap above the sink, poured three glasses of water, one after another, down his throat to quench the fires of his indignation. Mr Vladimir’s conduct was like a hot brand which set his internal economy in a blaze. He could not get over the disloyalty of it. This man, who would not work at the usual hard tasks which society sets to its humbler members, had exercised his secret industry with an indefatigable devotion. There was in Mr Verloc a fund of loyalty. He had been loyal to his employers, to the cause of social stability,—and to his affections too—as became apparent when, after standing the tumbler in the sink, he turned about, saying: “If I hadn’t thought of you I would have taken the bullying brute by the throat and rammed his head into the fireplace. I’d have been more than a match for that pink-faced, smooth-shaved—” Mr Verloc, neglected to finish the sentence, as if there could be no doubt of the terminal word. For the first time in his life he was taking that incurious woman into his confidence. The singularity of the event, the force and importance of the personal feelings aroused in the course of this confession, drove Stevie’s fate clean out of Mr Verloc’s mind. The boy’s stuttering existence of fears and indignations, together with the violence of his end, had passed out of Mr Verloc’s mental sight for a time. For that reason, when he looked up he was startled by the inappropriate character of his wife’s stare. It was not a wild stare, and it was not inattentive, but its attention was peculiar and not satisfactory, inasmuch that it seemed concentrated upon some point beyond Mr Verloc’s person. The impression was so strong that Mr Verloc glanced over his shoulder. There was nothing behind him: there was just the whitewashed wall. The excellent husband of Winnie Verloc saw no writing on the wall. He turned to his wife again, repeating, with some emphasis: “I would have taken him by the throat. As true as I stand here, if I hadn’t thought of you then I would have half choked the life out of the brute before I let him get up. And don’t you think he would have been anxious to call the police either. He wouldn’t have dared. You understand why—don’t you?” He blinked at his wife knowingly. “No,” said Mrs Verloc in an unresonant voice, and without looking at him at all. “What are you talking about?” A great discouragement, the result of fatigue, came upon Mr Verloc. He had had a very full day, and his nerves had been tried to the utmost. After a month of maddening worry, ending in an unexpected catastrophe, the storm-tossed spirit of Mr Verloc longed for repose. His career as a secret agent had come to an end in a way no one could have foreseen; only, now, perhaps he could manage to get a night’s sleep at last. But looking at his wife, he doubted it. She was taking it very hard—not at all like herself, he thought. He made an effort to speak. “You’ll have to pull yourself together, my girl,” he said sympathetically. “What’s done can’t be undone.” Mrs Verloc gave a slight start, though not a muscle of her white face moved in the least. Mr Verloc, who was not looking at her, continued ponderously. “You go to bed now. What you want is a good cry.” This opinion had nothing to recommend it but the general consent of mankind. It is universally understood that, as if it were nothing more substantial than vapour floating in the sky, every emotion of a woman is bound to end in a shower. And it is very probable that had Stevie died in his bed under her despairing gaze, in her protecting arms, Mrs Verloc’s grief would have found relief in a flood of bitter and pure tears. Mrs Verloc, in common with other human beings, was provided with a fund of unconscious resignation sufficient to meet the normal manifestation of human destiny. Without “troubling her head about it,” she was aware that it “did not stand looking into very much.” But the lamentable circumstances of Stevie’s end, which to Mr Verloc’s mind had only an episodic character, as part of a greater disaster, dried her tears at their very source. It was the effect of a white-hot iron drawn across her eyes; at the same time her heart, hardened and chilled into a lump of ice, kept her body in an inward shudder, set her features into a frozen contemplative immobility addressed to a whitewashed wall with no writing on it. The exigencies of Mrs Verloc’s temperament, which, when stripped of its philosophical reserve, was maternal and violent, forced her to roll a series of thoughts in her motionless head. These thoughts were rather imagined than expressed. Mrs Verloc was a woman of singularly few words, either for public or private use. With the rage and dismay of a betrayed woman, she reviewed the tenor of her life in visions concerned mostly with Stevie’s difficult existence from its earliest days. It was a life of single purpose and of a noble unity of inspiration, like those rare lives that have left their mark on the thoughts and feelings of mankind. But the visions of Mrs Verloc lacked nobility and magnificence. She saw herself putting the boy to bed by the light of a single candle on the deserted top floor of a “business house,” dark under the roof and scintillating exceedingly with lights and cut glass at the level of the street like a fairy palace. That meretricious splendour was the only one to be met in Mrs Verloc’s visions. She remembered brushing the boy’s hair and tying his pinafores—herself in a pinafore still; the consolations administered to a small and badly scared creature by another creature nearly as small but not quite so badly scared; she had the vision of the blows intercepted (often with her own head), of a door held desperately shut against a man’s rage (not for very long); of a poker flung once (not very far), which stilled that particular storm into the dumb and awful silence which follows a thunder-clap. And all these scenes of violence came and went accompanied by the unrefined noise of deep vociferations proceeding from a man wounded in his paternal pride, declaring himself obviously accursed since one of his kids was a “slobbering idjut and the other a wicked she-devil.” It was of her that this had been said many years ago. Mrs Verloc heard the words again in a ghostly fashion, and then the dreary shadow of the Belgravian mansion descended upon her shoulders. It was a crushing memory, an exhausting vision of countless breakfast trays carried up and down innumerable stairs, of endless haggling over pence, of the endless drudgery of sweeping, dusting, cleaning, from basement to attics; while the impotent mother, staggering on swollen legs, cooked in a grimy kitchen, and poor Stevie, the unconscious presiding genius of all their toil, blacked the gentlemen’s boots in the scullery. But this vision had a breath of a hot London summer in it, and for a central figure a young man wearing his Sunday best, with a straw hat on his dark head and a wooden pipe in his mouth. Affectionate and jolly, he was a fascinating companion for a voyage down the sparkling stream of life; only his boat was very small. There was room in it for a girl-partner at the oar, but no accommodation for passengers. He was allowed to drift away from the threshold of the Belgravian mansion while Winnie averted her tearful eyes. He was not a lodger. The lodger was Mr Verloc, indolent, and keeping late hours, sleepily jocular of a morning from under his bed-clothes, but with gleams of infatuation in his heavy lidded eyes, and always with some money in his pockets. There was no sparkle of any kind on the lazy stream of his life. It flowed through secret places. But his barque seemed a roomy craft, and his taciturn magnanimity accepted as a matter of course the presence of passengers. Mrs Verloc pursued the visions of seven years’ security for Stevie, loyally paid for on her part; of security growing into confidence, into a domestic feeling, stagnant and deep like a placid pool, whose guarded surface hardly shuddered on the occasional passage of Comrade Ossipon, the robust anarchist with shamelessly inviting eyes, whose glance had a corrupt clearness sufficient to enlighten any woman not absolutely imbecile. A few seconds only had elapsed since the last word had been uttered aloud in the kitchen, and Mrs Verloc was staring already at the vision of an episode not more than a fortnight old. With eyes whose pupils were extremely dilated she stared at the vision of her husband and poor Stevie walking up Brett Street side by side away from the shop. It was the last scene of an existence created by Mrs Verloc’s genius; an existence foreign to all grace and charm, without beauty and almost without decency, but admirable in the continuity of feeling and tenacity of purpose. And this last vision had such plastic relief, such nearness of form, such a fidelity of suggestive detail, that it wrung from Mrs Verloc an anguished and faint murmur, reproducing the supreme illusion of her life, an appalled murmur that died out on her blanched lips. “Might have been father and son.” Mr Verloc stopped, and raised a care-worn face. “Eh? What did you say?” he asked. Receiving no reply, he resumed his sinister tramping. Then with a menacing flourish of a thick, fleshy fist, he burst out: “Yes. The Embassy people. A pretty lot, ain’t they! Before a week’s out I’ll make some of them wish themselves twenty feet underground. Eh? What?” He glanced sideways, with his head down. Mrs Verloc gazed at the whitewashed wall. A blank wall—perfectly blank. A blankness to run at and dash your head against. Mrs Verloc remained immovably seated. She kept still as the population of half the globe would keep still in astonishment and despair, were the sun suddenly put out in the summer sky by the perfidy of a trusted providence. “The Embassy,” Mr Verloc began again, after a preliminary grimace which bared his teeth wolfishly. “I wish I could get loose in there with a cudgel for half-an-hour. I would keep on hitting till there wasn’t a single unbroken bone left amongst the whole lot. But never mind, I’ll teach them yet what it means trying to throw out a man like me to rot in the streets. I’ve a tongue in my head. All the world shall know what I’ve done for them. I am not afraid. I don’t care. Everything’ll come out. Every damned thing. Let them look out!” In these terms did Mr Verloc declare his thirst for revenge. It was a very appropriate revenge. It was in harmony with the promptings of Mr Verloc’s genius. It had also the advantage of being within the range of his powers and of adjusting itself easily to the practice of his life, which had consisted precisely in betraying the secret and unlawful proceedings of his fellow-men. Anarchists or diplomats were all one to him. Mr Verloc was temperamentally no respecter of persons. His scorn was equally distributed over the whole field of his operations. But as a member of a revolutionary proletariat—which he undoubtedly was—he nourished a rather inimical sentiment against social distinction. “Nothing on earth can stop me now,” he added, and paused, looking fixedly at his wife, who was looking fixedly at a blank wall. The silence in the kitchen was prolonged, and Mr Verloc felt disappointed. He had expected his wife to say something. But Mrs Verloc’s lips, composed in their usual form, preserved a statuesque immobility like the rest of her face. And Mr Verloc was disappointed. Yet the occasion did not, he recognised, demand speech from her. She was a woman of very few words. For reasons involved in the very foundation of his psychology, Mr Verloc was inclined to put his trust in any woman who had given herself to him. Therefore he trusted his wife. Their accord was perfect, but it was not precise. It was a tacit accord, congenial to Mrs Verloc’s incuriosity and to Mr Verloc’s habits of mind, which were indolent and secret. They refrained from going to the bottom of facts and motives. This reserve, expressing, in a way, their profound confidence in each other, introduced at the same time a certain element of vagueness into their intimacy. No system of conjugal relations is perfect. Mr Verloc presumed that his wife had understood him, but he would have been glad to hear her say what she thought at the moment. It would have been a comfort. There were several reasons why this comfort was denied him. There was a physical obstacle: Mrs Verloc had no sufficient command over her voice. She did not see any alternative between screaming and silence, and instinctively she chose the silence. Winnie Verloc was temperamentally a silent person. And there was the paralysing atrocity of the thought which occupied her. Her cheeks were blanched, her lips ashy, her immobility amazing. And she thought without looking at Mr Verloc: “This man took the boy away to murder him. He took the boy away from his home to murder him. He took the boy away from me to murder him!” Mrs Verloc’s whole being was racked by that inconclusive and maddening thought. It was in her veins, in her bones, in the roots of her hair. Mentally she assumed the biblical attitude of mourning—the covered face, the rent garments; the sound of wailing and lamentation filled her head. But her teeth were violently clenched, and her tearless eyes were hot with rage, because she was not a submissive creature. The protection she had extended over her brother had been in its origin of a fierce and indignant complexion. She had to love him with a militant love. She had battled for him—even against herself. His loss had the bitterness of defeat, with the anguish of a baffled passion. It was not an ordinary stroke of death. Moreover, it was not death that took Stevie from her. It was Mr Verloc who took him away. She had seen him. She had watched him, without raising a hand, take the boy away. And she had let him go, like—like a fool—a blind fool. Then after he had murdered the boy he came home to her. Just came home like any other man would come home to his wife. . . . Through her set teeth Mrs Verloc muttered at the wall: “And I thought he had caught a cold.” Mr Verloc heard these words and appropriated them. “It was nothing,” he said moodily. “I was upset. I was upset on your account.” Mrs Verloc, turning her head slowly, transferred her stare from the wall to her husband’s person. Mr Verloc, with the tips of his fingers between his lips, was looking on the ground. “Can’t be helped,” he mumbled, letting his hand fall. “You must pull yourself together. You’ll want all your wits about you. It is you who brought the police about our ears. Never mind, I won’t say anything more about it,” continued Mr Verloc magnanimously. “You couldn’t know.” “I couldn’t,” breathed out Mrs Verloc. It was as if a corpse had spoken. Mr Verloc took up the thread of his discourse. “I don’t blame you. I’ll make them sit up. Once under lock and key it will be safe enough for me to talk—you understand. You must reckon on me being two years away from you,” he continued, in a tone of sincere concern. “It will be easier for you than for me. You’ll have something to do, while I—Look here, Winnie, what you must do is to keep this business going for two years. You know enough for that. You’ve a good head on you. I’ll send you word when it’s time to go about trying to sell. You’ll have to be extra careful. The comrades will be keeping an eye on you all the time. You’ll have to be as artful as you know how, and as close as the grave. No one must know what you are going to do. I have no mind to get a knock on the head or a stab in the back directly I am let out.” Thus spoke Mr Verloc, applying his mind with ingenuity and forethought to the problems of the future. His voice was sombre, because he had a correct sentiment of the situation. Everything which he did not wish to pass had come to pass. The future had become precarious. His judgment, perhaps, had been momentarily obscured by his dread of Mr Vladimir’s truculent folly. A man somewhat over forty may be excusably thrown into considerable disorder by the prospect of losing his employment, especially if the man is a secret agent of political police, dwelling secure in the consciousness of his high value and in the esteem of high personages. He was excusable. Now the thing had ended in a crash. Mr Verloc was cool; but he was not cheerful. A secret agent who throws his secrecy to the winds from desire of vengeance, and flaunts his achievements before the public eye, becomes the mark for desperate and bloodthirsty indignations. Without unduly exaggerating the danger, Mr Verloc tried to bring it clearly before his wife’s mind. He repeated that he had no intention to let the revolutionists do away with him. He looked straight into his wife’s eyes. The enlarged pupils of the woman received his stare into their unfathomable depths. “I am too fond of you for that,” he said, with a little nervous laugh. A faint flush coloured Mrs Verloc’s ghastly and motionless face. Having done with the visions of the past, she had not only heard, but had also understood the words uttered by her husband. By their extreme disaccord with her mental condition these words produced on her a slightly suffocating effect. Mrs Verloc’s mental condition had the merit of simplicity; but it was not sound. It was governed too much by a fixed idea. Every nook and cranny of her brain was filled with the thought that this man, with whom she had lived without distaste for seven years, had taken the “poor boy” away from her in order to kill him—the man to whom she had grown accustomed in body and mind; the man whom she had trusted, took the boy away to kill him! In its form, in its substance, in its effect, which was universal, altering even the aspect of inanimate things, it was a thought to sit still and marvel at for ever and ever. Mrs Verloc sat still. And across that thought (not across the kitchen) the form of Mr Verloc went to and fro, familiarly in hat and overcoat, stamping with his boots upon her brain. He was probably talking too; but Mrs Verloc’s thought for the most part covered the voice. Now and then, however, the voice would make itself heard. Several connected words emerged at times. Their purport was generally hopeful. On each of these occasions Mrs Verloc’s dilated pupils, losing their far-off fixity, followed her husband’s movements with the effect of black care and impenetrable attention. Well informed upon all matters relating to his secret calling, Mr Verloc augured well for the success of his plans and combinations. He really believed that it would be upon the whole easy for him to escape the knife of infuriated revolutionists. He had exaggerated the strength of their fury and the length of their arm (for professional purposes) too often to have many illusions one way or the other. For to exaggerate with judgment one must begin by measuring with nicety. He knew also how much virtue and how much infamy is forgotten in two years—two long years. His first really confidential discourse to his wife was optimistic from conviction. He also thought it good policy to display all the assurance he could muster. It would put heart into the poor woman. On his liberation, which, harmonising with the whole tenor of his life, would be secret, of course, they would vanish together without loss of time. As to covering up the tracks, he begged his wife to trust him for that. He knew how it was to be done so that the devil himself— He waved his hand. He seemed to boast. He wished only to put heart into her. It was a benevolent intention, but Mr Verloc had the misfortune not to be in accord with his audience. The self-confident tone grew upon Mrs Verloc’s ear which let most of the words go by; for what were words to her now? What could words do to her, for good or evil in the face of her fixed idea? Her black glance followed that man who was asserting his impunity—the man who had taken poor Stevie from home to kill him somewhere. Mrs Verloc could not remember exactly where, but her heart began to beat very perceptibly. Mr Verloc, in a soft and conjugal tone, was now expressing his firm belief that there were yet a good few years of quiet life before them both. He did not go into the question of means. A quiet life it must be and, as it were, nestling in the shade, concealed among men whose flesh is grass; modest, like the life of violets. The words used by Mr Verloc were: “Lie low for a bit.” And far from England, of course. It was not clear whether Mr Verloc had in his mind Spain or South America; but at any rate somewhere abroad. This last word, falling into Mrs Verloc’s ear, produced a definite impression. This man was talking of going abroad. The impression was completely disconnected; and such is the force of mental habit that Mrs Verloc at once and automatically asked herself: “And what of Stevie?” It was a sort of forgetfulness; but instantly she became aware that there was no longer any occasion for anxiety on that score. There would never be any occasion any more. The poor boy had been taken out and killed. The poor boy was dead. This shaking piece of forgetfulness stimulated Mrs Verloc’s intelligence. She began to perceive certain consequences which would have surprised Mr Verloc. There was no need for her now to stay there, in that kitchen, in that house, with that man—since the boy was gone for ever. No need whatever. And on that Mrs Verloc rose as if raised by a spring. But neither could she see what there was to keep her in the world at all. And this inability arrested her. Mr Verloc watched her with marital solicitude. “You’re looking more like yourself,” he said uneasily. Something peculiar in the blackness of his wife’s eyes disturbed his optimism. At that precise moment Mrs Verloc began to look upon herself as released from all earthly ties. She had her freedom. Her contract with existence, as represented by that man standing over there, was at an end. She was a free woman. Had this view become in some way perceptible to Mr Verloc he would have been extremely shocked. In his affairs of the heart Mr Verloc had been always carelessly generous, yet always with no other idea than that of being loved for himself. Upon this matter, his ethical notions being in agreement with his vanity, he was completely incorrigible. That this should be so in the case of his virtuous and legal connection he was perfectly certain. He had grown older, fatter, heavier, in the belief that he lacked no fascination for being loved for his own sake. When he saw Mrs Verloc starting to walk out of the kitchen without a word he was disappointed. “Where are you going to?” he called out rather sharply. “Upstairs?” Mrs Verloc in the doorway turned at the voice. An instinct of prudence born of fear, the excessive fear of being approached and touched by that man, induced her to nod at him slightly (from the height of two steps), with a stir of the lips which the conjugal optimism of Mr Verloc took for a wan and uncertain smile. “That’s right,” he encouraged her gruffly. “Rest and quiet’s what you want. Go on. It won’t be long before I am with you.” Mrs Verloc, the free woman who had had really no idea where she was going to, obeyed the suggestion with rigid steadiness. Mr Verloc watched her. She disappeared up the stairs. He was disappointed. There was that within him which would have been more satisfied if she had been moved to throw herself upon his breast. But he was generous and indulgent. Winnie was always undemonstrative and silent. Neither was Mr Verloc himself prodigal of endearments and words as a rule. But this was not an ordinary evening. It was an occasion when a man wants to be fortified and strengthened by open proofs of sympathy and affection. Mr Verloc sighed, and put out the gas in the kitchen. Mr Verloc’s sympathy with his wife was genuine and intense. It almost brought tears into his eyes as he stood in the parlour reflecting on the loneliness hanging over her head. In this mood Mr Verloc missed Stevie very much out of a difficult world. He thought mournfully of his end. If only that lad had not stupidly destroyed himself! The sensation of unappeasable hunger, not unknown after the strain of a hazardous enterprise to adventurers of tougher fibre than Mr Verloc, overcame him again. The piece of roast beef, laid out in the likeness of funereal baked meats for Stevie’s obsequies, offered itself largely to his notice. And Mr Verloc again partook. He partook ravenously, without restraint and decency, cutting thick slices with the sharp carving knife, and swallowing them without bread. In the course of that refection it occurred to Mr Verloc that he was not hearing his wife move about the bedroom as he should have done. The thought of finding her perhaps sitting on the bed in the dark not only cut Mr Verloc’s appetite, but also took from him the inclination to follow her upstairs just yet. Laying down the carving knife, Mr Verloc listened with careworn attention. He was comforted by hearing her move at last. She walked suddenly across the room, and threw the window up. After a period of stillness up there, during which he figured her to himself with her head out, he heard the sash being lowered slowly. Then she made a few steps, and sat down. Every resonance of his house was familiar to Mr Verloc, who was thoroughly domesticated. When next he heard his wife’s footsteps overhead he knew, as well as if he had seen her doing it, that she had been putting on her walking shoes. Mr Verloc wriggled his shoulders slightly at this ominous symptom, and moving away from the table, stood with his back to the fireplace, his head on one side, and gnawing perplexedly at the tips of his fingers. He kept track of her movements by the sound. She walked here and there violently, with abrupt stoppages, now before the chest of drawers, then in front of the wardrobe. An immense load of weariness, the harvest of a day of shocks and surprises, weighed Mr Verloc’s energies to the ground. He did not raise his eyes till he heard his wife descending the stairs. It was as he had guessed. She was dressed for going out. Mrs Verloc was a free woman. She had thrown open the window of the bedroom either with the intention of screaming Murder! Help! or of throwing herself out. For she did not exactly know what use to make of her freedom. Her personality seemed to have been torn into two pieces, whose mental operations did not adjust themselves very well to each other. The street, silent and deserted from end to end, repelled her by taking sides with that man who was so certain of his impunity. She was afraid to shout lest no one should come. Obviously no one would come. Her instinct of self-preservation recoiled from the depth of the fall into that sort of slimy, deep trench. Mrs Verloc closed the window, and dressed herself to go out into the street by another way. She was a free woman. She had dressed herself thoroughly, down to the tying of a black veil over her face. As she appeared before him in the light of the parlour, Mr Verloc observed that she had even her little handbag hanging from her left wrist. . . . Flying off to her mother, of course. The thought that women were wearisome creatures after all presented itself to his fatigued brain. But he was too generous to harbour it for more than an instant. This man, hurt cruelly in his vanity, remained magnanimous in his conduct, allowing himself no satisfaction of a bitter smile or of a contemptuous gesture. With true greatness of soul, he only glanced at the wooden clock on the wall, and said in a perfectly calm but forcible manner: “Five and twenty minutes past eight, Winnie. There’s no sense in going over there so late. You will never manage to get back to-night.” Before his extended hand Mrs Verloc had stopped short. He added heavily: “Your mother will be gone to bed before you get there. This is the sort of news that can wait.” Nothing was further from Mrs Verloc’s thoughts than going to her mother. She recoiled at the mere idea, and feeling a chair behind her, she obeyed the suggestion of the touch, and sat down. Her intention had been simply to get outside the door for ever. And if this feeling was correct, its mental form took an unrefined shape corresponding to her origin and station. “I would rather walk the streets all the days of my life,” she thought. But this creature, whose moral nature had been subjected to a shock of which, in the physical order, the most violent earthquake of history could only be a faint and languid rendering, was at the mercy of mere trifles, of casual contacts. She sat down. With her hat and veil she had the air of a visitor, of having looked in on Mr Verloc for a moment. Her instant docility encouraged him, whilst her aspect of only temporary and silent acquiescence provoked him a little. “Let me tell you, Winnie,” he said with authority, “that your place is here this evening. Hang it all! you brought the damned police high and low about my ears. I don’t blame you—but it’s your doing all the same. You’d better take this confounded hat off. I can’t let you go out, old girl,” he added in a softened voice. Mrs Verloc’s mind got hold of that declaration with morbid tenacity. The man who had taken Stevie out from under her very eyes to murder him in a locality whose name was at the moment not present to her memory would not allow her go out. Of course he wouldn’t. Now he had murdered Stevie he would never let her go. He would want to keep her for nothing. And on this characteristic reasoning, having all the force of insane logic, Mrs Verloc’s disconnected wits went to work practically. She could slip by him, open the door, run out. But he would dash out after her, seize her round the body, drag her back into the shop. She could scratch, kick, and bite—and stab too; but for stabbing she wanted a knife. Mrs Verloc sat still under her black veil, in her own house, like a masked and mysterious visitor of impenetrable intentions. Mr Verloc’s magnanimity was not more than human. She had exasperated him at last. “Can’t you say something? You have your own dodges for vexing a man. Oh yes! I know your deaf-and-dumb trick. I’ve seen you at it before to-day. But just now it won’t do. And to begin with, take this damned thing off. One can’t tell whether one is talking to a dummy or to a live woman.” He advanced, and stretching out his hand, dragged the veil off, unmasking a still, unreadable face, against which his nervous exasperation was shattered like a glass bubble flung against a rock. “That’s better,” he said, to cover his momentary uneasiness, and retreated back to his old station by the mantelpiece. It never entered his head that his wife could give him up. He felt a little ashamed of himself, for he was fond and generous. What could he do? Everything had been said already. He protested vehemently. “By heavens! You know that I hunted high and low. I ran the risk of giving myself away to find somebody for that accursed job. And I tell you again I couldn’t find anyone crazy enough or hungry enough. What do you take me for—a murderer, or what? The boy is gone. Do you think I wanted him to blow himself up? He’s gone. His troubles are over. Ours are just going to begin, I tell you, precisely because he did blow himself. I don’t blame you. But just try to understand that it was a pure accident; as much an accident as if he had been run over by a ’bus while crossing the street.” His generosity was not infinite, because he was a human being—and not a monster, as Mrs Verloc believed him to be. He paused, and a snarl lifting his moustaches above a gleam of white teeth gave him the expression of a reflective beast, not very dangerous—a slow beast with a sleek head, gloomier than a seal, and with a husky voice. “And when it comes to that, it’s as much your doing as mine. That’s so. You may glare as much as you like. I know what you can do in that way. Strike me dead if I ever would have thought of the lad for that purpose. It was you who kept on shoving him in my way when I was half distracted with the worry of keeping the lot of us out of trouble. What the devil made you? One would think you were doing it on purpose. And I am damned if I know that you didn’t. There’s no saying how much of what’s going on you have got hold of on the sly with your infernal don’t-care-a-damn way of looking nowhere in particular, and saying nothing at all. . . . ” His husky domestic voice ceased for a while. Mrs Verloc made no reply. Before that silence he felt ashamed of what he had said. But as often happens to peaceful men in domestic tiffs, being ashamed he pushed another point. “You have a devilish way of holding your tongue sometimes,” he began again, without raising his voice. “Enough to make some men go mad. It’s lucky for you that I am not so easily put out as some of them would be by your deaf-and-dumb sulks. I am fond of you. But don’t you go too far. This isn’t the time for it. We ought to be thinking of what we’ve got to do. And I can’t let you go out to-night, galloping off to your mother with some crazy tale or other about me. I won’t have it. Don’t you make any mistake about it: if you will have it that I killed the boy, then you’ve killed him as much as I.” In sincerity of feeling and openness of statement, these words went far beyond anything that had ever been said in this home, kept up on the wages of a secret industry eked out by the sale of more or less secret wares: the poor expedients devised by a mediocre mankind for preserving an imperfect society from the dangers of moral and physical corruption, both secret too of their kind. They were spoken because Mr Verloc had felt himself really outraged; but the reticent decencies of this home life, nestling in a shady street behind a shop where the sun never shone, remained apparently undisturbed. Mrs Verloc heard him out with perfect propriety, and then rose from her chair in her hat and jacket like a visitor at the end of a call. She advanced towards her husband, one arm extended as if for a silent leave-taking. Her net veil dangling down by one end on the left side of her face gave an air of disorderly formality to her restrained movements. But when she arrived as far as the hearthrug, Mr Verloc was no longer standing there. He had moved off in the direction of the sofa, without raising his eyes to watch the effect of his tirade. He was tired, resigned in a truly marital spirit. But he felt hurt in the tender spot of his secret weakness. If she would go on sulking in that dreadful overcharged silence—why then she must. She was a master in that domestic art. Mr Verloc flung himself heavily upon the sofa, disregarding as usual the fate of his hat, which, as if accustomed to take care of itself, made for a safe shelter under the table. He was tired. The last particle of his nervous force had been expended in the wonders and agonies of this day full of surprising failures coming at the end of a harassing month of scheming and insomnia. He was tired. A man isn’t made of stone. Hang everything! Mr Verloc reposed characteristically, clad in his outdoor garments. One side of his open overcoat was lying partly on the ground. Mr Verloc wallowed on his back. But he longed for a more perfect rest—for sleep—for a few hours of delicious forgetfulness. That would come later. Provisionally he rested. And he thought: “I wish she would give over this damned nonsense. It’s exasperating.” There must have been something imperfect in Mrs Verloc’s sentiment of regained freedom. Instead of taking the way of the door she leaned back, with her shoulders against the tablet of the mantelpiece, as a wayfarer rests against a fence. A tinge of wildness in her aspect was derived from the black veil hanging like a rag against her cheek, and from the fixity of her black gaze where the light of the room was absorbed and lost without the trace of a single gleam. This woman, capable of a bargain the mere suspicion of which would have been infinitely shocking to Mr Verloc’s idea of love, remained irresolute, as if scrupulously aware of something wanting on her part for the formal closing of the transaction. On the sofa Mr Verloc wriggled his shoulders into perfect comfort, and from the fulness of his heart emitted a wish which was certainly as pious as anything likely to come from such a source. “I wish to goodness,” he growled huskily, “I had never seen Greenwich Park or anything belonging to it.” The veiled sound filled the small room with its moderate volume, well adapted to the modest nature of the wish. The waves of air of the proper length, propagated in accordance with correct mathematical formulas, flowed around all the inanimate things in the room, lapped against Mrs Verloc’s head as if it had been a head of stone. And incredible as it may appear, the eyes of Mrs Verloc seemed to grow still larger. The audible wish of Mr Verloc’s overflowing heart flowed into an empty place in his wife’s memory. Greenwich Park. A park! That’s where the boy was killed. A park—smashed branches, torn leaves, gravel, bits of brotherly flesh and bone, all spouting up together in the manner of a firework. She remembered now what she had heard, and she remembered it pictorially. They had to gather him up with the shovel. Trembling all over with irrepressible shudders, she saw before her the very implement with its ghastly load scraped up from the ground. Mrs Verloc closed her eyes desperately, throwing upon that vision the night of her eyelids, where after a rainlike fall of mangled limbs the decapitated head of Stevie lingered suspended alone, and fading out slowly like the last star of a pyrotechnic display. Mrs Verloc opened her eyes. Her face was no longer stony. Anybody could have noted the subtle change on her features, in the stare of her eyes, giving her a new and startling expression; an expression seldom observed by competent persons under the conditions of leisure and security demanded for thorough analysis, but whose meaning could not be mistaken at a glance. Mrs Verloc’s doubts as to the end of the bargain no longer existed; her wits, no longer disconnected, were working under the control of her will. But Mr Verloc observed nothing. He was reposing in that pathetic condition of optimism induced by excess of fatigue. He did not want any more trouble—with his wife too—of all people in the world. He had been unanswerable in his vindication. He was loved for himself. The present phase of her silence he interpreted favourably. This was the time to make it up with her. The silence had lasted long enough. He broke it by calling to her in an undertone. “Winnie.” “Yes,” answered obediently Mrs Verloc the free woman. She commanded her wits now, her vocal organs; she felt herself to be in an almost preternaturally perfect control of every fibre of her body. It was all her own, because the bargain was at an end. She was clear sighted. She had become cunning. She chose to answer him so readily for a purpose. She did not wish that man to change his position on the sofa which was very suitable to the circumstances. She succeeded. The man did not stir. But after answering him she remained leaning negligently against the mantelpiece in the attitude of a resting wayfarer. She was unhurried. Her brow was smooth. The head and shoulders of Mr Verloc were hidden from her by the high side of the sofa. She kept her eyes fixed on his feet. She remained thus mysteriously still and suddenly collected till Mr Verloc was heard with an accent of marital authority, and moving slightly to make room for her to sit on the edge of the sofa. “Come here,” he said in a peculiar tone, which might have been the tone of brutality, but was intimately known to Mrs Verloc as the note of wooing. She started forward at once, as if she were still a loyal woman bound to that man by an unbroken contract. Her right hand skimmed slightly the end of the table, and when she had passed on towards the sofa the carving knife had vanished without the slightest sound from the side of the dish. Mr Verloc heard the creaky plank in the floor, and was content. He waited. Mrs Verloc was coming. As if the homeless soul of Stevie had flown for shelter straight to the breast of his sister, guardian and protector, the resemblance of her face with that of her brother grew at every step, even to the droop of the lower lip, even to the slight divergence of the eyes. But Mr Verloc did not see that. He was lying on his back and staring upwards. He saw partly on the ceiling and partly on the wall the moving shadow of an arm with a clenched hand holding a carving knife. It flickered up and down. Its movements were leisurely. They were leisurely enough for Mr Verloc to recognise the limb and the weapon. They were leisurely enough for him to take in the full meaning of the portent, and to taste the flavour of death rising in his gorge. His wife had gone raving mad—murdering mad. They were leisurely enough for the first paralysing effect of this discovery to pass away before a resolute determination to come out victorious from the ghastly struggle with that armed lunatic. They were leisurely enough for Mr Verloc to elaborate a plan of defence involving a dash behind the table, and the felling of the woman to the ground with a heavy wooden chair. But they were not leisurely enough to allow Mr Verloc the time to move either hand or foot. The knife was already planted in his breast. It met no resistance on its way. Hazard has such accuracies. Into that plunging blow, delivered over the side of the couch, Mrs Verloc had put all the inheritance of her immemorial and obscure descent, the simple ferocity of the age of caverns, and the unbalanced nervous fury of the age of bar-rooms. Mr Verloc, the Secret Agent, turning slightly on his side with the force of the blow, expired without stirring a limb, in the muttered sound of the word “Don’t” by way of protest. Mrs Verloc had let go the knife, and her extraordinary resemblance to her late brother had faded, had become very ordinary now. She drew a deep breath, the first easy breath since Chief Inspector Heat had exhibited to her the labelled piece of Stevie’s overcoat. She leaned forward on her folded arms over the side of the sofa. She adopted that easy attitude not in order to watch or gloat over the body of Mr Verloc, but because of the undulatory and swinging movements of the parlour, which for some time behaved as though it were at sea in a tempest. She was giddy but calm. She had become a free woman with a perfection of freedom which left her nothing to desire and absolutely nothing to do, since Stevie’s urgent claim on her devotion no longer existed. Mrs Verloc, who thought in images, was not troubled now by visions, because she did not think at all. And she did not move. She was a woman enjoying her complete irresponsibility and endless leisure, almost in the manner of a corpse. She did not move, she did not think. Neither did the mortal envelope of the late Mr Verloc reposing on the sofa. Except for the fact that Mrs Verloc breathed these two would have been perfect in accord: that accord of prudent reserve without superfluous words, and sparing of signs, which had been the foundation of their respectable home life. For it had been respectable, covering by a decent reticence the problems that may arise in the practice of a secret profession and the commerce of shady wares. To the last its decorum had remained undisturbed by unseemly shrieks and other misplaced sincerities of conduct. And after the striking of the blow, this respectability was continued in immobility and silence. Nothing moved in the parlour till Mrs Verloc raised her head slowly and looked at the clock with inquiring mistrust. She had become aware of a ticking sound in the room. It grew upon her ear, while she remembered clearly that the clock on the wall was silent, had no audible tick. What did it mean by beginning to tick so loudly all of a sudden? Its face indicated ten minutes to nine. Mrs Verloc cared nothing for time, and the ticking went on. She concluded it could not be the clock, and her sullen gaze moved along the walls, wavered, and became vague, while she strained her hearing to locate the sound. Tic, tic, tic. After listening for some time Mrs Verloc lowered her gaze deliberately on her husband’s body. Its attitude of repose was so home-like and familiar that she could do so without feeling embarrassed by any pronounced novelty in the phenomena of her home life. Mr Verloc was taking his habitual ease. He looked comfortable. By the position of the body the face of Mr Verloc was not visible to Mrs Verloc, his widow. Her fine, sleepy eyes, travelling downward on the track of the sound, became contemplative on meeting a flat object of bone which protruded a little beyond the edge of the sofa. It was the handle of the domestic carving knife with nothing strange about it but its position at right angles to Mr Verloc’s waistcoat and the fact that something dripped from it. Dark drops fell on the floorcloth one after another, with a sound of ticking growing fast and furious like the pulse of an insane clock. At its highest speed this ticking changed into a continuous sound of trickling. Mrs Verloc watched that transformation with shadows of anxiety coming and going on her face. It was a trickle, dark, swift, thin. . . . Blood! At this unforeseen circumstance Mrs Verloc abandoned her pose of idleness and irresponsibility. With a sudden snatch at her skirts and a faint shriek she ran to the door, as if the trickle had been the first sign of a destroying flood. Finding the table in her way she gave it a push with both hands as though it had been alive, with such force that it went for some distance on its four legs, making a loud, scraping racket, whilst the big dish with the joint crashed heavily on the floor. Then all became still. Mrs Verloc on reaching the door had stopped. A round hat disclosed in the middle of the floor by the moving of the table rocked slightly on its crown in the wind of her flight. CHAPTER XII Winnie Verloc, the widow of Mr Verloc, the sister of the late faithful Stevie (blown to fragments in a state of innocence and in the conviction of being engaged in a humanitarian enterprise), did not run beyond the door of the parlour. She had indeed run away so far from a mere trickle of blood, but that was a movement of instinctive repulsion. And there she had paused, with staring eyes and lowered head. As though she had run through long years in her flight across the small parlour, Mrs Verloc by the door was quite a different person from the woman who had been leaning over the sofa, a little swimmy in her head, but otherwise free to enjoy the profound calm of idleness and irresponsibility. Mrs Verloc was no longer giddy. Her head was steady. On the other hand, she was no longer calm. She was afraid. If she avoided looking in the direction of her reposing husband it was not because she was afraid of him. Mr Verloc was not frightful to behold. He looked comfortable. Moreover, he was dead. Mrs Verloc entertained no vain delusions on the subject of the dead. Nothing brings them back, neither love nor hate. They can do nothing to you. They are as nothing. Her mental state was tinged by a sort of austere contempt for that man who had let himself be killed so easily. He had been the master of a house, the husband of a woman, and the murderer of her Stevie. And now he was of no account in every respect. He was of less practical account than the clothing on his body, than his overcoat, than his boots—than that hat lying on the floor. He was nothing. He was not worth looking at. He was even no longer the murderer of poor Stevie. The only murderer that would be found in the room when people came to look for Mr Verloc would be—herself! Her hands shook so that she failed twice in the task of refastening her veil. Mrs Verloc was no longer a person of leisure and responsibility. She was afraid. The stabbing of Mr Verloc had been only a blow. It had relieved the pent-up agony of shrieks strangled in her throat, of tears dried up in her hot eyes, of the maddening and indignant rage at the atrocious part played by that man, who was less than nothing now, in robbing her of the boy. It had been an obscurely prompted blow. The blood trickling on the floor off the handle of the knife had turned it into an extremely plain case of murder. Mrs Verloc, who always refrained from looking deep into things, was compelled to look into the very bottom of this thing. She saw there no haunting face, no reproachful shade, no vision of remorse, no sort of ideal conception. She saw there an object. That object was the gallows. Mrs Verloc was afraid of the gallows. She was terrified of them ideally. Having never set eyes on that last argument of men’s justice except in illustrative woodcuts to a certain type of tales, she first saw them erect against a black and stormy background, festooned with chains and human bones, circled about by birds that peck at dead men’s eyes. This was frightful enough, but Mrs Verloc, though not a well-informed woman, had a sufficient knowledge of the institutions of her country to know that gallows are no longer erected romantically on the banks of dismal rivers or on wind-swept headlands, but in the yards of jails. There within four high walls, as if into a pit, at dawn of day, the murderer was brought out to be executed, with a horrible quietness and, as the reports in the newspapers always said, “in the presence of the authorities.” With her eyes staring on the floor, her nostrils quivering with anguish and shame, she imagined herself all alone amongst a lot of strange gentlemen in silk hats who were calmly proceeding about the business of hanging her by the neck. That—never! Never! And how was it done? The impossibility of imagining the details of such quiet execution added something maddening to her abstract terror. The newspapers never gave any details except one, but that one with some affectation was always there at the end of a meagre report. Mrs Verloc remembered its nature. It came with a cruel burning pain into her head, as if the words “The drop given was fourteen feet” had been scratched on her brain with a hot needle. “The drop given was fourteen feet.” These words affected her physically too. Her throat became convulsed in waves to resist strangulation; and the apprehension of the jerk was so vivid that she seized her head in both hands as if to save it from being torn off her shoulders. “The drop given was fourteen feet.” No! that must never be. She could not stand _that_. The thought of it even was not bearable. She could not stand thinking of it. Therefore Mrs Verloc formed the resolution to go at once and throw herself into the river off one of the bridges. This time she managed to refasten her veil. With her face as if masked, all black from head to foot except for some flowers in her hat, she looked up mechanically at the clock. She thought it must have stopped. She could not believe that only two minutes had passed since she had looked at it last. Of course not. It had been stopped all the time. As a matter of fact, only three minutes had elapsed from the moment she had drawn the first deep, easy breath after the blow, to this moment when Mrs Verloc formed the resolution to drown herself in the Thames. But Mrs Verloc could not believe that. She seemed to have heard or read that clocks and watches always stopped at the moment of murder for the undoing of the murderer. She did not care. “To the bridge—and over I go.” . . . But her movements were slow. She dragged herself painfully across the shop, and had to hold on to the handle of the door before she found the necessary fortitude to open it. The street frightened her, since it led either to the gallows or to the river. She floundered over the doorstep head forward, arms thrown out, like a person falling over the parapet of a bridge. This entrance into the open air had a foretaste of drowning; a slimy dampness enveloped her, entered her nostrils, clung to her hair. It was not actually raining, but each gas lamp had a rusty little halo of mist. The van and horses were gone, and in the black street the curtained window of the carters’ eating-house made a square patch of soiled blood-red light glowing faintly very near the level of the pavement. Mrs Verloc, dragging herself slowly towards it, thought that she was a very friendless woman. It was true. It was so true that, in a sudden longing to see some friendly face, she could think of no one else but of Mrs Neale, the charwoman. She had no acquaintances of her own. Nobody would miss her in a social way. It must not be imagined that the Widow Verloc had forgotten her mother. This was not so. Winnie had been a good daughter because she had been a devoted sister. Her mother had always leaned on her for support. No consolation or advice could be expected there. Now that Stevie was dead the bond seemed to be broken. She could not face the old woman with the horrible tale. Moreover, it was too far. The river was her present destination. Mrs Verloc tried to forget her mother. Each step cost her an effort of will which seemed the last possible. Mrs Verloc had dragged herself past the red glow of the eating-house window. “To the bridge—and over I go,” she repeated to herself with fierce obstinacy. She put out her hand just in time to steady herself against a lamp-post. “I’ll never get there before morning,” she thought. The fear of death paralysed her efforts to escape the gallows. It seemed to her she had been staggering in that street for hours. “I’ll never get there,” she thought. “They’ll find me knocking about the streets. It’s too far.” She held on, panting under her black veil. “The drop given was fourteen feet.” She pushed the lamp-post away from her violently, and found herself walking. But another wave of faintness overtook her like a great sea, washing away her heart clean out of her breast. “I will never get there,” she muttered, suddenly arrested, swaying lightly where she stood. “Never.” And perceiving the utter impossibility of walking as far as the nearest bridge, Mrs Verloc thought of a flight abroad. It came to her suddenly. Murderers escaped. They escaped abroad. Spain or California. Mere names. The vast world created for the glory of man was only a vast blank to Mrs Verloc. She did not know which way to turn. Murderers had friends, relations, helpers—they had knowledge. She had nothing. She was the most lonely of murderers that ever struck a mortal blow. She was alone in London: and the whole town of marvels and mud, with its maze of streets and its mass of lights, was sunk in a hopeless night, rested at the bottom of a black abyss from which no unaided woman could hope to scramble out. She swayed forward, and made a fresh start blindly, with an awful dread of falling down; but at the end of a few steps, unexpectedly, she found a sensation of support, of security. Raising her head, she saw a man’s face peering closely at her veil. Comrade Ossipon was not afraid of strange women, and no feeling of false delicacy could prevent him from striking an acquaintance with a woman apparently very much intoxicated. Comrade Ossipon was interested in women. He held up this one between his two large palms, peering at her in a business-like way till he heard her say faintly “Mr Ossipon!” and then he very nearly let her drop to the ground. “Mrs Verloc!” he exclaimed. “You here!” It seemed impossible to him that she should have been drinking. But one never knows. He did not go into that question, but attentive not to discourage kind fate surrendering to him the widow of Comrade Verloc, he tried to draw her to his breast. To his astonishment she came quite easily, and even rested on his arm for a moment before she attempted to disengage herself. Comrade Ossipon would not be brusque with kind fate. He withdrew his arm in a natural way. “You recognised me,” she faltered out, standing before him, fairly steady on her legs. “Of course I did,” said Ossipon with perfect readiness. “I was afraid you were going to fall. I’ve thought of you too often lately not to recognise you anywhere, at any time. I’ve always thought of you—ever since I first set eyes on you.” Mrs Verloc seemed not to hear. “You were coming to the shop?” she said nervously. “Yes; at once,” answered Ossipon. “Directly I read the paper.” In fact, Comrade Ossipon had been skulking for a good two hours in the neighbourhood of Brett Street, unable to make up his mind for a bold move. The robust anarchist was not exactly a bold conqueror. He remembered that Mrs Verloc had never responded to his glances by the slightest sign of encouragement. Besides, he thought the shop might be watched by the police, and Comrade Ossipon did not wish the police to form an exaggerated notion of his revolutionary sympathies. Even now he did not know precisely what to do. In comparison with his usual amatory speculations this was a big and serious undertaking. He ignored how much there was in it and how far he would have to go in order to get hold of what there was to get—supposing there was a chance at all. These perplexities checking his elation imparted to his tone a soberness well in keeping with the circumstances. “May I ask you where you were going?” he inquired in a subdued voice. “Don’t ask me!” cried Mrs Verloc with a shuddering, repressed violence. All her strong vitality recoiled from the idea of death. “Never mind where I was going. . . .” Ossipon concluded that she was very much excited but perfectly sober. She remained silent by his side for moment, then all at once she did something which he did not expect. She slipped her hand under his arm. He was startled by the act itself certainly, and quite as much too by the palpably resolute character of this movement. But this being a delicate affair, Comrade Ossipon behaved with delicacy. He contented himself by pressing the hand slightly against his robust ribs. At the same time he felt himself being impelled forward, and yielded to the impulse. At the end of Brett Street he became aware of being directed to the left. He submitted. The fruiterer at the corner had put out the blazing glory of his oranges and lemons, and Brett Place was all darkness, interspersed with the misty halos of the few lamps defining its triangular shape, with a cluster of three lights on one stand in the middle. The dark forms of the man and woman glided slowly arm in arm along the walls with a loverlike and homeless aspect in the miserable night. “What would you say if I were to tell you that I was going to find you?” Mrs Verloc asked, gripping his arm with force. “I would say that you couldn’t find anyone more ready to help you in your trouble,” answered Ossipon, with a notion of making tremendous headway. In fact, the progress of this delicate affair was almost taking his breath away. “In my trouble!” Mrs Verloc repeated slowly. “Yes.” “And do you know what my trouble is?” she whispered with strange intensity. “Ten minutes after seeing the evening paper,” explained Ossipon with ardour, “I met a fellow whom you may have seen once or twice at the shop perhaps, and I had a talk with him which left no doubt whatever in my mind. Then I started for here, wondering whether you—I’ve been fond of you beyond words ever since I set eyes on your face,” he cried, as if unable to command his feelings. Comrade Ossipon assumed correctly that no woman was capable of wholly disbelieving such a statement. But he did not know that Mrs Verloc accepted it with all the fierceness the instinct of self-preservation puts into the grip of a drowning person. To the widow of Mr Verloc the robust anarchist was like a radiant messenger of life. They walked slowly, in step. “I thought so,” Mrs Verloc murmured faintly. “You’ve read it in my eyes,” suggested Ossipon with great assurance. “Yes,” she breathed out into his inclined ear. “A love like mine could not be concealed from a woman like you,” he went on, trying to detach his mind from material considerations such as the business value of the shop, and the amount of money Mr Verloc might have left in the bank. He applied himself to the sentimental side of the affair. In his heart of hearts he was a little shocked at his success. Verloc had been a good fellow, and certainly a very decent husband as far as one could see. However, Comrade Ossipon was not going to quarrel with his luck for the sake of a dead man. Resolutely he suppressed his sympathy for the ghost of Comrade Verloc, and went on. “I could not conceal it. I was too full of you. I daresay you could not help seeing it in my eyes. But I could not guess it. You were always so distant. . . .” “What else did you expect?” burst out Mrs Verloc. “I was a respectable woman—” She paused, then added, as if speaking to herself, in sinister resentment: “Till he made me what I am.” Ossipon let that pass, and took up his running. “He never did seem to me to be quite worthy of you,” he began, throwing loyalty to the winds. “You were worthy of a better fate.” Mrs Verloc interrupted bitterly: “Better fate! He cheated me out of seven years of life.” “You seemed to live so happily with him.” Ossipon tried to exculpate the lukewarmness of his past conduct. “It’s that what’s made me timid. You seemed to love him. I was surprised—and jealous,” he added. “Love him!” Mrs Verloc cried out in a whisper, full of scorn and rage. “Love him! I was a good wife to him. I am a respectable woman. You thought I loved him! You did! Look here, Tom—” The sound of this name thrilled Comrade Ossipon with pride. For his name was Alexander, and he was called Tom by arrangement with the most familiar of his intimates. It was a name of friendship—of moments of expansion. He had no idea that she had ever heard it used by anybody. It was apparent that she had not only caught it, but had treasured it in her memory—perhaps in her heart. “Look here, Tom! I was a young girl. I was done up. I was tired. I had two people depending on what I could do, and it did seem as if I couldn’t do any more. Two people—mother and the boy. He was much more mine than mother’s. I sat up nights and nights with him on my lap, all alone upstairs, when I wasn’t more than eight years old myself. And then—He was mine, I tell you. . . . You can’t understand that. No man can understand it. What was I to do? There was a young fellow—” The memory of the early romance with the young butcher survived, tenacious, like the image of a glimpsed ideal in that heart quailing before the fear of the gallows and full of revolt against death. “That was the man I loved then,” went on the widow of Mr Verloc. “I suppose he could see it in my eyes too. Five and twenty shillings a week, and his father threatened to kick him out of the business if he made such a fool of himself as to marry a girl with a crippled mother and a crazy idiot of a boy on her hands. But he would hang about me, till one evening I found the courage to slam the door in his face. I had to do it. I loved him dearly. Five and twenty shillings a week! There was that other man—a good lodger. What is a girl to do? Could I’ve gone on the streets? He seemed kind. He wanted me, anyhow. What was I to do with mother and that poor boy? Eh? I said yes. He seemed good-natured, he was freehanded, he had money, he never said anything. Seven years—seven years a good wife to him, the kind, the good, the generous, the—And he loved me. Oh yes. He loved me till I sometimes wished myself—Seven years. Seven years a wife to him. And do you know what he was, that dear friend of yours? Do you know what he was? He was a devil!” The superhuman vehemence of that whispered statement completely stunned Comrade Ossipon. Winnie Verloc turning about held him by both arms, facing him under the falling mist in the darkness and solitude of Brett Place, in which all sounds of life seemed lost as if in a triangular well of asphalt and bricks, of blind houses and unfeeling stones. “No; I didn’t know,” he declared, with a sort of flabby stupidity, whose comical aspect was lost upon a woman haunted by the fear of the gallows, “but I do now. I—I understand,” he floundered on, his mind speculating as to what sort of atrocities Verloc could have practised under the sleepy, placid appearances of his married estate. It was positively awful. “I understand,” he repeated, and then by a sudden inspiration uttered an—“Unhappy woman!” of lofty commiseration instead of the more familiar “Poor darling!” of his usual practice. This was no usual case. He felt conscious of something abnormal going on, while he never lost sight of the greatness of the stake. “Unhappy, brave woman!” He was glad to have discovered that variation; but he could discover nothing else. “Ah, but he is dead now,” was the best he could do. And he put a remarkable amount of animosity into his guarded exclamation. Mrs Verloc caught at his arm with a sort of frenzy. “You guessed then he was dead,” she murmured, as if beside herself. “You! You guessed what I had to do. Had to!” There were suggestions of triumph, relief, gratitude in the indefinable tone of these words. It engrossed the whole attention of Ossipon to the detriment of mere literal sense. He wondered what was up with her, why she had worked herself into this state of wild excitement. He even began to wonder whether the hidden causes of that Greenwich Park affair did not lie deep in the unhappy circumstances of the Verlocs’ married life. He went so far as to suspect Mr Verloc of having selected that extraordinary manner of committing suicide. By Jove! that would account for the utter inanity and wrong-headedness of the thing. No anarchist manifestation was required by the circumstances. Quite the contrary; and Verloc was as well aware of that as any other revolutionist of his standing. What an immense joke if Verloc had simply made fools of the whole of Europe, of the revolutionary world, of the police, of the press, and of the cocksure Professor as well. Indeed, thought Ossipon, in astonishment, it seemed almost certain that he did! Poor beggar! It struck him as very possible that of that household of two it wasn’t precisely the man who was the devil. Alexander Ossipon, nicknamed the Doctor, was naturally inclined to think indulgently of his men friends. He eyed Mrs Verloc hanging on his arm. Of his women friends he thought in a specially practical way. Why Mrs Verloc should exclaim at his knowledge of Mr Verloc’s death, which was no guess at all, did not disturb him beyond measure. They often talked like lunatics. But he was curious to know how she had been informed. The papers could tell her nothing beyond the mere fact: the man blown to pieces in Greenwich Park not having been identified. It was inconceivable on any theory that Verloc should have given her an inkling of his intention—whatever it was. This problem interested Comrade Ossipon immensely. He stopped short. They had gone then along the three sides of Brett Place, and were near the end of Brett Street again. “How did you first come to hear of it?” he asked in a tone he tried to render appropriate to the character of the revelations which had been made to him by the woman at his side. She shook violently for a while before she answered in a listless voice. “From the police. A chief inspector came, Chief Inspector Heat he said he was. He showed me—” Mrs Verloc choked. “Oh, Tom, they had to gather him up with a shovel.” Her breast heaved with dry sobs. In a moment Ossipon found his tongue. “The police! Do you mean to say the police came already? That Chief Inspector Heat himself actually came to tell you.” “Yes,” she confirmed in the same listless tone. “He came just like this. He came. I didn’t know. He showed me a piece of overcoat, and—just like that. Do you know this? he says.” “Heat! Heat! And what did he do?” Mrs Verloc’s head dropped. “Nothing. He did nothing. He went away. The police were on that man’s side,” she murmured tragically. “Another one came too.” “Another—another inspector, do you mean?” asked Ossipon, in great excitement, and very much in the tone of a scared child. “I don’t know. He came. He looked like a foreigner. He may have been one of them Embassy people.” Comrade Ossipon nearly collapsed under this new shock. “Embassy! Are you aware what you are saying? What Embassy? What on earth do you mean by Embassy?” “It’s that place in Chesham Square. The people he cursed so. I don’t know. What does it matter!” “And that fellow, what did he do or say to you?” “I don’t remember. . . . Nothing . . . . I don’t care. Don’t ask me,” she pleaded in a weary voice. “All right. I won’t,” assented Ossipon tenderly. And he meant it too, not because he was touched by the pathos of the pleading voice, but because he felt himself losing his footing in the depths of this tenebrous affair. Police! Embassy! Phew! For fear of adventuring his intelligence into ways where its natural lights might fail to guide it safely he dismissed resolutely all suppositions, surmises, and theories out of his mind. He had the woman there, absolutely flinging herself at him, and that was the principal consideration. But after what he had heard nothing could astonish him any more. And when Mrs Verloc, as if startled suddenly out of a dream of safety, began to urge upon him wildly the necessity of an immediate flight on the Continent, he did not exclaim in the least. He simply said with unaffected regret that there was no train till the morning, and stood looking thoughtfully at her face, veiled in black net, in the light of a gas lamp veiled in a gauze of mist. Near him, her black form merged in the night, like a figure half chiselled out of a block of black stone. It was impossible to say what she knew, how deep she was involved with policemen and Embassies. But if she wanted to get away, it was not for him to object. He was anxious to be off himself. He felt that the business, the shop so strangely familiar to chief inspectors and members of foreign Embassies, was not the place for him. That must be dropped. But there was the rest. These savings. The money! “You must hide me till the morning somewhere,” she said in a dismayed voice. “Fact is, my dear, I can’t take you where I live. I share the room with a friend.” He was somewhat dismayed himself. In the morning the blessed ’tecs will be out in all the stations, no doubt. And if they once got hold of her, for one reason or another she would be lost to him indeed. “But you must. Don’t you care for me at all—at all? What are you thinking of?” She said this violently, but she let her clasped hands fall in discouragement. There was a silence, while the mist fell, and darkness reigned undisturbed over Brett Place. Not a soul, not even the vagabond, lawless, and amorous soul of a cat, came near the man and the woman facing each other. “It would be possible perhaps to find a safe lodging somewhere,” Ossipon spoke at last. “But the truth is, my dear, I have not enough money to go and try with—only a few pence. We revolutionists are not rich.” He had fifteen shillings in his pocket. He added: “And there’s the journey before us, too—first thing in the morning at that.” She did not move, made no sound, and Comrade Ossipon’s heart sank a little. Apparently she had no suggestion to offer. Suddenly she clutched at her breast, as if she had felt a sharp pain there. “But I have,” she gasped. “I have the money. I have enough money. Tom! Let us go from here.” “How much have you got?” he inquired, without stirring to her tug; for he was a cautious man. “I have the money, I tell you. All the money.” “What do you mean by it? All the money there was in the bank, or what?” he asked incredulously, but ready not to be surprised at anything in the way of luck. “Yes, yes!” she said nervously. “All there was. I’ve it all.” “How on earth did you manage to get hold of it already?” he marvelled. “He gave it to me,” she murmured, suddenly subdued and trembling. Comrade Ossipon put down his rising surprise with a firm hand. “Why, then—we are saved,” he uttered slowly. She leaned forward, and sank against his breast. He welcomed her there. She had all the money. Her hat was in the way of very marked effusion; her veil too. He was adequate in his manifestations, but no more. She received them without resistance and without abandonment, passively, as if only half-sensible. She freed herself from his lax embraces without difficulty. “You will save me, Tom,” she broke out, recoiling, but still keeping her hold on him by the two lapels of his damp coat. “Save me. Hide me. Don’t let them have me. You must kill me first. I couldn’t do it myself—I couldn’t, I couldn’t—not even for what I am afraid of.” She was confoundedly bizarre, he thought. She was beginning to inspire him with an indefinite uneasiness. He said surlily, for he was busy with important thoughts: “What the devil _are_ you afraid of?” “Haven’t you guessed what I was driven to do!” cried the woman. Distracted by the vividness of her dreadful apprehensions, her head ringing with forceful words, that kept the horror of her position before her mind, she had imagined her incoherence to be clearness itself. She had no conscience of how little she had audibly said in the disjointed phrases completed only in her thought. She had felt the relief of a full confession, and she gave a special meaning to every sentence spoken by Comrade Ossipon, whose knowledge did not in the least resemble her own. “Haven’t you guessed what I was driven to do!” Her voice fell. “You needn’t be long in guessing then what I am afraid of,” she continued, in a bitter and sombre murmur. “I won’t have it. I won’t. I won’t. I won’t. You must promise to kill me first!” She shook the lapels of his coat. “It must never be!” He assured her curtly that no promises on his part were necessary, but he took good care not to contradict her in set terms, because he had had much to do with excited women, and he was inclined in general to let his experience guide his conduct in preference to applying his sagacity to each special case. His sagacity in this case was busy in other directions. Women’s words fell into water, but the shortcomings of time-tables remained. The insular nature of Great Britain obtruded itself upon his notice in an odious form. “Might just as well be put under lock and key every night,” he thought irritably, as nonplussed as though he had a wall to scale with the woman on his back. Suddenly he slapped his forehead. He had by dint of cudgelling his brains just thought of the Southampton—St Malo service. The boat left about midnight. There was a train at 10.30. He became cheery and ready to act. “From Waterloo. Plenty of time. We are all right after all. . . . What’s the matter now? This isn’t the way,” he protested. Mrs Verloc, having hooked her arm into his, was trying to drag him into Brett Street again. “I’ve forgotten to shut the shop door as I went out,” she whispered, terribly agitated. The shop and all that was in it had ceased to interest Comrade Ossipon. He knew how to limit his desires. He was on the point of saying “What of that? Let it be,” but he refrained. He disliked argument about trifles. He even mended his pace considerably on the thought that she might have left the money in the drawer. But his willingness lagged behind her feverish impatience. The shop seemed to be quite dark at first. The door stood ajar. Mrs Verloc, leaning against the front, gasped out: “Nobody has been in. Look! The light—the light in the parlour.” Ossipon, stretching his head forward, saw a faint gleam in the darkness of the shop. “There is,” he said. “I forgot it.” Mrs Verloc’s voice came from behind her veil faintly. And as he stood waiting for her to enter first, she said louder: “Go in and put it out—or I’ll go mad.” He made no immediate objection to this proposal, so strangely motived. “Where’s all that money?” he asked. “On me! Go, Tom. Quick! Put it out. . . . Go in!” she cried, seizing him by both shoulders from behind. Not prepared for a display of physical force, Comrade Ossipon stumbled far into the shop before her push. He was astonished at the strength of the woman and scandalised by her proceedings. But he did not retrace his steps in order to remonstrate with her severely in the street. He was beginning to be disagreeably impressed by her fantastic behaviour. Moreover, this or never was the time to humour the woman. Comrade Ossipon avoided easily the end of the counter, and approached calmly the glazed door of the parlour. The curtain over the panes being drawn back a little he, by a very natural impulse, looked in, just as he made ready to turn the handle. He looked in without a thought, without intention, without curiosity of any sort. He looked in because he could not help looking in. He looked in, and discovered Mr Verloc reposing quietly on the sofa. A yell coming from the innermost depths of his chest died out unheard and transformed into a sort of greasy, sickly taste on his lips. At the same time the mental personality of Comrade Ossipon executed a frantic leap backward. But his body, left thus without intellectual guidance, held on to the door handle with the unthinking force of an instinct. The robust anarchist did not even totter. And he stared, his face close to the glass, his eyes protruding out of his head. He would have given anything to get away, but his returning reason informed him that it would not do to let go the door handle. What was it—madness, a nightmare, or a trap into which he had been decoyed with fiendish artfulness? Why—what for? He did not know. Without any sense of guilt in his breast, in the full peace of his conscience as far as these people were concerned, the idea that he would be murdered for mysterious reasons by the couple Verloc passed not so much across his mind as across the pit of his stomach, and went out, leaving behind a trail of sickly faintness—an indisposition. Comrade Ossipon did not feel very well in a very special way for a moment—a long moment. And he stared. Mr Verloc lay very still meanwhile, simulating sleep for reasons of his own, while that savage woman of his was guarding the door—invisible and silent in the dark and deserted street. Was all this a some sort of terrifying arrangement invented by the police for his especial benefit? His modesty shrank from that explanation. But the true sense of the scene he was beholding came to Ossipon through the contemplation of the hat. It seemed an extraordinary thing, an ominous object, a sign. Black, and rim upward, it lay on the floor before the couch as if prepared to receive the contributions of pence from people who would come presently to behold Mr Verloc in the fullness of his domestic ease reposing on a sofa. From the hat the eyes of the robust anarchist wandered to the displaced table, gazed at the broken dish for a time, received a kind of optical shock from observing a white gleam under the imperfectly closed eyelids of the man on the couch. Mr Verloc did not seem so much asleep now as lying down with a bent head and looking insistently at his left breast. And when Comrade Ossipon had made out the handle of the knife he turned away from the glazed door, and retched violently. The crash of the street door flung to made his very soul leap in a panic. This house with its harmless tenant could still be made a trap of—a trap of a terrible kind. Comrade Ossipon had no settled conception now of what was happening to him. Catching his thigh against the end of the counter, he spun round, staggered with a cry of pain, felt in the distracting clatter of the bell his arms pinned to his side by a convulsive hug, while the cold lips of a woman moved creepily on his very ear to form the words: “Policeman! He has seen me!” He ceased to struggle; she never let him go. Her hands had locked themselves with an inseparable twist of fingers on his robust back. While the footsteps approached, they breathed quickly, breast to breast, with hard, laboured breaths, as if theirs had been the attitude of a deadly struggle, while, in fact, it was the attitude of deadly fear. And the time was long. The constable on the beat had in truth seen something of Mrs Verloc; only coming from the lighted thoroughfare at the other end of Brett Street, she had been no more to him than a flutter in the darkness. And he was not even quite sure that there had been a flutter. He had no reason to hurry up. On coming abreast of the shop he observed that it had been closed early. There was nothing very unusual in that. The men on duty had special instructions about that shop: what went on about there was not to be meddled with unless absolutely disorderly, but any observations made were to be reported. There were no observations to make; but from a sense of duty and for the peace of his conscience, owing also to that doubtful flutter of the darkness, the constable crossed the road, and tried the door. The spring latch, whose key was reposing for ever off duty in the late Mr Verloc’s waistcoat pocket, held as well as usual. While the conscientious officer was shaking the handle, Ossipon felt the cold lips of the woman stirring again creepily against his very ear: “If he comes in kill me—kill me, Tom.” The constable moved away, flashing as he passed the light of his dark lantern, merely for form’s sake, at the shop window. For a moment longer the man and the woman inside stood motionless, panting, breast to breast; then her fingers came unlocked, her arms fell by her side slowly. Ossipon leaned against the counter. The robust anarchist wanted support badly. This was awful. He was almost too disgusted for speech. Yet he managed to utter a plaintive thought, showing at least that he realised his position. “Only a couple of minutes later and you’d have made me blunder against the fellow poking about here with his damned dark lantern.” The widow of Mr Verloc, motionless in the middle of the shop, said insistently: “Go in and put that light out, Tom. It will drive me crazy.” She saw vaguely his vehement gesture of refusal. Nothing in the world would have induced Ossipon to go into the parlour. He was not superstitious, but there was too much blood on the floor; a beastly pool of it all round the hat. He judged he had been already far too near that corpse for his peace of mind—for the safety of his neck, perhaps! “At the meter then! There. Look. In that corner.” The robust form of Comrade Ossipon, striding brusque and shadowy across the shop, squatted in a corner obediently; but this obedience was without grace. He fumbled nervously—and suddenly in the sound of a muttered curse the light behind the glazed door flicked out to a gasping, hysterical sigh of a woman. Night, the inevitable reward of men’s faithful labours on this earth, night had fallen on Mr Verloc, the tried revolutionist—“one of the old lot”—the humble guardian of society; the invaluable Secret Agent [delta] of Baron Stott-Wartenheim’s despatches; a servant of law and order, faithful, trusted, accurate, admirable, with perhaps one single amiable weakness: the idealistic belief in being loved for himself. Ossipon groped his way back through the stuffy atmosphere, as black as ink now, to the counter. The voice of Mrs Verloc, standing in the middle of the shop, vibrated after him in that blackness with a desperate protest. “I will not be hanged, Tom. I will not—” She broke off. Ossipon from the counter issued a warning: “Don’t shout like this,” then seemed to reflect profoundly. “You did this thing quite by yourself?” he inquired in a hollow voice, but with an appearance of masterful calmness which filled Mrs Verloc’s heart with grateful confidence in his protecting strength. “Yes,” she whispered, invisible. “I wouldn’t have believed it possible,” he muttered. “Nobody would.” She heard him move about and the snapping of a lock in the parlour door. Comrade Ossipon had turned the key on Mr Verloc’s repose; and this he did not from reverence for its eternal nature or any other obscurely sentimental consideration, but for the precise reason that he was not at all sure that there was not someone else hiding somewhere in the house. He did not believe the woman, or rather he was incapable by now of judging what could be true, possible, or even probable in this astounding universe. He was terrified out of all capacity for belief or disbelief in regard of this extraordinary affair, which began with police inspectors and Embassies and would end goodness knows where—on the scaffold for someone. He was terrified at the thought that he could not prove the use he made of his time ever since seven o’clock, for he had been skulking about Brett Street. He was terrified at this savage woman who had brought him in there, and would probably saddle him with complicity, at least if he were not careful. He was terrified at the rapidity with which he had been involved in such dangers—decoyed into it. It was some twenty minutes since he had met her—not more. The voice of Mrs Verloc rose subdued, pleading piteously: “Don’t let them hang me, Tom! Take me out of the country. I’ll work for you. I’ll slave for you. I’ll love you. I’ve no one in the world. . . . Who would look at me if you don’t!” She ceased for a moment; then in the depths of the loneliness made round her by an insignificant thread of blood trickling off the handle of a knife, she found a dreadful inspiration to her—who had been the respectable girl of the Belgravian mansion, the loyal, respectable wife of Mr Verloc. “I won’t ask you to marry me,” she breathed out in shame-faced accents. She moved a step forward in the darkness. He was terrified at her. He would not have been surprised if she had suddenly produced another knife destined for his breast. He certainly would have made no resistance. He had really not enough fortitude in him just then to tell her to keep back. But he inquired in a cavernous, strange tone: “Was he asleep?” “No,” she cried, and went on rapidly. “He wasn’t. Not he. He had been telling me that nothing could touch him. After taking the boy away from under my very eyes to kill him—the loving, innocent, harmless lad. My own, I tell you. He was lying on the couch quite easy—after killing the boy—my boy. I would have gone on the streets to get out of his sight. And he says to me like this: ‘Come here,’ after telling me I had helped to kill the boy. You hear, Tom? He says like this: ‘Come here,’ after taking my very heart out of me along with the boy to smash in the dirt.” She ceased, then dreamily repeated twice: “Blood and dirt. Blood and dirt.” A great light broke upon Comrade Ossipon. It was that half-witted lad then who had perished in the park. And the fooling of everybody all round appeared more complete than ever—colossal. He exclaimed scientifically, in the extremity of his astonishment: “The degenerate—by heavens!” “Come here.” The voice of Mrs Verloc rose again. “What did he think I was made of? Tell me, Tom. Come here! Me! Like this! I had been looking at the knife, and I thought I would come then if he wanted me so much. Oh yes! I came—for the last time. . . . With the knife.” He was excessively terrified at her—the sister of the degenerate—a degenerate herself of a murdering type . . . or else of the lying type. Comrade Ossipon might have been said to be terrified scientifically in addition to all other kinds of fear. It was an immeasurable and composite funk, which from its very excess gave him in the dark a false appearance of calm and thoughtful deliberation. For he moved and spoke with difficulty, being as if half frozen in his will and mind—and no one could see his ghastly face. He felt half dead. He leaped a foot high. Unexpectedly Mrs Verloc had desecrated the unbroken reserved decency of her home by a shrill and terrible shriek. “Help, Tom! Save me. I won’t be hanged!” He rushed forward, groping for her mouth with a silencing hand, and the shriek died out. But in his rush he had knocked her over. He felt her now clinging round his legs, and his terror reached its culminating point, became a sort of intoxication, entertained delusions, acquired the characteristics of delirium tremens. He positively saw snakes now. He saw the woman twined round him like a snake, not to be shaken off. She was not deadly. She was death itself—the companion of life. Mrs Verloc, as if relieved by the outburst, was very far from behaving noisily now. She was pitiful. “Tom, you can’t throw me off now,” she murmured from the floor. “Not unless you crush my head under your heel. I won’t leave you.” “Get up,” said Ossipon. His face was so pale as to be quite visible in the profound black darkness of the shop; while Mrs Verloc, veiled, had no face, almost no discernible form. The trembling of something small and white, a flower in her hat, marked her place, her movements. It rose in the blackness. She had got up from the floor, and Ossipon regretted not having run out at once into the street. But he perceived easily that it would not do. It would not do. She would run after him. She would pursue him shrieking till she sent every policeman within hearing in chase. And then goodness only knew what she would say of him. He was so frightened that for a moment the insane notion of strangling her in the dark passed through his mind. And he became more frightened than ever! She had him! He saw himself living in abject terror in some obscure hamlet in Spain or Italy; till some fine morning they found him dead too, with a knife in his breast—like Mr Verloc. He sighed deeply. He dared not move. And Mrs Verloc waited in silence the good pleasure of her saviour, deriving comfort from his reflective silence. Suddenly he spoke up in an almost natural voice. His reflections had come to an end. “Let’s get out, or we will lose the train.” “Where are we going to, Tom?” she asked timidly. Mrs Verloc was no longer a free woman. “Let’s get to Paris first, the best way we can. . . . Go out first, and see if the way’s clear.” She obeyed. Her voice came subdued through the cautiously opened door. “It’s all right.” Ossipon came out. Notwithstanding his endeavours to be gentle, the cracked bell clattered behind the closed door in the empty shop, as if trying in vain to warn the reposing Mr Verloc of the final departure of his wife—accompanied by his friend. In the hansom they presently picked up, the robust anarchist became explanatory. He was still awfully pale, with eyes that seemed to have sunk a whole half-inch into his tense face. But he seemed to have thought of everything with extraordinary method. “When we arrive,” he discoursed in a queer, monotonous tone, “you must go into the station ahead of me, as if we did not know each other. I will take the tickets, and slip in yours into your hand as I pass you. Then you will go into the first-class ladies’ waiting-room, and sit there till ten minutes before the train starts. Then you come out. I will be outside. You go in first on the platform, as if you did not know me. There may be eyes watching there that know what’s what. Alone you are only a woman going off by train. I am known. With me, you may be guessed at as Mrs Verloc running away. Do you understand, my dear?” he added, with an effort. “Yes,” said Mrs Verloc, sitting there against him in the hansom all rigid with the dread of the gallows and the fear of death. “Yes, Tom.” And she added to herself, like an awful refrain: “The drop given was fourteen feet.” Ossipon, not looking at her, and with a face like a fresh plaster cast of himself after a wasting illness, said: “By-the-by, I ought to have the money for the tickets now.” Mrs Verloc, undoing some hooks of her bodice, while she went on staring ahead beyond the splashboard, handed over to him the new pigskin pocket-book. He received it without a word, and seemed to plunge it deep somewhere into his very breast. Then he slapped his coat on the outside. All this was done without the exchange of a single glance; they were like two people looking out for the first sight of a desired goal. It was not till the hansom swung round a corner and towards the bridge that Ossipon opened his lips again. “Do you know how much money there is in that thing?” he asked, as if addressing slowly some hobgoblin sitting between the ears of the horse. “No,” said Mrs Verloc. “He gave it to me. I didn’t count. I thought nothing of it at the time. Afterwards—” She moved her right hand a little. It was so expressive that little movement of that right hand which had struck the deadly blow into a man’s heart less than an hour before that Ossipon could not repress a shudder. He exaggerated it then purposely, and muttered: “I am cold. I got chilled through.” Mrs Verloc looked straight ahead at the perspective of her escape. Now and then, like a sable streamer blown across a road, the words “The drop given was fourteen feet” got in the way of her tense stare. Through her black veil the whites of her big eyes gleamed lustrously like the eyes of a masked woman. Ossipon’s rigidity had something business-like, a queer official expression. He was heard again all of a sudden, as though he had released a catch in order to speak. “Look here! Do you know whether your—whether he kept his account at the bank in his own name or in some other name.” Mrs Verloc turned upon him her masked face and the big white gleam of her eyes. “Other name?” she said thoughtfully. “Be exact in what you say,” Ossipon lectured in the swift motion of the hansom. “It’s extremely important. I will explain to you. The bank has the numbers of these notes. If they were paid to him in his own name, then when his—his death becomes known, the notes may serve to track us since we have no other money. You have no other money on you?” She shook her head negatively. “None whatever?” he insisted. “A few coppers.” “It would be dangerous in that case. The money would have then to be dealt specially with. Very specially. We’d have perhaps to lose more than half the amount in order to get these notes changed in a certain safe place I know of in Paris. In the other case I mean if he had his account and got paid out under some other name—say Smith, for instance—the money is perfectly safe to use. You understand? The bank has no means of knowing that Mr Verloc and, say, Smith are one and the same person. Do you see how important it is that you should make no mistake in answering me? Can you answer that query at all? Perhaps not. Eh?” She said composedly: “I remember now! He didn’t bank in his own name. He told me once that it was on deposit in the name of Prozor.” “You are sure?” “Certain.” “You don’t think the bank had any knowledge of his real name? Or anybody in the bank or—” She shrugged her shoulders. “How can I know? Is it likely, Tom? “No. I suppose it’s not likely. It would have been more comfortable to know. . . . Here we are. Get out first, and walk straight in. Move smartly.” He remained behind, and paid the cabman out of his own loose silver. The programme traced by his minute foresight was carried out. When Mrs Verloc, with her ticket for St Malo in her hand, entered the ladies’ waiting-room, Comrade Ossipon walked into the bar, and in seven minutes absorbed three goes of hot brandy and water. “Trying to drive out a cold,” he explained to the barmaid, with a friendly nod and a grimacing smile. Then he came out, bringing out from that festive interlude the face of a man who had drunk at the very Fountain of Sorrow. He raised his eyes to the clock. It was time. He waited. Punctual, Mrs Verloc came out, with her veil down, and all black—black as commonplace death itself, crowned with a few cheap and pale flowers. She passed close to a little group of men who were laughing, but whose laughter could have been struck dead by a single word. Her walk was indolent, but her back was straight, and Comrade Ossipon looked after it in terror before making a start himself. The train was drawn up, with hardly anybody about its row of open doors. Owing to the time of the year and to the abominable weather there were hardly any passengers. Mrs Verloc walked slowly along the line of empty compartments till Ossipon touched her elbow from behind. “In here.” She got in, and he remained on the platform looking about. She bent forward, and in a whisper: “What is it, Tom? Is there any danger? Wait a moment. There’s the guard.” She saw him accost the man in uniform. They talked for a while. She heard the guard say “Very well, sir,” and saw him touch his cap. Then Ossipon came back, saying: “I told him not to let anybody get into our compartment.” She was leaning forward on her seat. “You think of everything. . . . You’ll get me off, Tom?” she asked in a gust of anguish, lifting her veil brusquely to look at her saviour. She had uncovered a face like adamant. And out of this face the eyes looked on, big, dry, enlarged, lightless, burnt out like two black holes in the white, shining globes. “There is no danger,” he said, gazing into them with an earnestness almost rapt, which to Mrs Verloc, flying from the gallows, seemed to be full of force and tenderness. This devotion deeply moved her—and the adamantine face lost the stern rigidity of its terror. Comrade Ossipon gazed at it as no lover ever gazed at his mistress’s face. Alexander Ossipon, anarchist, nicknamed the Doctor, author of a medical (and improper) pamphlet, late lecturer on the social aspects of hygiene to working men’s clubs, was free from the trammels of conventional morality—but he submitted to the rule of science. He was scientific, and he gazed scientifically at that woman, the sister of a degenerate, a degenerate herself—of a murdering type. He gazed at her, and invoked Lombroso, as an Italian peasant recommends himself to his favourite saint. He gazed scientifically. He gazed at her cheeks, at her nose, at her eyes, at her ears. . . . Bad! . . . Fatal! Mrs Verloc’s pale lips parting, slightly relaxed under his passionately attentive gaze, he gazed also at her teeth. . . . Not a doubt remained . . . a murdering type. . . . If Comrade Ossipon did not recommend his terrified soul to Lombroso, it was only because on scientific grounds he could not believe that he carried about him such a thing as a soul. But he had in him the scientific spirit, which moved him to testify on the platform of a railway station in nervous jerky phrases. “He was an extraordinary lad, that brother of yours. Most interesting to study. A perfect type in a way. Perfect!” He spoke scientifically in his secret fear. And Mrs Verloc, hearing these words of commendation vouchsafed to her beloved dead, swayed forward with a flicker of light in her sombre eyes, like a ray of sunshine heralding a tempest of rain. “He was that indeed,” she whispered softly, with quivering lips. “You took a lot of notice of him, Tom. I loved you for it.” “It’s almost incredible the resemblance there was between you two,” pursued Ossipon, giving a voice to his abiding dread, and trying to conceal his nervous, sickening impatience for the train to start. “Yes; he resembled you.” These words were not especially touching or sympathetic. But the fact of that resemblance insisted upon was enough in itself to act upon her emotions powerfully. With a little faint cry, and throwing her arms out, Mrs Verloc burst into tears at last. Ossipon entered the carriage, hastily closed the door and looked out to see the time by the station clock. Eight minutes more. For the first three of these Mrs Verloc wept violently and helplessly without pause or interruption. Then she recovered somewhat, and sobbed gently in an abundant fall of tears. She tried to talk to her saviour, to the man who was the messenger of life. “Oh, Tom! How could I fear to die after he was taken away from me so cruelly! How could I! How could I be such a coward!” She lamented aloud her love of life, that life without grace or charm, and almost without decency, but of an exalted faithfulness of purpose, even unto murder. And, as often happens in the lament of poor humanity, rich in suffering but indigent in words, the truth—the very cry of truth—was found in a worn and artificial shape picked up somewhere among the phrases of sham sentiment. “How could I be so afraid of death! Tom, I tried. But I am afraid. I tried to do away with myself. And I couldn’t. Am I hard? I suppose the cup of horrors was not full enough for such as me. Then when you came. . . . ” She paused. Then in a gust of confidence and gratitude, “I will live all my days for you, Tom!” she sobbed out. “Go over into the other corner of the carriage, away from the platform,” said Ossipon solicitously. She let her saviour settle her comfortably, and he watched the coming on of another crisis of weeping, still more violent than the first. He watched the symptoms with a sort of medical air, as if counting seconds. He heard the guard’s whistle at last. An involuntary contraction of the upper lip bared his teeth with all the aspect of savage resolution as he felt the train beginning to move. Mrs Verloc heard and felt nothing, and Ossipon, her saviour, stood still. He felt the train roll quicker, rumbling heavily to the sound of the woman’s loud sobs, and then crossing the carriage in two long strides he opened the door deliberately, and leaped out. He had leaped out at the very end of the platform; and such was his determination in sticking to his desperate plan that he managed by a sort of miracle, performed almost in the air, to slam to the door of the carriage. Only then did he find himself rolling head over heels like a shot rabbit. He was bruised, shaken, pale as death, and out of breath when he got up. But he was calm, and perfectly able to meet the excited crowd of railway men who had gathered round him in a moment. He explained, in gentle and convincing tones, that his wife had started at a moment’s notice for Brittany to her dying mother; that, of course, she was greatly up-set, and he considerably concerned at her state; that he was trying to cheer her up, and had absolutely failed to notice at first that the train was moving out. To the general exclamation, “Why didn’t you go on to Southampton, then, sir?” he objected the inexperience of a young sister-in-law left alone in the house with three small children, and her alarm at his absence, the telegraph offices being closed. He had acted on impulse. “But I don’t think I’ll ever try that again,” he concluded; smiled all round; distributed some small change, and marched without a limp out of the station. Outside, Comrade Ossipon, flush of safe banknotes as never before in his life, refused the offer of a cab. “I can walk,” he said, with a little friendly laugh to the civil driver. He could walk. He walked. He crossed the bridge. Later on the towers of the Abbey saw in their massive immobility the yellow bush of his hair passing under the lamps. The lights of Victoria saw him too, and Sloane Square, and the railings of the park. And Comrade Ossipon once more found himself on a bridge. The river, a sinister marvel of still shadows and flowing gleams mingling below in a black silence, arrested his attention. He stood looking over the parapet for a long time. The clock tower boomed a brazen blast above his drooping head. He looked up at the dial. . . . Half-past twelve of a wild night in the Channel. And again Comrade Ossipon walked. His robust form was seen that night in distant parts of the enormous town slumbering monstrously on a carpet of mud under a veil of raw mist. It was seen crossing the streets without life and sound, or diminishing in the interminable straight perspectives of shadowy houses bordering empty roadways lined by strings of gas lamps. He walked through Squares, Places, Ovals, Commons, through monotonous streets with unknown names where the dust of humanity settles inert and hopeless out of the stream of life. He walked. And suddenly turning into a strip of a front garden with a mangy grass plot, he let himself into a small grimy house with a latch-key he took out of his pocket. He threw himself down on his bed all dressed, and lay still for a whole quarter of an hour. Then he sat up suddenly, drawing up his knees, and clasping his legs. The first dawn found him open-eyed, in that same posture. This man who could walk so long, so far, so aimlessly, without showing a sign of fatigue, could also remain sitting still for hours without stirring a limb or an eyelid. But when the late sun sent its rays into the room he unclasped his hands, and fell back on the pillow. His eyes stared at the ceiling. And suddenly they closed. Comrade Ossipon slept in the sunlight. CHAPTER XIII The enormous iron padlock on the doors of the wall cupboard was the only object in the room on which the eye could rest without becoming afflicted by the miserable unloveliness of forms and the poverty of material. Unsaleable in the ordinary course of business on account of its noble proportions, it had been ceded to the Professor for a few pence by a marine dealer in the east of London. The room was large, clean, respectable, and poor with that poverty suggesting the starvation of every human need except mere bread. There was nothing on the walls but the paper, an expanse of arsenical green, soiled with indelible smudges here and there, and with stains resembling faded maps of uninhabited continents. At a deal table near a window sat Comrade Ossipon, holding his head between his fists. The Professor, dressed in his only suit of shoddy tweeds, but flapping to and fro on the bare boards a pair of incredibly dilapidated slippers, had thrust his hands deep into the overstrained pockets of his jacket. He was relating to his robust guest a visit he had lately been paying to the Apostle Michaelis. The Perfect Anarchist had even been unbending a little. “The fellow didn’t know anything of Verloc’s death. Of course! He never looks at the newspapers. They make him too sad, he says. But never mind. I walked into his cottage. Not a soul anywhere. I had to shout half-a-dozen times before he answered me. I thought he was fast asleep yet, in bed. But not at all. He had been writing his book for four hours already. He sat in that tiny cage in a litter of manuscript. There was a half-eaten raw carrot on the table near him. His breakfast. He lives on a diet of raw carrots and a little milk now.” “How does he look on it?” asked Comrade Ossipon listlessly. “Angelic. . . . I picked up a handful of his pages from the floor. The poverty of reasoning is astonishing. He has no logic. He can’t think consecutively. But that’s nothing. He has divided his biography into three parts, entitled—‘Faith, Hope, Charity.’ He is elaborating now the idea of a world planned out like an immense and nice hospital, with gardens and flowers, in which the strong are to devote themselves to the nursing of the weak.” The Professor paused. “Conceive you this folly, Ossipon? The weak! The source of all evil on this earth!” he continued with his grim assurance. “I told him that I dreamt of a world like shambles, where the weak would be taken in hand for utter extermination.” “Do you understand, Ossipon? The source of all evil! They are our sinister masters—the weak, the flabby, the silly, the cowardly, the faint of heart, and the slavish of mind. They have power. They are the multitude. Theirs is the kingdom of the earth. Exterminate, exterminate! That is the only way of progress. It is! Follow me, Ossipon. First the great multitude of the weak must go, then the only relatively strong. You see? First the blind, then the deaf and the dumb, then the halt and the lame—and so on. Every taint, every vice, every prejudice, every convention must meet its doom.” “And what remains?” asked Ossipon in a stifled voice. “I remain—if I am strong enough,” asserted the sallow little Professor, whose large ears, thin like membranes, and standing far out from the sides of his frail skull, took on suddenly a deep red tint. “Haven’t I suffered enough from this oppression of the weak?” he continued forcibly. Then tapping the breast-pocket of his jacket: “And yet _I am_ the force,” he went on. “But the time! The time! Give me time! Ah! that multitude, too stupid to feel either pity or fear. Sometimes I think they have everything on their side. Everything—even death—my own weapon.” “Come and drink some beer with me at the Silenus,” said the robust Ossipon after an interval of silence pervaded by the rapid flap, flap of the slippers on the feet of the Perfect Anarchist. This last accepted. He was jovial that day in his own peculiar way. He slapped Ossipon’s shoulder. “Beer! So be it! Let us drink and he merry, for we are strong, and to-morrow we die.” He busied himself with putting on his boots, and talked meanwhile in his curt, resolute tones. “What’s the matter with you, Ossipon? You look glum and seek even my company. I hear that you are seen constantly in places where men utter foolish things over glasses of liquor. Why? Have you abandoned your collection of women? They are the weak who feed the strong—eh?” He stamped one foot, and picked up his other laced boot, heavy, thick-soled, unblacked, mended many times. He smiled to himself grimly. “Tell me, Ossipon, terrible man, has ever one of your victims killed herself for you—or are your triumphs so far incomplete—for blood alone puts a seal on greatness? Blood. Death. Look at history.” “You be damned,” said Ossipon, without turning his head. “Why? Let that be the hope of the weak, whose theology has invented hell for the strong. Ossipon, my feeling for you is amicable contempt. You couldn’t kill a fly.” But rolling to the feast on the top of the omnibus the Professor lost his high spirits. The contemplation of the multitudes thronging the pavements extinguished his assurance under a load of doubt and uneasiness which he could only shake off after a period of seclusion in the room with the large cupboard closed by an enormous padlock. “And so,” said over his shoulder Comrade Ossipon, who sat on the seat behind. “And so Michaelis dreams of a world like a beautiful and cheery hospital.” “Just so. An immense charity for the healing of the weak,” assented the Professor sardonically. “That’s silly,” admitted Ossipon. “You can’t heal weakness. But after all Michaelis may not be so far wrong. In two hundred years doctors will rule the world. Science reigns already. It reigns in the shade maybe—but it reigns. And all science must culminate at last in the science of healing—not the weak, but the strong. Mankind wants to live—to live.” “Mankind,” asserted the Professor with a self-confident glitter of his iron-rimmed spectacles, “does not know what it wants.” “But you do,” growled Ossipon. “Just now you’ve been crying for time—time. Well. The doctors will serve you out your time—if you are good. You profess yourself to be one of the strong—because you carry in your pocket enough stuff to send yourself and, say, twenty other people into eternity. But eternity is a damned hole. It’s time that you need. You—if you met a man who could give you for certain ten years of time, you would call him your master.” “My device is: No God! No Master,” said the Professor sententiously as he rose to get off the ’bus. Ossipon followed. “Wait till you are lying flat on your back at the end of your time,” he retorted, jumping off the footboard after the other. “Your scurvy, shabby, mangy little bit of time,” he continued across the street, and hopping on to the curbstone. “Ossipon, I think that you are a humbug,” the Professor said, opening masterfully the doors of the renowned Silenus. And when they had established themselves at a little table he developed further this gracious thought. “You are not even a doctor. But you are funny. Your notion of a humanity universally putting out the tongue and taking the pill from pole to pole at the bidding of a few solemn jokers is worthy of the prophet. Prophecy! What’s the good of thinking of what will be!” He raised his glass. “To the destruction of what is,” he said calmly. He drank and relapsed into his peculiarly close manner of silence. The thought of a mankind as numerous as the sands of the sea-shore, as indestructible, as difficult to handle, oppressed him. The sound of exploding bombs was lost in their immensity of passive grains without an echo. For instance, this Verloc affair. Who thought of it now? Ossipon, as if suddenly compelled by some mysterious force, pulled a much-folded newspaper out of his pocket. The Professor raised his head at the rustle. “What’s that paper? Anything in it?” he asked. Ossipon started like a scared somnambulist. “Nothing. Nothing whatever. The thing’s ten days old. I forgot it in my pocket, I suppose.” But he did not throw the old thing away. Before returning it to his pocket he stole a glance at the last lines of a paragraph. They ran thus: “_An impenetrable mystery seems destined to hang for ever over this act of madness or despair_.” Such were the end words of an item of news headed: “Suicide of Lady Passenger from a cross-Channel Boat.” Comrade Ossipon was familiar with the beauties of its journalistic style. “_An impenetrable mystery seems destined to hang for ever_. . . . ” He knew every word by heart. “_An impenetrable mystery_. . . . ” And the robust anarchist, hanging his head on his breast, fell into a long reverie. He was menaced by this thing in the very sources of his existence. He could not issue forth to meet his various conquests, those that he courted on benches in Kensington Gardens, and those he met near area railings, without the dread of beginning to talk to them of an impenetrable mystery destined. . . . He was becoming scientifically afraid of insanity lying in wait for him amongst these lines. “_To hang for ever over_.” It was an obsession, a torture. He had lately failed to keep several of these appointments, whose note used to be an unbounded trustfulness in the language of sentiment and manly tenderness. The confiding disposition of various classes of women satisfied the needs of his self-love, and put some material means into his hand. He needed it to live. It was there. But if he could no longer make use of it, he ran the risk of starving his ideals and his body . . . “_This act of madness or despair_.” “An impenetrable mystery” was sure “to hang for ever” as far as all mankind was concerned. But what of that if he alone of all men could never get rid of the cursed knowledge? And Comrade Ossipon’s knowledge was as precise as the newspaper man could make it—up to the very threshold of the “_mystery destined to hang for ever_. . . .” Comrade Ossipon was well informed. He knew what the gangway man of the steamer had seen: “A lady in a black dress and a black veil, wandering at midnight alongside, on the quay. ‘Are you going by the boat, ma’am,’ he had asked her encouragingly. ‘This way.’ She seemed not to know what to do. He helped her on board. She seemed weak.” And he knew also what the stewardess had seen: A lady in black with a white face standing in the middle of the empty ladies’ cabin. The stewardess induced her to lie down there. The lady seemed quite unwilling to speak, and as if she were in some awful trouble. The next the stewardess knew she was gone from the ladies’ cabin. The stewardess then went on deck to look for her, and Comrade Ossipon was informed that the good woman found the unhappy lady lying down in one of the hooded seats. Her eyes were open, but she would not answer anything that was said to her. She seemed very ill. The stewardess fetched the chief steward, and those two people stood by the side of the hooded seat consulting over their extraordinary and tragic passenger. They talked in audible whispers (for she seemed past hearing) of St Malo and the Consul there, of communicating with her people in England. Then they went away to arrange for her removal down below, for indeed by what they could see of her face she seemed to them to be dying. But Comrade Ossipon knew that behind that white mask of despair there was struggling against terror and despair a vigour of vitality, a love of life that could resist the furious anguish which drives to murder and the fear, the blind, mad fear of the gallows. He knew. But the stewardess and the chief steward knew nothing, except that when they came back for her in less than five minutes the lady in black was no longer in the hooded seat. She was nowhere. She was gone. It was then five o’clock in the morning, and it was no accident either. An hour afterwards one of the steamer’s hands found a wedding ring left lying on the seat. It had stuck to the wood in a bit of wet, and its glitter caught the man’s eye. There was a date, 24th June 1879, engraved inside. “_An impenetrable mystery is destined to hang for ever_. . . . ” And Comrade Ossipon raised his bowed head, beloved of various humble women of these isles, Apollo-like in the sunniness of its bush of hair. The Professor had grown restless meantime. He rose. “Stay,” said Ossipon hurriedly. “Here, what do you know of madness and despair?” The Professor passed the tip of his tongue on his dry, thin lips, and said doctorally: “There are no such things. All passion is lost now. The world is mediocre, limp, without force. And madness and despair are a force. And force is a crime in the eyes of the fools, the weak and the silly who rule the roost. You are mediocre. Verloc, whose affair the police has managed to smother so nicely, was mediocre. And the police murdered him. He was mediocre. Everybody is mediocre. Madness and despair! Give me that for a lever, and I’ll move the world. Ossipon, you have my cordial scorn. You are incapable of conceiving even what the fat-fed citizen would call a crime. You have no force.” He paused, smiling sardonically under the fierce glitter of his thick glasses. “And let me tell you that this little legacy they say you’ve come into has not improved your intelligence. You sit at your beer like a dummy. Good-bye.” “Will you have it?” said Ossipon, looking up with an idiotic grin. “Have what?” “The legacy. All of it.” The incorruptible Professor only smiled. His clothes were all but falling off him, his boots, shapeless with repairs, heavy like lead, let water in at every step. He said: “I will send you by-and-by a small bill for certain chemicals which I shall order to-morrow. I need them badly. Understood—eh?” Ossipon lowered his head slowly. He was alone. “_An impenetrable mystery_. . . . ” It seemed to him that suspended in the air before him he saw his own brain pulsating to the rhythm of an impenetrable mystery. It was diseased clearly. . . . “_This act of madness or despair_.” The mechanical piano near the door played through a valse cheekily, then fell silent all at once, as if gone grumpy. Comrade Ossipon, nicknamed the Doctor, went out of the Silenus beer-hall. At the door he hesitated, blinking at a not too splendid sunlight—and the paper with the report of the suicide of a lady was in his pocket. His heart was beating against it. The suicide of a lady—_this act of madness or despair_. He walked along the street without looking where he put his feet; and he walked in a direction which would not bring him to the place of appointment with another lady (an elderly nursery governess putting her trust in an Apollo-like ambrosial head). He was walking away from it. He could face no woman. It was ruin. He could neither think, work, sleep, nor eat. But he was beginning to drink with pleasure, with anticipation, with hope. It was ruin. His revolutionary career, sustained by the sentiment and trustfulness of many women, was menaced by an impenetrable mystery—the mystery of a human brain pulsating wrongfully to the rhythm of journalistic phrases. “ . . . _Will hang for ever over this act_. . . . It was inclining towards the gutter . . . _of madness or despair_.” “I am seriously ill,” he muttered to himself with scientific insight. Already his robust form, with an Embassy’s secret-service money (inherited from Mr Verloc) in his pockets, was marching in the gutter as if in training for the task of an inevitable future. Already he bowed his broad shoulders, his head of ambrosial locks, as if ready to receive the leather yoke of the sandwich board. As on that night, more than a week ago, Comrade Ossipon walked without looking where he put his feet, feeling no fatigue, feeling nothing, seeing nothing, hearing not a sound. “_An impenetrable mystery_. . . .” He walked disregarded. . . . “_This act of madness or despair_.” And the incorruptible Professor walked too, averting his eyes from the odious multitude of mankind. He had no future. He disdained it. He was a force. His thoughts caressed the images of ruin and destruction. He walked frail, insignificant, shabby, miserable—and terrible in the simplicity of his idea calling madness and despair to the regeneration of the world. Nobody looked at him. 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{ "task_name": "narrativeqa" }
Passage: 10 Things To Know About Rastafari Beliefs - Listverse 10 Things To Know About Rastafari Beliefs Gregory Myers January 6, 2014 When most people hear the word “Rastafari,” they think of men with dreadlocks, of smoking ganja, and of men with dreadlocks smoking ganja. Basically, they think of Bob Marley. In fact, Rastafari is a very serious philosophy that takes much direction from the Bible. While there are some people who claim to be Rastafari just as an excuse to do drugs, there are many true believers, and the public idea of them is often quite inaccurate. 10 Not All Rastafari Smoke Weed Many people are attracted to the idea of being a Rastafari because it means they have a religious excuse to smoke ganja. Some of them may be surprised then that smoking ganja is not only optional for Rastafarians but isn’t really all that central to their faith. Some Rastafari simply choose not to smoke weed at all. Recently, Snoop Dog decided to change his name to “Snoop Lion” to show his adherence to Rastafari after he spent some time in Jamaica. However, many Rastafari have raised an outcry claiming that they see little actual faith in his behavior and think it is only an excuse for Snoop’s love of weed . Of course while Snoop Dog (or Snoop “Lion” if you will) may actually be sincere, that really isn’t the true point of their ire. Rastafari already have trouble getting people to take them seriously due to the stereotypes, they likely fear a well-known stoner like Snoop Dog representing them will only spread that misperception more widely. Learn more about Rastafari beliefs with Rastafari: Roots and Ideology at Amazon.com! 9 They Call Halie Selassie The Second Coming Of Christ This belief, which is a core part of the Rastafari philosophy, was taken up at the inception of the religion. In the early 1900s, Marcus Garvey prophesied that a new black king would soon come to Africa and that man would be the messiah . Not too long after this, in Ethiopia, a new king was crowned and his name was Haile Selassie I. Seeing this as a sign of what was prophesied, the burgeoning Rastafari movement took this man as the second coming of Jesus. However, while most people would not believe in a second coming of the messiah solely based on prophecy, the Rastafarians wouldn’t either. They point to other evidence as well, particularly the claim that Haile Selassie is related to King Solomon, giving him a connection to Jesus. If Haile Selassie I was the messiah. he kept it very quiet. He himself always denied being a reincarnation of Jesus. 8 Ital Diet Photo credit: Christina Xu Rastafari have a specific diet called Ital, a word that stems from vital. Many people confuse Ital with vegetarianism or veganism. It’s actually a diet of its own and may change somewhat based on the denomination of Rastafari or the individual. The Rastafari don’t wish to take part in the system as they deem it oppressive. For this reason they refuse any processed foods . They also won’t eat red meat, believing that it rots inside your body. Many will still eat fish because they believe that it is supported as being all right by the Bible. However, some refuse to eat fish, and others will remove dairy from their diet and go closer to full-vegan. The main idea of course is simply to eat natural foods that are good for you. 7Your Body Is A Temple In Rastafari, your body is considered your temple, so you need to really take good care of yourself. Part of this can be seen in the philosophy of the Ital diet. However, it goes much further than just eating good food to take care of your health. Rastafari believe that they should let their hair grow long and not taint it with anything unnatural. This all comes down to respecting your body and what it is. You don’t cut your hair, tattoo your skin, or eat bad food. In fact some Rastafari have cited this as the reason they don’t smoke ganja. Some feel that for them personally it’s not good for their health, so they quit smoking. Buy an awesome Rastafari Lion Blacklight Poster at Amazon.com! 6Don’t Call Them “Rastafarians” Photo credit: Empres843/Wikimedia You might notice this entire article doesn’t refer to “Rastafarians,” except in the title above. You see, Rastafari actually don’t like being referenced that way at all. The reason for this stems from their philosophy. Rastas believe that “ians” and “isms” represent the corrupt “Babylonian” system that oppresses people all over the world. Considering themselves a religion or an ism of any sort is seen as accepting a system that is anathema to what they believe. This means that some Rastafari will actually be quite unhappy with you if you call them a Rastafarian or say that they practice Rastafarianism. Of course this hasn’t stopped scholars who still refer to Rastafari as an “ism” and also classify them as a religion. This latter part has also caused annoyance as some Rastafari don’t like the term “religion” either and prefer to consider their movement a philosophy. 5Down With Babylon The Rastafari movement began in Jamaica, where most of the black population had originally been slaves forced from Africa to work. The movement was started as a means of empowerment. As such, it may not be too surprising that Rastafari as a belief system completely rejects the standards and structure of western society. For a people who had been oppressed by Western society and colonialism, the Rastafari movement was a way to claim back their own way of life. By rejecting the “Babylonian” system that was deemed corrupt and oppressive , Rastafari are able to take back their own culture and connect to their roots. You see, the movement was shaped very much in the beginning by the words of Marcus Garvey who would later on be considered a prophet in Rastafari beliefs. Garvey may never have identified as a Rastafari but he was very vocal when it came to black empowerment and inspired a great many people. 4 The Return To Africa Rastafari often rely heavily on the Bible when it comes to their religious beliefs and yet have their own idea of a paradise. Members of the Rastafari movement feel that they are in a sort of hell or purgatory as their ancestors were removed from their homeland against their will. Africa is their version of Zion. It is a paradise on Earth , and the goal of many Rastafari is to move back to Africa. This is more of a cultural yearning than it is a solely religious belief and makes perfect sense after the colonialist oppression that so many black people faced. For this reason, it is about more than just returning to Africa for most Rasta. It is actually very much about building Africa into something even better, preserving African culture, and celebrating a way of life that many feel the Babylonian society tried to take away from them. 3Their Own Lyaric Dialect Photo credit: Changalanga/Wikimedia The early Rastafari in Jamaica created a dialect that is an offshoot of Jamaican Creole. Jamaican Creole was originally derived from English by African slaves who had been brought to the island of Jamaica. The Rastafari as an empowerment movement took the language and modified it both in dialect and philosophy to meet their needs, forming a new dialect known as Lyaric. One of the most important concepts is the use of pronouns. Most of the time, “I” is used instead of “me,” “you,” or just about any pronoun. Rastafari do this to express the connection between all people and to acknowledge everyone’s humanity. Rastafari also prefer positive expressions whenever possible. Instead of someone saying they are “dedicated,” they might say livicated to show vitality. And “oppressed,” would be downpressed, to indicate the direction that the oppression is coming from. Someone also might overstand something because it sounds more upbeat than “understanding.” 2 Grounation Day For stoners, April 20 is a very important day, but for Rastafari, the next day is the truly important one. As we mentioned earlier, Rastafari believe that Emperor Haile Selassie I of Ethiopia was the second coming of Jesus Christ, and thus they are pretty big fans of the guy. During his life back in the 1960s, he decided to visit Jamaica. The official line was that it was a diplomatic visit, but some people believed he wanted to meet the Rastafari and learn about the people who worshiped him as another coming of the messiah. The crowds were enormous and made an incredible amount of noise, and this delayed him coming off his plane for quite a while, likely due to safety concerns. During his time there, he did meet with some of the leading members of the Rastafari movement. While there isn’t much record of what was said, some believe he told them that they should try to fix things at home in Jamaica before they returned to Africa. Since his visit, April 21 has been known to Rastafari as Grounation Day and is observed as one of the most important holy days. 1 The Rastafari Colors The red, yellow, and green colors of Rastafari are pretty ubiquitous, although most people probably associate them more with Bob Marley and ganja than they do any spiritual movement. However, many people don’t realize there are actual four Rasta colors. The movement took much influence from Marcus Garvey, and the colors of his own movement were red, green, and black . The Rastafari later saw Haile Selassie I as Jesus, and the colors of the Ethiopian flag were red, green, and yellow, so another addition was made, with four colors in total. These colors all have symbolic significance in Rastafari beliefs. The yellow color is said by some to refer to the wealth of their homeland in Africa. The red is perhaps unsurprisingly symbolic of blood and the martyrdom of past Rastafari. The color black is an obvious reference to the black people who originally started the Rastafari movement in order to return to their roots, and the green is related to the abundant plant life of their native homeland. In case you were still curious—no, the Rastafari colors really don’t have anything to do with smoking ganja. You can follow Gregory Myers on Twitter . More Great Lists Question: Rastafarianism is based on the ideas of which Jamaican? Answer: {'aliases': ['MARCUS GARVEY', 'Marcus Garvey Moziah Jr', 'Marcus Aurelius Garvey', 'Marcus Garvey', 'Marcus Moziah Garvey', 'Marcus M. Garvey', 'Marcus Mosiah Garvey', 'Marcus garvey', 'Marcus Garvy', 'Garveyan'], 'normalized_aliases': ['marcus garvy', 'marcus m garvey', 'marcus garvey moziah jr', 'marcus mosiah garvey', 'marcus garvey', 'garveyan', 'marcus aurelius garvey', 'marcus moziah garvey'], 'matched_wiki_entity_name': '', 'normalized_matched_wiki_entity_name': '', 'normalized_value': 'marcus garvey', 'type': 'WikipediaEntity', 'value': 'MARCUS GARVEY'} Passage: John Cusack - IMDb John Cusack (I) Actor | Producer | Writer Question: Which actor starred in 'High Fidelity' (2000), 'Being John Malkovich' (1999) and 'Con Air' (1997)? Answer: {'aliases': ['Airspace (film)', 'John qsac', 'John qsack', 'John Cusack filmography', 'JOHN CUSACK', 'John Cusack', 'John Paul Cusack', 'John Cusak'], 'normalized_aliases': ['john qsack', 'john cusak', 'john qsac', 'airspace film', 'john cusack', 'john paul cusack', 'john cusack filmography'], 'matched_wiki_entity_name': '', 'normalized_matched_wiki_entity_name': '', 'normalized_value': 'john cusack', 'type': 'WikipediaEntity', 'value': 'JOHN CUSACK'} Passage: Fawlty Towers production data - British Comedy Guide Live studio audience Location External scenes filmed at Wooburn Grange Country Club near Bourne End, Buckinghamshire. Town scenes filmed in Bourne End. All interiors at BBC Television Centre. Broadcast details Question: Which TV comedy series of the 1970s was actually filmed at Wooburn Grange, Bourne End, Buckinghamshire? Answer: {'aliases': ['FAWLTY TOWERS', 'Polly Shearman', 'Polly Sherman (Fawlty Towers)', 'Fawlty Towers Episode 13', 'Fawlty Towers', 'Fawlty towers', 'Flowery Twats', 'List of Fawlty Towers episodes', 'Fawlty Towers (hotel)', 'Fawlty', 'Dr. Abbott', 'Woodburn Grange Country Club', 'Polly Sherman', 'Fawlty Towers episode guide', 'Audrey (Fawlty Towers)', 'Fawlty towers episodes', 'Terry the Chef', 'Faulty Towers', 'Wooburn Grange Country Club'], 'normalized_aliases': ['audrey fawlty towers', 'list of fawlty towers episodes', 'fawlty towers episodes', 'dr abbott', 'fawlty towers episode guide', 'flowery twats', 'polly shearman', 'faulty towers', 'polly sherman', 'polly sherman fawlty towers', 'woodburn grange country club', 'fawlty towers episode 13', 'fawlty towers hotel', 'fawlty towers', 'terry chef', 'wooburn grange country club', 'fawlty'], 'matched_wiki_entity_name': '', 'normalized_matched_wiki_entity_name': '', 'normalized_value': 'fawlty towers', 'type': 'WikipediaEntity', 'value': 'FAWLTY TOWERS'} Passage: Chemistry for Kids: Elements - The Noble Gases Elements for Kids Noble Gases The noble gases are a group of elements in the periodic table. They are located to the far right of the periodic table and make up the eighteenth column. Elements in the noble gas family have atoms with a full outer shell of electrons. They are also called the inert gases. What elements are noble gases? The elements that make up the family of noble gases include helium , neon , argon , krypton, xenon, and radon. What are the similar properties of noble gases? Noble gases share many similar properties including: A full outer shell of electrons. Helium has two electrons in its outer shell and the rest have eight electrons. Because of their full outer shells, they are very inert and stable. This means they don't tend to react with other elements to form compounds. They are gases under standard conditions. They are colorless and odorless. Their melting and boiling points are close together giving them a very narrow liquid range. Abundance Helium is the second most abundant element in the universe after hydrogen. Helium makes up about 24% of the mass of the elements in the universe. Neon is the fifth most abundant and argon is the eleventh. On Earth, the noble gases are fairly rare with the exception of argon. Argon makes up just under 1% of the Earth's atmosphere, making it the third most abundant gas in the atmosphere after nitrogen and oxygen. Interesting Facts about Noble Gases Because helium is non-flammable it is much safer to use in balloons than hydrogen. Krypton gets its name from the Greek word "kryptos" meaning "the hidden one." Many of the noble gases were either discovered or isolated by Scottish chemist Sir William Ramsay. Helium has the lowest melting and boiling points of any substance. All of the noble gases except for radon have stable isotopes. Neon signs do not use just neon gas, but a mixture of different noble gases and other elements to create bright lights of different colors. Noble gases are often used to create a safe or inert atmosphere due to their stable nature. Xenon gets its name from the Greek word "xenos" which means "stranger or foreigner." More on the Elements and the Periodic Table Question: Which inert gas takes its name from the Greek for 'hidden'? Answer: {'aliases': ['KRYPTON', 'KRYPTON (Programming Language)', 'KRYPTON (programming language)', 'KRYPTON programming language', 'Krypton (programming language)'], 'normalized_aliases': ['krypton', 'krypton programming language'], 'matched_wiki_entity_name': '', 'normalized_matched_wiki_entity_name': '', 'normalized_value': 'krypton', 'type': 'WikipediaEntity', 'value': 'KRYPTON'} Passage: Aegyptus at its largest extent - AD 116 Aegyptus Egypt was brought into the Roman empire by the defeat of Mark Antony and Cleopatra by Octavian (Augustus). Was Mark Antony ruler of the eastern half of the empire, then Egypt was effectively still independent. But Egypt's alliance him spelt the end of their independence, once Octavian had triumphed at the decisive battle of Actium in 30 BC. And so Egypt was annexed as a Roman province. Such was its importance to the empire due to its wealth and power that it was kept under direct rule of the emperor, Roman senators in fact needing permission by the emperor even to set foot in it. Question: In which year did Cleopatra die and Egypt become a province of the Roman Empire? Answer: {'aliases': ['724 AUC', '30BC', '30 BCE', '30 BC'], 'normalized_aliases': ['30bc', '30 bce', '724 auc', '30 bc'], 'matched_wiki_entity_name': '', 'normalized_matched_wiki_entity_name': '', 'normalized_value': '30 bc', 'type': 'WikipediaEntity', 'value': '30 BC'}
{ "task_name": "trivia_qa" }
/* * NOTE: This copyright does *not* cover user programs that use HQ * program services by normal system calls through the application * program interfaces provided as part of the Hyperic Plug-in Development * Kit or the Hyperic Client Development Kit - this is merely considered * normal use of the program, and does *not* fall under the heading of * "derived work". * * Copyright (C) [2004-2008], Hyperic, Inc. * This file is part of HQ. * * HQ is free software; you can redistribute it and/or modify * it under the terms version 2 of the GNU General Public License as * published by the Free Software Foundation. This program is distributed * in the hope that it will be useful, but WITHOUT ANY WARRANTY; without * even the implied warranty of MERCHANTABILITY or FITNESS FOR A * PARTICULAR PURPOSE. See the GNU General Public License for more * details. * * You should have received a copy of the GNU General Public License * along with this program; if not, write to the Free Software * Foundation, Inc., 59 Temple Place, Suite 330, Boston, MA 02111-1307 * USA. */ package org.hyperic.hq.autoinventory.server.session; import java.util.ArrayList; import java.util.Collection; import java.util.Collections; import java.util.HashMap; import java.util.List; import java.util.Map; import java.util.Set; import javax.annotation.PostConstruct; import org.apache.commons.lang.ArrayUtils; import org.apache.commons.logging.Log; import org.apache.commons.logging.LogFactory; import org.hyperic.hq.agent.AgentConnectionException; import org.hyperic.hq.agent.AgentRemoteException; import org.hyperic.hq.appdef.Agent; import org.hyperic.hq.appdef.server.session.*; import org.hyperic.hq.appdef.shared.AIAppdefResourceValue; import org.hyperic.hq.appdef.shared.AIPlatformValue; import org.hyperic.hq.appdef.shared.AIQueueConstants; import org.hyperic.hq.appdef.shared.AIQueueManager; import org.hyperic.hq.appdef.shared.AIServerValue; import org.hyperic.hq.appdef.shared.AgentManager; import org.hyperic.hq.appdef.shared.AgentNotFoundException; import org.hyperic.hq.appdef.shared.AppdefEntityID; import org.hyperic.hq.appdef.shared.AppdefUtil; import org.hyperic.hq.appdef.shared.ConfigFetchException; import org.hyperic.hq.appdef.shared.ConfigManager; import org.hyperic.hq.appdef.shared.PlatformManager; import org.hyperic.hq.appdef.shared.PlatformNotFoundException; import org.hyperic.hq.appdef.shared.PlatformValue; import org.hyperic.hq.appdef.shared.ServerManager; import org.hyperic.hq.appdef.shared.ServerTypeValue; import org.hyperic.hq.appdef.shared.ValidationException; import org.hyperic.hq.authz.server.session.AuthzSubject; import org.hyperic.hq.authz.server.session.Resource; import org.hyperic.hq.authz.server.shared.ResourceDeletedException; import org.hyperic.hq.authz.shared.AuthzConstants; import org.hyperic.hq.authz.shared.AuthzSubjectManager; import org.hyperic.hq.authz.shared.PermissionException; import org.hyperic.hq.authz.shared.PermissionManager; import org.hyperic.hq.authz.shared.ResourceManager; import org.hyperic.hq.autoinventory.AIHistory; import org.hyperic.hq.autoinventory.AIPlatform; import org.hyperic.hq.autoinventory.AutoinventoryException; import org.hyperic.hq.autoinventory.CompositeRuntimeResourceReport; import org.hyperic.hq.autoinventory.DuplicateAIScanNameException; import org.hyperic.hq.autoinventory.ScanConfigurationCore; import org.hyperic.hq.autoinventory.ScanState; import org.hyperic.hq.autoinventory.ScanStateCore; import org.hyperic.hq.autoinventory.ServerSignature; import org.hyperic.hq.autoinventory.agent.client.AICommandsClient; import org.hyperic.hq.autoinventory.agent.client.AICommandsClientFactory; import org.hyperic.hq.autoinventory.shared.AIScheduleManager; import org.hyperic.hq.autoinventory.shared.AutoinventoryManager; import org.hyperic.hq.common.ApplicationException; import org.hyperic.hq.common.NotFoundException; import org.hyperic.hq.common.SystemException; import org.hyperic.hq.dao.AIHistoryDAO; import org.hyperic.hq.dao.AIPlatformDAO; import org.hyperic.hq.measurement.shared.MeasurementProcessor; import org.hyperic.hq.product.AutoinventoryPluginManager; import org.hyperic.hq.product.GenericPlugin; import org.hyperic.hq.product.PluginException; import org.hyperic.hq.product.PluginNotFoundException; import org.hyperic.hq.product.ProductPlugin; import org.hyperic.hq.product.ServerDetector; import org.hyperic.hq.product.shared.ProductManager; import org.hyperic.hq.scheduler.ScheduleValue; import org.hyperic.hq.scheduler.ScheduleWillNeverFireException; import org.hyperic.util.StringUtil; import org.hyperic.util.config.ConfigResponse; import org.springframework.beans.factory.annotation.Autowired; import org.springframework.transaction.annotation.Transactional; /** * This class is responsible for managing Autoinventory objects in autoinventory * and their relationships */ @org.springframework.stereotype.Service public class AutoinventoryManagerImpl implements AutoinventoryManager { private Log log = LogFactory.getLog(AutoinventoryManagerImpl.class.getName()); private AutoinventoryPluginManager aiPluginManager; private AIScheduleManager aiScheduleManager; private AIHistoryDAO aiHistoryDao; private AIPlatformDAO aiPlatformDao; private ProductManager productManager; private ServerManager serverManager; private ResourceManager resourceManager; private ConfigManager configManager; private AuthzSubjectManager authzSubjectManager; private AIQueueManager aiQueueManager; private PermissionManager permissionManager; private AICommandsClientFactory aiCommandsClientFactory; private ServiceMerger serviceMerger; private RuntimePlatformAndServerMerger runtimePlatformAndServerMerger; private PlatformManager platformManager; private MeasurementProcessor measurementProcessor; private AgentManager agentManager; @Autowired public AutoinventoryManagerImpl(AIHistoryDAO aiHistoryDao, AIPlatformDAO aiPlatformDao, ProductManager productManager, ServerManager serverManager, AIScheduleManager aiScheduleManager, ResourceManager resourceManager, ConfigManager configManager, AuthzSubjectManager authzSubjectManager, AIQueueManager aiQueueManager, PermissionManager permissionManager, AICommandsClientFactory aiCommandsClientFactory, ServiceMerger serviceMerger, RuntimePlatformAndServerMerger runtimePlatformAndServerMerger, PlatformManager platformManager, MeasurementProcessor measurementProcessor, AgentManager agentManager) { this.aiHistoryDao = aiHistoryDao; this.aiPlatformDao = aiPlatformDao; this.productManager = productManager; this.serverManager = serverManager; this.aiScheduleManager = aiScheduleManager; this.resourceManager = resourceManager; this.configManager = configManager; this.authzSubjectManager = authzSubjectManager; this.aiQueueManager = aiQueueManager; this.permissionManager = permissionManager; this.aiCommandsClientFactory = aiCommandsClientFactory; this.serviceMerger = serviceMerger; this.runtimePlatformAndServerMerger = runtimePlatformAndServerMerger; this.platformManager = platformManager; this.measurementProcessor = measurementProcessor; this.agentManager = agentManager; } /** * Get server signatures for a set of servertypes. * @param serverTypes A List of ServerTypeValue objects representing the * server types to get signatures for. If this is null, all server * signatures are returned. * @return A Map, where the keys are the names of the ServerTypeValues, and * the values are the ServerSignature objects. */ @Transactional(readOnly = true) public Map<String, ServerSignature> getServerSignatures(AuthzSubject subject, List<ServerTypeValue> serverTypes) throws AutoinventoryException { // Plug server type names into a map for quick retrieval HashMap<String, ServerTypeValue> stNames = null; if (serverTypes != null) { stNames = new HashMap<String, ServerTypeValue>(); ServerTypeValue stValue; for (int i = 0; i < serverTypes.size(); i++) { stValue = (ServerTypeValue) serverTypes.get(i); stNames.put(stValue.getName(), stValue); } } Map<String, GenericPlugin> plugins = aiPluginManager.getPlugins(); Map<String, ServerSignature> results = new HashMap<String, ServerSignature>(); for (String name : plugins.keySet()) { GenericPlugin plugin = (GenericPlugin) plugins.get(name); String pluginName = plugin.getName(); if (!(plugin instanceof ServerDetector)) { log.debug("skipping non-server AI plugin: " + pluginName); continue; } if (stNames != null && stNames.get(pluginName) == null) { log.debug("skipping unrequested AI plugin: " + pluginName); continue; } results.put(pluginName, ((ServerDetector) plugin).getServerSignature()); } return results; } /** * Check if a given Appdef entity supports runtime auto-discovery. * * @param id The entity id to check. * @return true if the given resource supports runtime auto-discovery. */ @Transactional(readOnly = true) public boolean isRuntimeDiscoverySupported(AuthzSubject subject, AppdefEntityID id) { boolean retVal; try { Server server = serverManager.getServerById(id.getId()); if (server == null) { return false; } String pluginName = server.getServerType().getName(); AutoinventoryPluginManager aiPluginManager = (AutoinventoryPluginManager) productManager .getPluginManager(ProductPlugin.TYPE_AUTOINVENTORY); GenericPlugin plugin = aiPluginManager.getPlugin(pluginName); if (plugin instanceof ServerDetector) { retVal = ((ServerDetector) plugin).isRuntimeDiscoverySupported(); } else { retVal = false; } } catch (PluginNotFoundException pne) { return false; } catch (PluginException e) { log.error("Error getting plugin", e); return false; } return retVal; } /** * Turn off runtime-autodiscovery for a server that no longer exists. Use * this method when you know the appdefentity identified by "id" exists, so * that we'll be able to successfully find out which agent we should create * our AICommandsClient from. * @param id The AppdefEntityID of the resource to turn off runtime config * for. */ @Transactional public void turnOffRuntimeDiscovery(AuthzSubject subject, AppdefEntityID id) throws PermissionException { AICommandsClient client; try { client = aiCommandsClientFactory.getClient(id); } catch (AgentNotFoundException e) { throw new SystemException("Error looking up agent for resource " + "(" + id + "): " + e); } try { client.pushRuntimeDiscoveryConfig(id.getType(), id.getID(), null, null, null); } catch (AgentRemoteException e) { throw new SystemException("Error turning off runtime-autodiscovery " + "for resource (" + id + "): " + e); } } /** * Turn off runtime-autodiscovery for a server that no longer exists. We * need this as a separate method call because when the server no longer * exists, we have to manually specify the agent connection to use. * @param id The AppdefEntityID of the resource to turn off runtime config * for. * @param agentToken Which agent controls the runtime AI scans for this * resource. */ @Transactional public void turnOffRuntimeDiscovery(AuthzSubject subject, AppdefEntityID id, String agentToken) throws PermissionException { AICommandsClient client; try { client = aiCommandsClientFactory.getClient(agentToken); } catch (AgentNotFoundException e) { throw new SystemException("Error looking up agent for resource " + "(" + id + "): " + e); } try { client.pushRuntimeDiscoveryConfig(id.getType(), id.getID(), null, null, null); } catch (AgentRemoteException e) { throw new SystemException("Error turning off runtime-autodiscovery " + "for resource (" + id + "): " + e); } } /** * Toggle Runtime-AI config for the given server. */ @Transactional public void toggleRuntimeScan(AuthzSubject subject, AppdefEntityID id, boolean enable) throws PermissionException, AutoinventoryException, ResourceDeletedException { Resource res = resourceManager.findResource(id); // if resource is asynchronously deleted ignore if (res == null || res.isInAsyncDeleteState()) { final String m = id + " is asynchronously deleted"; throw new ResourceDeletedException(m); } if (!id.isServer()) { log.warn("toggleRuntimeScan() called for non-server type=" + id); return; } if (!isRuntimeDiscoverySupported(subject, id)) { return; } try { Server server = serverManager.findServerById(id.getId()); server.setRuntimeAutodiscovery(enable); ConfigResponse metricConfig = configManager.getMergedConfigResponse(subject, ProductPlugin.TYPE_MEASUREMENT, id, true); pushRuntimeDiscoveryConfig(subject, server, metricConfig); } catch (ConfigFetchException e) { // No config, no need to turn off auto-discovery. } catch (Exception e) { throw new AutoinventoryException("Error enabling Runtime-AI for " + "server: " + e.getMessage(), e); } } /** * Push the metric ConfigResponse out to an agent so it can perform * runtime-autodiscovery * @param res The appdef entity ID of the server. * @param response The configuration info. */ private void pushRuntimeDiscoveryConfig(AuthzSubject subject, AppdefResource res, ConfigResponse response) throws PermissionException { AppdefEntityID aeid = res.getEntityId(); if (!isRuntimeDiscoverySupported(subject, aeid)) { return; } AICommandsClient client; if (aeid.isServer()) { // Setting the response to null will disable runtime // autodiscovery at the agent. if (!AppdefUtil.areRuntimeScansEnabled((Server) res)) { response = null; } } try { client = aiCommandsClientFactory.getClient(aeid); } catch (AgentNotFoundException e) { throw new SystemException("Error looking up agent for server " + "(" + res + "): " + e); } String typeName = res.getAppdefResourceType().getName(); String name = null; if (!aeid.isServer()) { name = res.getName(); } try { client.pushRuntimeDiscoveryConfig(aeid.getType(), aeid.getID(), typeName, name, response); } catch (AgentRemoteException e) { throw new SystemException("Error pushing metric config response to " + "agent for server (" + res + "): " + e); } } /** * Start an autoinventory scan. * @param aid The appdef entity whose agent we'll talk to. * @param scanConfig The scan configuration to use when scanning. * @param scanName The name of the scan - this is ignored (i.e. it can be * null) for immediate, one-time scans. * @param scanDesc The description of the scan - this is ignored (i.e. it * can be null) for immediate, one-time scans. * @param schedule Described when and how often the scan should run. If this * is null, then the scan will be run as an immediate, one-time only * scan. */ @Transactional public void startScan(AuthzSubject subject, AppdefEntityID aid, ScanConfigurationCore scanConfig, String scanName, String scanDesc, ScheduleValue schedule) throws AgentConnectionException, AgentNotFoundException, AutoinventoryException, DuplicateAIScanNameException, ScheduleWillNeverFireException, PermissionException { try { permissionManager.checkAIScanPermission(subject, aid); ConfigResponse config = configManager.getMergedConfigResponse(subject, ProductPlugin.TYPE_MEASUREMENT, aid, false); if (log.isDebugEnabled()) { log.debug("startScan config=" + config); } scanConfig.setConfigResponse(config); // All scans go through the scheduler. aiScheduleManager.doScheduledScan(subject, aid, scanConfig, scanName, scanDesc, schedule); } catch (ScheduleWillNeverFireException e) { throw e; } catch (DuplicateAIScanNameException ae) { throw ae; } catch (AutoinventoryException ae) { log.warn("Error starting scan: " + StringUtil.getStackTrace(ae)); throw ae; } catch (PermissionException ae) { throw ae; } catch (Exception e) { throw new SystemException("Error starting scan " + "for agent: " + e, e); } } /** * Start an autoinventory scan by agentToken */ @Transactional public void startScan(AuthzSubject subject, String agentToken, ScanConfigurationCore scanConfig) throws AgentConnectionException, AgentNotFoundException, AutoinventoryException, PermissionException { log.info("AutoinventoryManager.startScan called"); // Is there an already-approved platform with this agent token? If so, // re-call using the other startScan method AIPlatform aipLocal = aiPlatformDao.findByAgentToken(agentToken); if (aipLocal == null) { throw new AutoinventoryException("No platform in auto-discovery " + "queue with agentToken=" + agentToken); } PlatformValue pValue; try { pValue = aiQueueManager.getPlatformByAI(subject, aipLocal.getId().intValue()); // It does exist. Call the other startScan method so that // authz checks will apply startScan(subject, AppdefEntityID.newPlatformID(pValue.getId()), scanConfig, null, null, null); return; } catch (PlatformNotFoundException e) { log.warn("startScan: no platform exists for queued AIPlatform: " + aipLocal.getId() + ": " + e); } catch (Exception e) { log.error("startScan: error starting scan for AIPlatform: " + aipLocal.getId() + ": " + e, e); throw new SystemException(e); } try { AICommandsClient client = aiCommandsClientFactory.getClient(agentToken); client.startScan(scanConfig); } catch (AgentRemoteException e) { throw new AutoinventoryException(e); } } /** * Stop an autoinventory scan. * @param aid The appdef entity whose agent we'll talk to. */ @Transactional public void stopScan(AuthzSubject subject, AppdefEntityID aid) throws AutoinventoryException { log.info("AutoinventoryManager.stopScan called"); try { AICommandsClient client = aiCommandsClientFactory.getClient(aid); client.stopScan(); } catch (Exception e) { throw new AutoinventoryException("Error stopping scan " + "for agent: " + e, e); } } /** * Get status for an autoinventory scan. * @param aid The appdef entity whose agent we'll talk to. */ @Transactional(readOnly = true) public ScanStateCore getScanStatus(AuthzSubject subject, AppdefEntityID aid) throws AgentNotFoundException, AgentConnectionException, AgentRemoteException, AutoinventoryException { log.info("AutoinventoryManager.getScanStatus called"); ScanStateCore core; try { AICommandsClient client = aiCommandsClientFactory.getClient(aid); core = client.getScanStatus(); } catch (AgentNotFoundException ae) { throw ae; } catch (AgentRemoteException ae) { throw ae; } catch (AgentConnectionException ae) { throw ae; } catch (AutoinventoryException ae) { throw ae; } catch (Exception e) { throw new SystemException("Error getting scan status for agent: " + e, e); } return core; } /** * create AIHistory */ @Transactional public AIHistory createAIHistory(AppdefEntityID id, Integer groupId, Integer batchId, String subjectName, ScanConfigurationCore config, String scanName, String scanDesc, Boolean scheduled, long startTime, long stopTime, long scheduleTime, String status, String errorMessage) throws AutoinventoryException { return aiHistoryDao.create(id, groupId, batchId, subjectName, config, scanName, scanDesc, scheduled, startTime, stopTime, scheduleTime, status, null /* description */, errorMessage); } /** * remove AIHistory */ @Transactional public void removeHistory(AIHistory history) { aiHistoryDao.remove(history); } /** * update AIHistory */ @Transactional public void updateAIHistory(Integer jobId, long endTime, String status, String message) { AIHistory local = aiHistoryDao.findById(jobId); local.setEndTime(endTime); local.setDuration(endTime - local.getStartTime()); local.setStatus(status); local.setMessage(message); } /** * Get status for an autoinventory scan, given the agentToken */ @Transactional(readOnly = true) public ScanStateCore getScanStatusByAgentToken(AuthzSubject subject, String agentToken) throws AgentNotFoundException, AgentConnectionException, AgentRemoteException, AutoinventoryException { log.info("AutoinventoryManager.getScanStatus called"); ScanStateCore core; try { AICommandsClient client = aiCommandsClientFactory.getClient(agentToken); core = client.getScanStatus(); } catch (AgentNotFoundException ae) { throw ae; } catch (AgentRemoteException ae) { throw ae; } catch (AgentConnectionException ae) { throw ae; } catch (AutoinventoryException ae) { throw ae; } catch (Exception e) { throw new SystemException("Error getting scan status " + "for agent: " + e, e); } return core; } private static List<Integer> buildAIResourceIds(AIAppdefResourceValue[] aiResources) { List<Integer> ids = new ArrayList<Integer>(); for (int i = 0; i < aiResources.length; i++) { Integer id = aiResources[i].getId(); if (id == null) { continue; // unchanged? } ids.add(id); } return ids; } /** * Called by agents to report platforms, servers, and services detected via * autoinventory scans. * @param agentToken The token identifying the agent that sent the report. * @param stateCore The ScanState that was detected during the autoinventory * scan. */ public AIPlatformValue reportAIData(String agentToken, ScanStateCore stateCore) throws AutoinventoryException { final boolean debug = log.isDebugEnabled(); ScanState state = new ScanState(stateCore); AIPlatformValue aiPlatform = state.getPlatform(); // This could happen if there was a serious error in the scan, // and not even the platform could be detected. if (state.getPlatform() == null) { log.warn("ScanState did not even contain a platform, ignoring."); return null; } // TODO: G log.info("Received auto-inventory report from " + aiPlatform.getFqdn() + "; IPs -> " + ArrayUtils.toString(aiPlatform.getAIIpValues()) + "; CertDN -> " + aiPlatform.getCertdn() + "; (" + state.getAllServers().size() + " servers)"); if (debug) { log.debug("AutoinventoryManager.reportAIData called, " + "scan state=" + state); log.debug("AISERVERS=" + state.getAllServers()); } // In the future we may want this method to act as // another user besides "admin". It might make sense to have // a user per-agent, so that actions that are agent-initiated // can be tracked. Of course, this will be difficult when the // agent is reporting itself to the server for the first time. // In that case, we'd have to act as admin and be careful about // what we allow that codepath to do. AuthzSubject subject = getHQAdmin(); aiPlatform.setAgentToken(agentToken); if (debug) { log.debug("AImgr.reportAIData: state.getPlatform()=" + aiPlatform); } addAIServersToAIPlatform(stateCore, state, aiPlatform); aiPlatform = aiQueueManager.queue(subject, aiPlatform, stateCore.getAreServersIncluded(), false, true); approvePlatformDevice(subject, aiPlatform); checkAgentAssignment(subject, agentToken, aiPlatform); return aiPlatform; } private void addAIServersToAIPlatform(ScanStateCore stateCore, ScanState state,AIPlatformValue aiPlatform) throws AutoinventoryException { if (stateCore.getAreServersIncluded()) { // TODO: G Set<AIServerValue> serverSet = state.getAllServers(); for (AIServerValue aiServer : serverSet) { // Ensure the server reported has a valid appdef type try { serverManager.findServerTypeByName(aiServer.getServerTypeName()); } catch (NotFoundException e) { log.error("Ignoring non-existent server type: " + aiServer.getServerTypeName(), e); continue; } aiPlatform.addAIServerValue(aiServer); } } } private void approvePlatformDevice(AuthzSubject subject, AIPlatformValue aiPlatform) { if (aiPlatform.isPlatformDevice()) { log.info("Auto-approving inventory for " + aiPlatform.getFqdn()); List<Integer> ips = buildAIResourceIds(aiPlatform.getAIIpValues()); List<Integer> servers = buildAIResourceIds(aiPlatform.getAIServerValues()); List<Integer> platforms = Collections.singletonList(aiPlatform.getId()); try { aiQueueManager.processQueue(subject, platforms, servers, ips, AIQueueConstants.Q_DECISION_APPROVE); } catch (Exception e) { throw new SystemException(e); } } } private void checkAgentAssignment(AuthzSubject subj, String agentToken, AIPlatformValue aiPlatform) { try { Platform platform = platformManager.getPlatformByAIPlatform(subj, aiPlatform); if (platform != null) { Agent agent = platform.getAgent(); if (agent == null || !agent.getAgentToken().equals(agentToken)) { Agent newAgent = agentManager.getAgent(agentToken); String fqdn = platform.getFqdn(); Integer pid = platform.getId(); log.info("reassigning platform agent (fqdn=" + fqdn + ",id=" + pid + ") from=" + agent + " to=" + newAgent); platform.setAgent(newAgent); measurementProcessor.scheduleHierarchyAfterCommit(platform.getResource()); } } } catch (PermissionException e) { // using admin, this should not happen log.error(e,e); } catch (AgentNotFoundException e) { // this is a problem since the agent should already exist in our // inventory before it gets here. log.error(e,e); } } /** * Called by agents to report resources detected at runtime via * monitoring-based autoinventory scans. * * There are some interesting situations that can occur related to * synchronization between the server and agent. If runtime scans are turned * off for a server, but the agent is never notified (for example if the * agent is not running at the time), then the agent is going to eventually * report a runtime scan that includes resources detected by that server's * runtime scan. If this happens, we detect it and take the opportunity to * tell the agent again that it should not perform runtime AI scans for that * server. Any resources reported by that server will be ignored. * * A similar situation occurs when the appdef server has been deleted but * the agent was never notified to turn off runtime AI. We handle this in * the same way, by telling the agent to turn off runtime scans for that * server, and ignoring anything in the report from that server. * * This method will process all platform and server merging, given by the * report. Any services will be added to Zevent queue to be processed in * their own transactions. * * @param agentToken The token identifying the agent that sent the report. * @param crrr The CompositeRuntimeResourceReport that was generated during * the runtime autoinventory scan. */ @Transactional public void reportAIRuntimeReport(String agentToken, CompositeRuntimeResourceReport crrr) throws AutoinventoryException, PermissionException, ValidationException, ApplicationException { runtimePlatformAndServerMerger.schedulePlatformAndServerMerges(agentToken, crrr); } /** * Handle ResourceZEvents for enabling runtime autodiscovery. * * @param events A list of ResourceZevents */ @Transactional public void handleResourceEvents(List<ResourceZevent> events) { for (ResourceZevent zevent : events) { AppdefEntityID id = zevent.getAppdefEntityID(); boolean isUpdate = zevent instanceof ResourceUpdatedZevent; // Only servers have runtime AI. if (!id.isServer()) { continue; } // Need to look up the AuthzSubject POJO AuthzSubject subj = authzSubjectManager.findSubjectById(zevent.getAuthzSubjectId()); if (isUpdate) { Server s = serverManager.getServerById(id.getId()); log.info("Toggling Runtime-AI for " + id); try { toggleRuntimeScan(subj, id, s.isRuntimeAutodiscovery()); } catch (ResourceDeletedException e) { log.debug(e); } catch (Exception e) { log.warn("Error toggling runtime-ai for server [" + id + "]", e); } } else { log.info("Enabling Runtime-AI for " + id); try { toggleRuntimeScan(subj, id, true); } catch (ResourceDeletedException e) { log.debug(e); } catch (Exception e) { log.warn("Error enabling runtime-ai for server [" + id + "]", e); } } } } public void invokeAutoApprove(AIPlatformValue aiPlatformValue) throws AutoinventoryException { AuthzSubject subject = getHQAdmin(); List<Integer> ips = buildAIResourceIds(aiPlatformValue.getAIIpValues()); List<Integer> platforms = Collections.singletonList(aiPlatformValue.getId()); List<Integer> servers = new ArrayList<Integer>(); AIServerValue[] aiServerValues = aiPlatformValue.getAIServerValues(); for (AIServerValue aiServerValue : aiServerValues) { if (aiServerValue.isAutoApprove() || isServerVirtual(aiServerValue)) { servers.add(aiServerValue.getId()); } } try { aiQueueManager.processQueue(subject, platforms, servers, ips, AIQueueConstants.Q_DECISION_APPROVE); } catch (Exception e) { throw new SystemException(e); } } private boolean isServerVirtual(AIServerValue aiServerValue) { try { ServerType serverType = serverManager.findServerTypeByName(aiServerValue.getServerTypeName()); return serverType.isVirtual(); } catch (NotFoundException exc) { log.error("Ignoring non-existent server type: " + aiServerValue.getServerTypeName(), exc); } return false; } /** * Create an autoinventory manager. * */ @PostConstruct public void createDependentManagers() { // Get reference to the AI plugin manager try { aiPluginManager = (AutoinventoryPluginManager) productManager.getPluginManager( ProductPlugin.TYPE_AUTOINVENTORY); } catch (Throwable e) { log.error("Unable to initialize AI Product Manager.", e); } } private AuthzSubject getHQAdmin() throws AutoinventoryException { try { return authzSubjectManager.getSubjectById(AuthzConstants.rootSubjectId); } catch (Exception e) { throw new AutoinventoryException("Error looking up subject", e); } } }
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
Passage 1: John Caldwell (Kentucky politician) John Caldwell (1757 – November 19, 1804) was a Kentucky politician, state senator, and the second lieutenant governor of Kentucky serving under Governor Christopher Greenup. He was elected to the Kentucky State Senate in 1792, and was later elected the second lieutenant governor of Kentucky in 1804. Caldwell died while presiding over the state senate in his first year as lieutenant governor from "inflammation of the brain". John Caldwell is the namesake of Caldwell County, Kentucky. Passage 2: John Caldwell (boxer) John Caldwell( 7 May 1938 in Belfast – 10 July 2009) was an Irish boxer who won the bronze medal in the flyweight( – 51 kg) division at the 1956 Summer Olympics in Melbourne. Caldwell was considered a supreme fighter whose class and skill saw him claim a medal in 1956 and the world bantamweight crown in 1961. He enjoyed a magnificent career as an amateur and professional in which he contested 275 bouts, winning on all but ten occasions. Passage 3: Arthur Caldwell (footballer, born 1913) Arthur John Caldwell( 24 February 1913 – 26 July 1989) was an English footballer. A Left winger noted for his pace, he played for Manchester United, Winsford United and Port Vale in the 1930s Passage 4: Jovan Markovski Jovan Markovski( born March 28, 1988) is a Macedonian professional basketball small forward who last played for Vardar. He is older brother of Gorjan Markovski who is also basketball player and plays for Feni Industries Passage 5: John C. Calhoun II John Caldwell Calhoun II( 1843- 1918) was an American planter and businessman. He was a large landowner in Chicot County, Arkansas and a Director of railroad companies. He was a prominent financier and developer of the" New South". Passage 6: Jock Caldwell John Caldwell( 28 November 1874 – after 1904) was a Scottish professional footballer who played as a left back in the English Football League for Woolwich Arsenal and in the Scottish League for Third Lanark. Passage 7: Michael J. C. Gordon Michael John Caldwell Gordon FRS( 28 February 1948 – 22 August 2017) was a leading British computer scientist. Passage 8: Saadi Yacef Saadi Yacef( born January 20, 1928) is one of the former leaders of Algeria's National Liberation Front during his country's war of independence. He is currently a Senator in Algeria's Council of the Nation. Yacef was born in Algiers. The son of illiterate parents from the Algerian region of Kabylie, he started his working life as an apprentice baker. In 1945, he joined the Parti du Peuple Algérien, a nationalist party which the French authorities soon outlawed, after which it was reconstituted as the Mouvement pour le Triomphe des Libertes Democratiques( MTLD). From 1947 to 1949, Yacef served in the MTLD's paramilitary wing, the Organisation Secrete. After the OS was broken up, Yacef moved to France and lived there until 1952, when he returned to Algeria to work again as a baker. Yacef joined the FLN at the start of the Algerian War in 1954. By May 1956, he was the FLN's military chief of the Zone Autonome d' Alger( Autonomous Zone of Algiers), making him one of the leaders on the Algerian side in the Battle of Algiers. He was captured by French troops on September 24, 1957 and eventually sentenced to death. General Paul Aussaresses later asserted that while in custody, Yacef betrayed the FLN and the Algerian cause by providing the French army with the location of Ali la Pointe, another leading FLN commander. Yacef has denied it, and historian Darius Rejali considers the accusation as highly suspect. He was ultimately pardoned by the French government after Charles de Gaulle's 1958 return to power. Yacef claims to have written his memoirs of the battle in prison although he was illiterate. The writings were published in 1962 as" Souvenirs de la Bataille d' Alger". After the Algerian War, Yacef helped produce Italian filmmaker Gillo Pontecorvo's film" The Battle of Algiers"( 1966), based on" Souvenirs de la Bataille d' Alger". Yacef played a character modeled on his own experiences in the battle. Passage 9: Jack Wardrop John Caldwell" Jack" Wardrop( born 26 May 1932) is a male former competitive swimmer who represented Great Britain and Scotland. Passage 10: John C. Tidball John Caldwell Tidball( January 25, 1825 – May 15, 1906) was a career military officer, noted for his service in the horse artillery in the cavalry in the Union Army during the American Civil War. After the war, he served as the Commander of the Department of Alaska( in effect, the Appointed Military Governor of the region). Question: Who is older, John Caldwell (Boxer) or Saadi Yacef? Answer: Saadi Yacef
{ "task_name": "2WikiMultihopQA" }
using System; using System.Collections.Generic; using System.Linq; using System.Xml; using Palaso.Data; using Palaso.DictionaryServices.Model; using Palaso.Lift; using Palaso.Lift.Options; using Palaso.Lift.Parsing; using Palaso.Text; namespace Palaso.DictionaryServices.Lift { /// <summary> /// This class is called by the LiftParser, as it encounters each element of a lift file. /// There is at least one other ILexiconMerger, used in FLEX. /// /// NB: In WeSay, we don't really use this to "merge in" elements, since we start from /// scratch each time we read a file. But in FLEx it is currently used that way, hence /// we haven't renamed the interface (ILexiconMerger). /// </summary> /// public class LexEntryFromLiftBuilder: ILexiconMerger<PalasoDataObject, LexEntry, LexSense, LexExampleSentence>, IDisposable { /// <summary> /// Subscribe to this event in order to do something (or do something to an entry) as soon as it has been parsed in. /// WeSay uses this to populate definitions from glosses. /// </summary> public event EventHandler<EntryEvent> AfterEntryRead; public class EntryEventArgs: EventArgs { public readonly LexEntry Entry; public EntryEventArgs(LexEntry entry) { this.Entry = entry; } } public event EventHandler<EntryEventArgs> EntryCreatedEvent = delegate { }; private readonly IList<string> _expectedOptionCollectionTraits; private readonly MemoryDataMapper<LexEntry> _dataMapper; private readonly OptionsList _semanticDomainsList; public LexEntryFromLiftBuilder(MemoryDataMapper<LexEntry> dataMapper, OptionsList semanticDomainsList) { ExpectedOptionTraits = new List<string>(); _expectedOptionCollectionTraits = new List<string>(); _dataMapper = dataMapper; _semanticDomainsList = semanticDomainsList; } public LexEntry GetOrMakeEntry(Extensible eInfo, int order) { LexEntry entry = null; if (eInfo.CreationTime == default(DateTime)) { eInfo.CreationTime = PreciseDateTime.UtcNow; } if (eInfo.ModificationTime == default(DateTime)) { eInfo.ModificationTime = PreciseDateTime.UtcNow; } entry = _dataMapper.CreateItem(); entry.Id = eInfo.Id; entry.Guid = eInfo.Guid; entry.CreationTime = eInfo.CreationTime; entry.ModificationTime = eInfo.ModificationTime; if (_dataMapper.LastModified < entry.ModificationTime) { _dataMapper.LastModified = entry.ModificationTime; } entry.ModifiedTimeIsLocked = true; //while we build it up entry.OrderForRoundTripping = order; return entry; } #region ILexiconMerger<PalasoDataObject,LexEntry,LexSense,LexExampleSentence> Members public void EntryWasDeleted(Extensible info, DateTime dateDeleted) { //there isn't anything we need to do; we just don't import it // since we always update file in place, the info will still stay in the lift file // even though we don't import it. } #endregion #if merging private static bool CanSafelyPruneMerge(Extensible eInfo, LexEntry entry) { return entry != null && entry.ModificationTime == eInfo.ModificationTime && entry.ModificationTime.Kind != DateTimeKind.Unspecified && eInfo.ModificationTime.Kind != DateTimeKind.Unspecified; } #endif public LexSense GetOrMakeSense(LexEntry entry, Extensible eInfo, string rawXml) { //nb, has no guid or dates LexSense s = new LexSense(entry); s.Id = eInfo.Id; entry.Senses.Add(s); return s; } public LexSense GetOrMakeSubsense(LexSense sense, Extensible info, string rawXml) { sense.GetOrCreateProperty<EmbeddedXmlCollection>("subSense").Values.Add(rawXml); return null; } public LexExampleSentence GetOrMakeExample(LexSense sense, Extensible eInfo) { LexExampleSentence ex = new LexExampleSentence(sense); sense.ExampleSentences.Add(ex); return ex; } public void MergeInLexemeForm(LexEntry entry, LiftMultiText forms) { MergeIn(entry.LexicalForm, forms); } public void MergeInCitationForm(LexEntry entry, LiftMultiText contents) { AddOrAppendMultiTextProperty(entry, contents, LexEntry.WellKnownProperties.Citation, null); } public PalasoDataObject MergeInPronunciation(LexEntry entry, LiftMultiText contents, string rawXml) { entry.GetOrCreateProperty<EmbeddedXmlCollection>("pronunciation").Values.Add(rawXml); return null; } public PalasoDataObject MergeInVariant(LexEntry entry, LiftMultiText contents, string rawXml) { entry.GetOrCreateProperty<EmbeddedXmlCollection>("variant").Values.Add(rawXml); return null; } public void MergeInGloss(LexSense sense, LiftMultiText forms) { sense.Gloss.MergeInWithAppend(MultiText.Create(forms.AsSimpleStrings), "; "); AddAnnotationsToMultiText(forms, sense.Gloss); } private static void AddAnnotationsToMultiText(LiftMultiText forms, MultiTextBase text) { foreach (Annotation annotation in forms.Annotations) { if (annotation.Name == "flag") { text.SetAnnotationOfAlternativeIsStarred(annotation.LanguageHint, int.Parse(annotation.Value) > 0); } else { //log dropped } } } public void MergeInExampleForm(LexExampleSentence example, LiftMultiText forms) //, string optionalSource) { MergeIn(example.Sentence, forms); } public void MergeInTranslationForm(LexExampleSentence example, string type, LiftMultiText forms, string rawXml) { bool alreadyHaveAPrimaryTranslation = example.Translation != null && !string.IsNullOrEmpty( example.Translation.GetFirstAlternative()); /* bool typeIsCompatibleWithWeSayPrimaryTranslation = string.IsNullOrEmpty(type) || type.ToLower() == "free translation"; //this is the default style in FLEx * */ //WeSay's model only allows for one translation just grab the first translation if (!alreadyHaveAPrimaryTranslation /*&& typeIsCompatibleWithWeSayPrimaryTranslation*/) { MergeIn(example.Translation, forms); example.TranslationType = type; } else { example.GetOrCreateProperty<EmbeddedXmlCollection>(PalasoDataObject.GetEmbeddedXmlNameForProperty(LexExampleSentence.WellKnownProperties.Translation)).Values.Add(rawXml); } } public void MergeInSource(LexExampleSentence example, string source) { OptionRef o = example.GetOrCreateProperty<OptionRef>( LexExampleSentence.WellKnownProperties.Source); o.Value = source; } public void MergeInDefinition(LexSense sense, LiftMultiText contents) { AddOrAppendMultiTextProperty(sense, contents, LexSense.WellKnownProperties.Definition, null); } public void MergeInPicture(LexSense sense, string href, LiftMultiText caption) { //nb 1: we're limiting ourselves to one picture per sense, here: //nb 2: the name and case must match the fieldName PictureRef pict = sense.GetOrCreateProperty<PictureRef>("Picture"); pict.Value = href; if (caption != null) { pict.Caption = MultiText.Create(caption.AsSimpleStrings); } } /// <summary> /// Handle LIFT's "note" entity /// </summary> /// <remarks>The difficult thing here is we don't handle anything but a default note. /// Any other kind, we put in the xml residue for round-tripping.</remarks> public void MergeInNote(PalasoDataObject extensible, string type, LiftMultiText contents, string rawXml) { var noteProperty = extensible.GetProperty<MultiText>(PalasoDataObject.WellKnownProperties.Note); bool alreadyHaveAOne= !MultiText.IsEmpty(noteProperty); bool weCanHandleThisType = string.IsNullOrEmpty(type) ||type == "general"; if (!alreadyHaveAOne && weCanHandleThisType) { List<String> writingSystemAlternatives = new List<string>(contents.Count); foreach (KeyValuePair<string, string> pair in contents.AsSimpleStrings) { writingSystemAlternatives.Add(pair.Key); } noteProperty = extensible.GetOrCreateProperty<MultiText>(PalasoDataObject.WellKnownProperties.Note); MergeIn(noteProperty, contents); } else //residue { var residue = extensible.GetOrCreateProperty<EmbeddedXmlCollection>(PalasoDataObject.GetEmbeddedXmlNameForProperty(PalasoDataObject.WellKnownProperties.Note)); residue.Values.Add(rawXml); // var r = extensible.GetProperty<EmbeddedXmlCollection>(PalasoDataObject.GetEmbeddedXmlNameForProperty(PalasoDataObject.WellKnownProperties.Note)); // Debug.Assert(r != null); } } public PalasoDataObject GetOrMakeParentReversal(PalasoDataObject parent, LiftMultiText contents, string type) { return null; // we'll get what we need from the rawxml of MergeInReversal } public PalasoDataObject MergeInReversal(LexSense sense, PalasoDataObject parent, LiftMultiText contents, string type, string rawXml) { sense.GetOrCreateProperty<EmbeddedXmlCollection>("reversal").Values.Add(rawXml); return null; } public PalasoDataObject MergeInEtymology(LexEntry entry, string source, string type, LiftMultiText form, LiftMultiText gloss, string rawXml) { entry.GetOrCreateProperty<EmbeddedXmlCollection>("etymology").Values.Add(rawXml); return null; } public void ProcessRangeElement(string range, string id, string guid, string parent, LiftMultiText description, LiftMultiText label, LiftMultiText abbrev, string rawXml) {} public void ProcessFieldDefinition(string tag, LiftMultiText description) {} public void MergeInGrammaticalInfo(PalasoDataObject senseOrReversal, string val, List<Trait> traits) { LexSense sense = senseOrReversal as LexSense; if (sense == null) { return; //todo: preserve grammatical info on reversal, when we hand reversals } OptionRef o = sense.GetOrCreateProperty<OptionRef>(LexSense.WellKnownProperties.PartOfSpeech); o.Value = val; if (traits != null) { foreach (Trait trait in traits) { if (trait.Name == "flag" && int.Parse(trait.Value) > 0) { o.IsStarred = true; } else { o.EmbeddedXmlElements.Add(string.Format(@"<trait name='{0}' value='{1}'/>", trait.Name, trait.Value)); } } } } private static void AddOrAppendMultiTextProperty(PalasoDataObject dataObject, LiftMultiText contents, string propertyName, string noticeToPrependIfNotEmpty) { MultiText mt = dataObject.GetOrCreateProperty<MultiText>(propertyName); mt.MergeInWithAppend(MultiText.Create(contents), string.IsNullOrEmpty(noticeToPrependIfNotEmpty) ? "; " : noticeToPrependIfNotEmpty); AddAnnotationsToMultiText(contents, mt); //dataObject.GetOrCreateProperty<string>(propertyName) mt)); } /* private static void AddMultiTextProperty(PalasoDataObject dataObject, LiftMultiText contents, string propertyName) { dataObject.Properties.Add( new KeyValuePair<string, object>(propertyName, MultiText.Create(contents))); } */ /// <summary> /// Handle LIFT's "field" entity which can be found on any subclass of "extensible" /// </summary> public void MergeInField(PalasoDataObject extensible, string typeAttribute, DateTime dateCreated, DateTime dateModified, LiftMultiText contents, List<Trait> traits) { MultiText t = MultiText.Create(contents.AsSimpleStrings); //enchance: instead of KeyValuePair, make a LiftField class, so we can either keep the // other field stuff as xml (in order to round-trip it) or model it. extensible.Properties.Add(new KeyValuePair<string, IPalasoDataObjectProperty>(typeAttribute, t)); if (traits != null) { foreach (var trait in traits) { t.EmbeddedXmlElements.Add(string.Format(@"<trait name='{0}' value='{1}'/>", trait.Name, trait.Value)); } } } /// <summary> /// Handle LIFT's "trait" entity, /// which can be found on any subclass of "extensible", on any "field", and as /// a subclass of "annotation". /// </summary> public void MergeInTrait(PalasoDataObject extensible, Trait trait) { if (String.IsNullOrEmpty(trait.Name)) { //"log skipping..." return; } if (ExpectedOptionTraits.Contains(trait.Name)) { OptionRef o = extensible.GetOrCreateProperty<OptionRef>(trait.Name); o.Value = trait.Value.Trim(); } else if (trait.Name.StartsWith("flag-")) { extensible.SetFlag(trait.Name); } // if it is unknown assume it is a collection. else //if (ExpectedOptionCollectionTraits.Contains(trait.Name)) { var key = trait.Value.Trim(); OptionRefCollection refs = extensible.GetOrCreateProperty<OptionRefCollection>(trait.Name); if(trait.Name == LexSense.WellKnownProperties.SemanticDomainDdp4) { if (_semanticDomainsList!=null && _semanticDomainsList.GetOptionFromKey(key) == null) { var match =_semanticDomainsList.Options.FirstOrDefault(option => option.Key.StartsWith(key)); if(match !=null) { refs.Add(match.Key); return; } } } refs.Add(key); } //else //{ // //"log skipping..." //} } public void MergeInRelation(PalasoDataObject extensible, string relationFieldId, string targetId, string rawXml) { if (String.IsNullOrEmpty(relationFieldId)) { return; //"log skipping..." } //the "field name" of a relation equals the name of the relation type LexRelationCollection collection = extensible.GetOrCreateProperty<LexRelationCollection>(relationFieldId); LexRelation relation = new LexRelation(relationFieldId, targetId, extensible); if (!string.IsNullOrEmpty(rawXml)) { var dom = new XmlDocument(); dom.LoadXml(rawXml); foreach (XmlNode child in dom.FirstChild.ChildNodes) { relation.EmbeddedXmlElements.Add(child.OuterXml); } } collection.Relations.Add(relation); } public IEnumerable<string> ExpectedOptionTraits { get; set; } public IList<string> ExpectedOptionCollectionTraits { get { return _expectedOptionCollectionTraits; } } // public ProgressState ProgressState // { // set // { // _progressState = value; // } // } private static void MergeIn(MultiTextBase multiText, LiftMultiText forms) { multiText.MergeIn(MultiText.Create(forms.AsSimpleStrings, forms.AllSpans)); AddAnnotationsToMultiText(forms, multiText); } public void Dispose() { //_entries.Dispose(); } #region ILexiconMerger<PalasoDataObject,LexEntry,LexSense,LexExampleSentence> Members public void FinishEntry(LexEntry entry) { entry.GetOrCreateId(false); if (AfterEntryRead != null) { AfterEntryRead.Invoke(entry, new EntryEvent(entry)); } // PostProcessSenses(entry); //_dataMapper.FinishCreateEntry(entry); entry.ModifiedTimeIsLocked = false; entry.Clean(); } public class EntryEvent : EventArgs { public LexEntry Entry { get; set; } public EntryEvent(LexEntry entry) { Entry = entry; } } // /// <summary> /// We do this because in linguist tools, there is a distinction that we don't want to /// normally make in WeSay. There, "gloss" is the first pass at a definition, but its /// really just for interlinearlization. That isn't a distinction we want our user /// to bother with. /// </summary> /// <param name="entry"></param> // private void PostProcessSenses(LexEntry entry) // { // foreach (LexSense sense in entry.Senses) // { // CopyOverGlossesIfDefinitionsMissing(sense); // FixUpOldLiteralMeaningMistake(entry, sense); // } // } public void MergeInMedia(PalasoDataObject pronunciation, string href, LiftMultiText caption) { // review: Currently ignore media. See WS-1128 } #endregion } }
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
Document: NEW: Suspect charged in I-85 bridge fire due in court State investigators arrested three people Friday in connection with a fire that caused the collapse of a heavily traveled section of I-85. Jay Florence, deputy commissioner of the state Department of Insurance, which includes the fire marshal’s office, identified the three as: Basil Eleby, charged with criminal damage to property; Sophia Bruner, charged with criminal trespass; and Barry Thomas, charged with criminal trespass. “We believe they were together when the fire was set and Eleby is the one who set the fire,” Florence said. Eleby, 39, has been arrested 19 times since 1995, mostly on drug offenses, according to Fulton County jail records. He was last arrested in 2014 in Fulton County for the sale and trafficking of cocaine. Basil Eleby (Fulton County Sheriff’s Office) Authorities gave few details about how they identified the suspects. However, Florence and Glenn Allen, an insurance department spokesman, said investigators filed the charges after interrogating the three Friday afternoon. All three were taken to the Fulton County jail. Florence said officials do not believe anyone else was involved in setting the fire, which quickly engulfed construction materials stored beneath the interstate at Piedmont Road. Allen said the charges could be “upgraded” as investigators develop more evidence. Florence declined to say how the fire was started. However, he said the suspects used “available materials” at the site. All three may have been homeless, Florence said, although it is not clear whether they had lived at the site beneath the highway. Officals late Friday still did not know how or why the fire may have started. The aftermath The day after I-85 collapsed amid a massive fire and triggered closures on both sides of the interstate, Atlanta commuters learned that repairs are expected to take several months and that they should expect long-term closures. And the work — demolition and cleanup at the site just south of Ga. 400 — began in earnest Friday. Though there were no injuries in the collapse Thursday, it means a section of the busy interstate that roughly 243,000 vehicles traveled on daily is now out of service. I-85 will likely will be shut down for several months. JOHN SPINK / [email protected] “This is a dynamic situation, and we’re learning as much as we can as time unfolds,” Georgia Department of Transportation Commissioner Russell McMurry said during a news conference Friday at the fire site. Officials suspected the blaze started when PVC products stored under I-85 caught fire. “We are as eager as anybody to find out what caused this,” McMurry said. Still, McMurry didn't attribute the fire to the surplus construction material being stored there. He said the material was a high-density plastic conduit used for cabling and fiber optic wire networks. He said GDOT was trying to get a fix on exactly how long the material had been there, and suggested it could be as long as 11 years. But he described it as non-combustible and said it’s not uncommon for states to store materials under bridges. Officials look over the rubble from the I-85 collapse Friday. JOHN SPINK / [email protected] That material doesn’t ignite on its own, McMurry said. “It’s no different than having a plastic cup in your cupboard ... needs something to ignite it,” he said. But photos from Google Maps show the site was clear of any stored material in July 2011. The materials first show up in Google Maps photos in April 2012 and appear to be untouched through the most recent photo taken in November 2016. The work ahead Gov. Nathan Deal said despite coordinated state and federal efforts, “this will be a long process.” Each bridge beam must be “cast, poured, tested, transported and individually installed.” Approximately six sections and 700 feet of the roadway — 350 feet northbound and 350 feet southbound — will be removed and replaced, including support columns, according to GDOT. Demolition started Friday and will continue into Monday. The good news is Georgia won’t be left with the repair bill itself. The federal government will chip in $10 million for temporary repairs, U.S. Rep. John Lewis told Channel 2 Action News. The state and federal governments will split the cost of a permanent fix. Later Friday, President Donald Trump called the governor to approve federal disaster assistance through the Federal Highway Administration. Deal had declared a state of emergency Thursday night. Fire crews continue to battle smoking debris at the site of the I-85 collapse Friday. JOHN SPINK / [email protected] About the roads Georgia Department of Public Safety Commissioner Mark McDonough said commuters are going to have to adjust their schedules and find alternate routes to work. "That's why we built 285, y'all," he said. The key areas: -I-85 South is closed at the Ga. 400 northbound ramp, and traffic is being forced onto Ga. 400. -Ga. 400 southbound is closed at Sidney Marcus Boulevard. The Ga. 400 ramp to I-85 North is open. -Traffic is being forced off the Downtown Connector to take I-75 North at the Brookwood split. -Traffic on I-75 South can’t take the ramp to the I-85 North exit. -There is no access to I-85 South from Chamblee Tucker, Shallowford, Clairmont or North Druid Hills roads. -Access to Piedmont Road was limited near the collapse. -West Peachtree Street to the Buford Spring Connector Northbound and Piedmont Circle to the Buford Spring Connector Northbound have reopened. Crews began breaking up portions of I-85 Friday. JOHN SPINK / [email protected] Plan ahead Officials tried to cushion the blow of heavy traffic with delayed starts for some government employees. The start time for city of Atlanta and Fulton County government workers was pushed back to 10 a.m., and DeKalb County schools closed a day early for spring break. Still, delays continued for hours early Friday. More were expected with the Braves’ exhibition game against the New York Yankees happening Friday night at SunTrust Park. But so far, traffic to the stadium had been light during the typical rush hour. Officials recommended people opt out of driving and take public transportation. Since the interstate collapse, there has been a 25 percent surge in MARTA ridership, and with the surge, added services, MARTA CEO Keith Parker said. The route from downtown Atlanta to Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport is about 17 minutes via MARTA, Parker said. Alternate routes -Through the Brookhaven and North Druid Hills areas, use Peachtree Road, Briarcliff Road and North Druid Hills Road, the Traffic Center reported. -On the interstates, take I-85 South from Gwinnett County to I-285 South at Spaghetti Junction. Then use I-20 West into downtown Atlanta. -Take I-285 westbound across to the north side to get to Hartsfield-Jackson. — Staff writers David Wickert, Greg Bluestein and Dan Klepal contributed to this article. » For updated traffic information, listen to News 95.5 and AM 750 WSB and follow @ajcwsbtraffic on Twitter. ||||| Atlanta (CNN) A man has been arrested on suspicion of intentionally setting a huge fire that brought down part of an elevated interstate highway in Atlanta, a collapse that is expected to complicate traffic for months in one of the nation's most congested cities . Basil Eleby and two other people -- all believed by investigators to be homeless -- have been arrested in connection with Thursday evening's fire under Interstate 85, Jay Florence, deputy insurance and safety fire commissioner, said Friday. The fire, which started in a state-owned storage lot under the highway, caused part of northbound I-85 to collapse Thursday evening -- injuring no one -- and also damaged the southbound portion, forcing the closure of all five lanes in each direction for the foreseeable future. Eleby has been charged with first-degree criminal damage to property, Florence said. The two others -- Sophia Bruner and Barry Thomas -- have been charged with criminal trespassing. Investigators believe Eleby started the fire intentionally, and that Bruner and Thomas were with him, he said. Eleby was due in court at 11 a.m. ET Saturday, a spokeswoman for the Fulton County Sheriff's Office said. He was the only suspect who remained jailed overnight Friday, Atlanta Fire Rescue Department spokesman Cortez Stafford said. Florence didn't say how investigators came to suspect the trio or say anything about a motive. Neither did he say how the fire started. Flames rise Thursday evening along an elevated stretch of Interstate 85 north of downtown Atlanta. What was under the highway? The region, already accustomed to gridlock, is struggling to face its new commuting reality. It will take "at least several months" to rebuild the collapsed and otherwise damaged portions of I-85, Georgia Department of Transportation Commissioner Russell McMurry said. The fire ignited in a fenced-in area under the expressway where the state stores construction materials, McMurry said. Those materials include HDPE -- high-density polyethylene -- pipes used in the "traffic management, cabling, fiber-optic and wire network," he said. Sections of northbound and southbound I-85 will have to be replaced -- 350 feet in both directions. The material had been stored there "for some time, probably since 2006 or (2007)," McMurry said. HDPE pipes are widely used in the transportation industry to build "smart" highways that provide information to drivers, control traffic signal lights and tollways. The pipes are also used in the distribution of natural gas and by telecommunication companies such as AT&T and Google Fiber. I-85 collapse: By the numbers 220,000-plus: Estimated number of cars that drive through that stretch of I-85 daily 6:12 p.m. ET Thursday: Atlanta firefighters get first call about the fire Around 7 p.m.: Part of the interstate collapses 40 feet: Height of the wall of fire 350 feet: Length of the sections of I-85 that need to be replaced in each direction 50%: Traffic increase on the I-285 bypass the day after the collapse The flammability of HDPE is relatively low, Tony Radoszewski, president of the Plastics Pipe Institute , a trade group based in Irving, Texas, told CNN. HDPE would have to be exposed to a high-temperature flame for a considerable amount of time to burn, he said. "Somebody had to start a fire. It doesn't combust by itself, it needs fuel," Radoszewski told CNN. "Someone had to do it. It's not like someone would have dropped a match and it started." Investigators are still working to determine how the fire started. "We're as eager to learn the cause of this fire as anyone," McMurry said. When you're just trying to get home and Atlanta is on fire again. #hotlanta A post shared by Jono Moore (@jonoism) on Mar 30, 2017 at 3:38pm PDT Few hydrants, extreme heat Firefighters were alerted at 6:12 p.m. Thursday to the blaze under I-85 in northeast Atlanta, north of the highway's split with I-75. They rushed to the scene and fought the flames at street level as motorists on the elevated interstate drove through thick black smoke billowing up from below. Soon, a massive fireball engulfed the overpass. "There was a 40-feet or higher wall of fire. Power lines were falling and arcing heavily and falling in the streets," Stafford, the fire department spokesman, told CNN. Firefighters first battled the blaze using water from tanker trucks because the area has few hydrants, he said. But the conflagration wasn't dying fast enough. So fire officials summoned two fire trucks from an outpost of the city's fire department at Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport, some 22 miles away. Firefighters battle the fire that eventually led to the collapse of part of I-85 in northeast Atlanta. Those trucks -- which carry especially powerful hose nozzles and 3,000 gallons each of a water-foam mixture -- combined efforts with resources already on the ground. As they fought the flames, concrete began falling from under the bridge, Stafford said. Firefighters were asked to step back. "Not even two minutes later," around 7 p.m., he said, "the highway fell with a big 'kaboom.' (It) knocked our guys back." By that time, the incident had halted traffic. And though the highway -- which carries more than 220,000 cars per day -- is normally jammed with cars at that hour, no one was hurt. Amid the rubble of the fallen pavement, firefighters continued their work. Owing to the extra volume of water from the airport trucks -- not the addition of the foam they carried -- the fire was brought under control, Stafford said. Surreal scenes Social media users posted surreal images showing motorists -- before the collapse -- choosing to drive into the black smoke that billowed onto the highway as the fire burned beneath them. CNN's Eliott C. McLaughlin was driving north on I-85 during the evening rush hour when he saw smoke rising from underneath the elevated highway. Pulled up to fire on Interstate 85, minutes before highway collapsed. Smoke was opaque. Had to follow a Tahoe's taillights through it. pic.twitter.com/pem5reIXgs — Eliott C. McLaughlin (@EliottCNN) March 31, 2017 Many cars on the left side of the five-lane section barreled through the thick black smoke. They disappeared into the darkness as they drove, he said. McLaughlin slowly followed the taillights of an SUV through the smoke. Soon, interstate traffic was stopped and turned around, creating long jams. Crews work Friday on a section of I-85 that collapsed during a masive fire. 'Transportation crisis' looms Three sections of northbound I-85 -- including the part that collapsed -- and three sections of southbound I-85 will have to be replaced, McMurry told reporters Friday afternoon. That's 350 feet of highway -- nearly a football field -- in each direction, he said, adding that demolition of these sections started Friday and will last into Monday. Use MARTA or other commute options. If U must drive, know your alt routes b4 U go and stay up-to-date with @511Georgia Use caution/patience pic.twitter.com/JNRl9B6doy — Georgia DOT (@GADeptofTrans) March 31, 2017 The closure comes as hordes of spring break vacationers are poised to drive though the region's urban hub. Compounding the long-term gridlock, the Atlanta Braves will play this season at their new stadium along the I-285 bypass, which saw a 50% bump in traffic volume the day after the collapse, McMurray said; major local streets saw a 25% increase in traffic. We are keeping everyone affected by the fire in our thoughts & are grateful to @ATLFireRescue & all first responders for all that they do. — Atlanta Braves (@Braves) March 31, 2017 "I think it's as serious a transportation crisis as we could have," Atlanta Mayor Kasim Reed said Thursday evening. Officials scrambled to come up with alternate routes and encouraged riders to use public transit. Traffic on I-85 was light Friday morning as drivers were forced onto other routes in metro Atlanta. MARTA, Atlanta's rail and bus system, will offer extended service through the weekend taking some of the burden off residents. The Environmental Protection Agency took samples of the air and of the water in a nearby creek; results will be available in about two weeks, EPA spokesman Larry Lincoln said. Summary: – Two men and one woman have been arrested in connection with a massive fire that could leave traffic in Atlanta snarled for months. Basil Eleby, the man believed to have intentionally started a blaze that caused an overpass on Interstate 85 to collapse, was booked on suspicion of first-degree criminal damages to property, which could get him up to 10 years in prison, CNN reports. Two other suspects facing criminal trespassing charges were identified as Sophia Bruner and Barry Thomas. Authorities believe all three suspects are homeless. "We believe they were together when the fire was set and Eleby is the one who set the fire," said Jay Florence, deputy commissioner of the state Department of Insurance. Eleby has been arrested at least 19 times for offenses including assault and cocaine trafficking, WXIA reports. Georgia Department of Transportation Commissioner Russell McMurry says the fire started during rush hour Thursday in an area under the highway where the state stores materials including high-density polyethylene piping used for fiber optics networks, the Atlanta Journal-Constitution reports. Nobody was injured in the blaze, but repairing and replacing around 700 feet of affected roadway in both the northbound and southbound lanes of I-85 is expected to take months. The federal government has agreed to chip in $10 million toward reconstruction costs.
{ "task_name": "multi_news" }
# -*- coding: utf-8 -*- # # puppet-diamond documentation build configuration file, created by # sphinx-quickstart on Wed Nov 20 21:19:09 2013. # # This file is execfile()d with the current directory set to its containing dir. # # Note that not all possible configuration values are present in this # autogenerated file. # # All configuration values have a default; values that are commented out # serve to show the default. import sys import os import datetime # If extensions (or modules to document with autodoc) are in another directory, # add these directories to sys.path here. If the directory is relative to the # documentation root, use os.path.abspath to make it absolute, like shown here. sys.path.insert(0, os.path.abspath('..')) this_path = os.path.dirname(os.path.abspath(__file__)) git_path = os.path.join(this_path, "..") from git import Repo repo = Repo(git_path) hc = repo.head.commit git_checksum = str(hc)[:8] html_context = { "git_checksum": git_checksum, "today": datetime.datetime.strftime(datetime.datetime.now(), "%Y-%m-%d"), } # -- General configuration ----------------------------------------------------- # If your documentation needs a minimal Sphinx version, state it here. #needs_sphinx = '1.0' # Add any Sphinx extension module names here, as strings. They can be extensions # coming with Sphinx (named 'sphinx.ext.*') or your custom ones. extensions = [ 'sphinx.ext.autodoc', 'sphinx.ext.viewcode', 'alabaster', ] # Add any paths that contain templates here, relative to this directory. templates_path = ['_templates'] # The suffix of source filenames. source_suffix = '.rst' # The encoding of source files. #source_encoding = 'utf-8-sig' # The master toctree document. master_doc = 'index' # General information about the project. project = u'Puppet-Diamond Documentation' copyright = u'2015 Ian Dennis Miller' # The version info for the project you're documenting, acts as replacement for # |version| and |release|, also used in various other places throughout the # built documents. # # The short X.Y version. from puppet_diamond.__meta__ import __version__ version = __version__ # The full version, including alpha/beta/rc tags. release = __version__ # The language for content autogenerated by Sphinx. Refer to documentation # for a list of supported languages. #language = None # There are two options for replacing |today|: either, you set today to some # non-false value, then it is used: #today = '' # Else, today_fmt is used as the format for a strftime call. #today_fmt = '%B %d, %Y' # List of patterns, relative to source directory, that match files and # directories to ignore when looking for source files. exclude_patterns = [] # The reST default role (used for this markup: `text`) to use for all documents. #default_role = None # If true, '()' will be appended to :func: etc. cross-reference text. #add_function_parentheses = True # If true, the current module name will be prepended to all description # unit titles (such as .. function::). #add_module_names = True # If true, sectionauthor and moduleauthor directives will be shown in the # output. They are ignored by default. #show_authors = False # The name of the Pygments (syntax highlighting) style to use. pygments_style = 'sphinx' # A list of ignored prefixes for module index sorting. #modindex_common_prefix = [] # -- Options for HTML output --------------------------------------------------- use_flask = True use_alabaster = False if use_flask: sys.path.append(os.path.abspath('_themes')) html_theme_path = ['_themes'] html_theme = 'flask' html_sidebars = { 'index': [ 'sidebarlogo.html', 'sidebarintro.html', 'localtoc.html', 'searchbox.html', 'version.html' ], '**': [ 'sidebarlogo.html', 'localtoc.html', 'relations.html', 'searchbox.html', 'version.html' ] } elif use_alabaster: import alabaster html_theme_path = [alabaster.get_path()] html_theme = 'alabaster' html_sidebars = { '**': [ 'about.html', 'navigation.html', 'relations.html', 'searchbox.html', 'donate.html', ] } from collections import OrderedDict html_theme_options = { 'logo': 'puppet-small.png', 'github_button': False, 'show_powered_by': False, 'analytics_id': "UA-70449362-1", 'extra_nav_links': OrderedDict( ( ("Diamond Methods", "http://diamond-methods.org"), ("Python Project on PyPI", "https://pypi.python.org/pypi/Puppet-Diamond"), ("GitHub Project Page", "http://github.com/diamond-org/puppet-diamond"), ("Issue Tracker", "http://github.com/diamond-org/puppet-diamond/issues"), ) ) } # The theme to use for HTML and HTML Help pages. See the documentation for # a list of builtin themes. # html_theme = 'alabaster' # Theme options are theme-specific and customize the look and feel of a theme # further. For a list of options available for each theme, see the # documentation. #html_theme_options = {} # Add any paths that contain custom themes here, relative to this directory. #html_theme_path = [] # The name for this set of Sphinx documents. If None, it defaults to # "<project> v<release> documentation". #html_title = None # A shorter title for the navigation bar. Default is the same as html_title. #html_short_title = None # The name of an image file (relative to this directory) to place at the top # of the sidebar. #html_logo = None # The name of an image file (within the static path) to use as favicon of the # docs. This file should be a Windows icon file (.ico) being 16x16 or 32x32 # pixels large. #html_favicon = None # Add any paths that contain custom static files (such as style sheets) here, # relative to this directory. They are copied after the builtin static files, # so a file named "default.css" will overwrite the builtin "default.css". html_static_path = ['_static'] # If not '', a 'Last updated on:' timestamp is inserted at every page bottom, # using the given strftime format. #html_last_updated_fmt = '%b %d, %Y' # If true, SmartyPants will be used to convert quotes and dashes to # typographically correct entities. #html_use_smartypants = True # Custom sidebar templates, maps document names to template names. #html_sidebars = {} # Additional templates that should be rendered to pages, maps page names to # template names. #html_additional_pages = {} # If false, no module index is generated. #html_domain_indices = True # If false, no index is generated. #html_use_index = True # If true, the index is split into individual pages for each letter. #html_split_index = False # If true, links to the reST sources are added to the pages. #html_show_sourcelink = True # If true, "Created using Sphinx" is shown in the HTML footer. Default is True. #html_show_sphinx = True # If true, "(C) Copyright ..." is shown in the HTML footer. Default is True. #html_show_copyright = True # If true, an OpenSearch description file will be output, and all pages will # contain a <link> tag referring to it. The value of this option must be the # base URL from which the finished HTML is served. #html_use_opensearch = '' # This is the file name suffix for HTML files (e.g. ".xhtml"). #html_file_suffix = None # Output file base name for HTML help builder. htmlhelp_basename = 'puppet_diamond_doc' # -- Options for LaTeX output -------------------------------------------------- latex_elements = { # The paper size ('letterpaper' or 'a4paper'). #'papersize': 'letterpaper', # The font size ('10pt', '11pt' or '12pt'). #'pointsize': '10pt', # Additional stuff for the LaTeX preamble. #'preamble': '', } # Grouping the document tree into LaTeX files. List of tuples # (source start file, target name, title, author, documentclass [howto/manual]). latex_documents = [ ('index', 'puppet-diamond.tex', u'puppet-diamond Documentation', u'Ian Dennis Miller', 'manual'), ] # The name of an image file (relative to this directory) to place at the top of # the title page. #latex_logo = None # For "manual" documents, if this is true, then toplevel headings are parts, # not chapters. #latex_use_parts = False # If true, show page references after internal links. #latex_show_pagerefs = False # If true, show URL addresses after external links. #latex_show_urls = False # Documents to append as an appendix to all manuals. #latex_appendices = [] # If false, no module index is generated. #latex_domain_indices = True # -- Options for manual page output -------------------------------------------- # One entry per manual page. List of tuples # (source start file, name, description, authors, manual section). man_pages = [ ('index', 'puppet-diamond', u'puppet-diamond Documentation', [u'Ian Dennis Miller'], 1) ] # If true, show URL addresses after external links. #man_show_urls = False # -- Options for Texinfo output ------------------------------------------------ # Grouping the document tree into Texinfo files. List of tuples # (source start file, target name, title, author, # dir menu entry, description, category) texinfo_documents = [ ('index', 'puppet-diamond', u'puppet-diamond Documentation', u'Ian Dennis Miller', 'puppet-diamond', 'One line description of project.', 'Miscellaneous'), ] # Documents to append as an appendix to all manuals. #texinfo_appendices = [] # If false, no module index is generated. #texinfo_domain_indices = True # How to display URL addresses: 'footnote', 'no', or 'inline'. #texinfo_show_urls = 'footnote'
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
/* * * Copyright (c) 2016-2017 Red Hat, Inc. * * Red Hat licenses this file to you under the Apache License, version * 2.0 (the "License"); you may not use this file except in compliance * with the License. You may obtain a copy of the License at * * http://www.apache.org/licenses/LICENSE-2.0 * * Unless required by applicable law or agreed to in writing, software * distributed under the License is distributed on an "AS IS" BASIS, * WITHOUT WARRANTIES OR CONDITIONS OF ANY KIND, either express or * implied. See the License for the specific language governing * permissions and limitations under the License. */ package io.fabric8.vertx.maven.plugin; //import io.restassured.RestAssured; import io.fabric8.vertx.maven.plugin.utils.MojoUtils; import org.apache.maven.model.Dependency; import org.apache.maven.model.DependencyManagement; import org.apache.maven.model.Model; import org.apache.maven.model.Plugin; import org.apache.maven.model.io.xpp3.MavenXpp3Reader; import org.apache.maven.project.MavenProject; import org.codehaus.plexus.util.xml.Xpp3Dom; import org.junit.Assert; import java.io.*; import java.util.Optional; import java.util.Properties; import java.util.jar.JarFile; import java.util.jar.Manifest; import java.util.stream.Collectors; import java.util.stream.Stream; import java.util.zip.ZipEntry; import static junit.framework.Assert.assertNotNull; import static org.assertj.core.api.Assertions.assertThat; import static org.junit.Assert.assertEquals; import static org.junit.Assert.assertFalse; import static org.junit.Assert.assertTrue; /** * @author kameshs */ @SuppressWarnings("unused") public class Verify { public static void verifyVertxJar(File jarFile) throws Exception { VertxJarVerifier vertxJarVerifier = new VertxJarVerifier(jarFile); vertxJarVerifier.verifyJarCreated(); vertxJarVerifier.verifyManifest(); } public static void verifyServiceRelocation(File jarFile) throws Exception { VertxJarServicesVerifier vertxJarVerifier = new VertxJarServicesVerifier(jarFile); vertxJarVerifier.verifyJarCreated(); vertxJarVerifier.verifyServicesContent(); } public static void verifyOrderServiceContent(File jarFile,String orderdedContent) throws Exception { VertxJarServicesVerifier vertxJarVerifier = new VertxJarServicesVerifier(jarFile); vertxJarVerifier.verifyJarCreated(); vertxJarVerifier.verifyOrderedServicesContent(orderdedContent); } public static void verifySetup(File pomFile) throws Exception { assertNotNull("Unable to find pom.xml", pomFile); MavenXpp3Reader xpp3Reader = new MavenXpp3Reader(); Model model = xpp3Reader.read(new FileInputStream(pomFile)); MavenProject project = new MavenProject(model); Optional<Plugin> vmPlugin = MojoUtils.hasPlugin(project, "io.fabric8:vertx-maven-plugin"); assertTrue(vmPlugin.isPresent()); //Check if the properties have been set correctly Properties properties = model.getProperties(); assertThat(properties.containsKey("vertx.projectVersion")).isTrue(); assertThat(properties.getProperty("vertx.projectVersion")) .isEqualTo(MojoUtils.getVersion("vertx-core-version")); assertThat(properties.containsKey("fabric8-vertx-maven-plugin.projectVersion")).isTrue(); assertThat(properties.getProperty("fabric8-vertx-maven-plugin.projectVersion")) .isEqualTo(MojoUtils.getVersion("vertx-maven-plugin-version")); //Check if the dependencies has been set correctly DependencyManagement dependencyManagement = model.getDependencyManagement(); assertThat(dependencyManagement).isNotNull(); assertThat(dependencyManagement.getDependencies().isEmpty()).isFalse(); //Check Vert.x dependencies BOM Optional<Dependency> vertxDeps = dependencyManagement.getDependencies().stream() .filter(d -> d.getArtifactId().equals("vertx-dependencies") && d.getGroupId().equals("io.vertx")) .findFirst(); assertThat(vertxDeps.isPresent()).isTrue(); assertThat(vertxDeps.get().getVersion()).isEqualTo("${vertx.projectVersion}"); //Check Vert.x core dependency Optional<Dependency> vertxCoreDep = model.getDependencies().stream() .filter(d -> d.getArtifactId().equals("vertx-core") && d.getGroupId().equals("io.vertx")) .findFirst(); assertThat(vertxCoreDep.isPresent()).isTrue(); assertThat(vertxCoreDep.get().getVersion()).isNull(); //Check Redeploy Configuration Plugin vmp = project.getPlugin("io.fabric8:vertx-maven-plugin"); Assert.assertNotNull(vmp); Xpp3Dom pluginConfig = (Xpp3Dom) vmp.getConfiguration(); Assert.assertNotNull(pluginConfig); String redeploy = pluginConfig.getChild("redeploy").getValue(); Assert.assertNotNull(redeploy); assertTrue(Boolean.valueOf(redeploy)); } public static void verifySetupWithVersion(File pomFile) throws Exception { MavenXpp3Reader xpp3Reader = new MavenXpp3Reader(); Model model = xpp3Reader.read(new FileInputStream(pomFile)); MavenProject project = new MavenProject(model); Properties projectProps = project.getProperties(); Assert.assertNotNull(projectProps); assertFalse(projectProps.isEmpty()); assertEquals(projectProps.getProperty("vertx.projectVersion"),"3.4.0"); } public static String read(InputStream input) throws IOException { try (BufferedReader buffer = new BufferedReader(new InputStreamReader(input))) { return buffer.lines().collect(Collectors.joining("\n")); } } public static Stream<String> readAsStream(InputStream input) throws IOException { try (BufferedReader buffer = new BufferedReader(new InputStreamReader(input))) { return buffer.lines().collect(Collectors.toList()).stream(); } } public static String argsToString(String[] args) { return Stream.of(args).collect(Collectors.joining(" ")); } public static class VertxJarVerifier { File jarFile; public VertxJarVerifier(File jarFile) { this.jarFile = jarFile; } protected void verifyJarCreated() { assertThat(jarFile).isNotNull(); assertThat(jarFile).isFile(); } protected void verifyManifest() throws Exception { Manifest manifest = new JarFile(jarFile).getManifest(); assertThat(manifest).isNotNull(); String mainClass = manifest.getMainAttributes().getValue("Main-Class"); String mainVerticle = manifest.getMainAttributes().getValue("Main-Verticle"); assertThat(mainClass).isNotNull().isEqualTo("io.vertx.core.Launcher"); assertThat(mainVerticle).isNotNull().isEqualTo("org.vertx.demo.MainVerticle"); } } public static class VertxJarServicesVerifier { JarFile jarFile; public VertxJarServicesVerifier(File jarFile) throws IOException { this.jarFile = new JarFile(jarFile); } protected void verifyJarCreated() { assertThat(jarFile).isNotNull(); } protected void verifyServicesContent() throws Exception { String expected = "foo.bar.baz.MyImpl\ncom.fasterxml.jackson.core.JsonFactory"; ZipEntry spiEntry1 = jarFile.getEntry("META-INF/services/com.fasterxml.jackson.core.JsonFactory"); ZipEntry spiEntry2 = jarFile.getEntry("META-INF/services/io.vertx.core.spi.FutureFactory"); assertThat(spiEntry1).isNotNull(); assertThat(spiEntry2).isNotNull(); InputStream in = jarFile.getInputStream(spiEntry1); String actual = read(in); assertThat(actual).isEqualTo(expected); in = jarFile.getInputStream(spiEntry2); actual = read(in); assertThat(actual).isEqualTo("io.vertx.core.impl.FutureFactoryImpl"); // This part is going to be used once Vert.x 3.4.0 is released // // TODO Uncomment me once Vert.x 3.4.0 is released // ZipEntry spiEntry3 = jarFile.getEntry("META-INF/services/org.codehaus.groovy.runtime.ExtensionModule"); // assertThat(spiEntry3).isNotNull(); // in = jarFile.getInputStream(spiEntry3); // actual = read(in); // assertThat(actual).contains("moduleName=vertx-demo-pkg") // .contains("moduleVersion=0.0.1") // .contains("io.vertx.groovy.ext.jdbc.GroovyStaticExtension") // .contains("io.vertx.groovy.ext.jdbc.GroovyExtension"); } protected void verifyOrderedServicesContent(String orderedContent) throws Exception { ZipEntry spiEntry = jarFile.getEntry("META-INF/services/io.fabric8.vmp.foo"); assertThat(spiEntry).isNotNull(); InputStream in = jarFile.getInputStream(spiEntry); String actual = read(in); assertThat(actual).isEqualTo(orderedContent); } } }
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
Document: Amid a presidential campaign marked by fears about the country’s economic future, the American jobs machine keeps chugging. Employers added 156,000 positions in September, the Labor Department said on Friday, enough to accommodate new entrants to the labor force and entice back workers who dropped out after the Great Recession. The unemployment rate, which had been stuck at 4.9 percent since spring, ticked up slightly to 5 percent, but that was mostly because more people were drawn into the labor force by evidence that hiring is still going strong. For all the anxiety at home and turmoil abroad, like the vote in Britain to withdraw from the European Union, the current expansion shows little prospect of ending abruptly. Average hourly earnings rose by 0.2 percentage point last month, bringing the wage gain over the last 12 months to 2.6 percent, well above the pace of inflation. The typical workweek also grew slightly in September, after a pullback in August. ||||| In this Sept. 30, 2016, photo, United Auto Workers assemble a 2017 Ford F-Series Super Duty truck at the Kentucky Truck Plant in Louisville, Ky. On Friday, Oct. 7, 2016, the U.S. government issues the... (Associated Press) In this Sept. 30, 2016, photo, United Auto Workers assemble a 2017 Ford F-Series Super Duty truck at the Kentucky Truck Plant in Louisville, Ky. On Friday, Oct. 7, 2016, the U.S. government issues the... (Associated Press) WASHINGTON (AP) — U.S. employers added 156,000 jobs in September, a decent gain that reflects a healthy economy but also a sign that hiring has slowed from its robust pace last year. The unemployment rate ticked up to 5 percent from 4.9 percent, but mostly for a positive reason: More Americans came off the sidelines and looked for work, though not all of them found jobs. Job growth has averaged 178,000 a month so far this year, down from last year's pace of 229,000. Still, hiring at that level is enough to lower the unemployment rate over time. Economists have expected the pace to slow as the supply of unemployed workers declines. The hiring figures could keep the Federal Reserve on track to raise the short-term interest rate it controls by December. After seven years of pinning that rate at a record low near zero to try to spur more borrowing and spending, the Fed raised its rate in December. It has not acted since. But the Fed signaled after its policy meeting last month that it would likely act in the coming months. The Fed will meet in November, just before the election, but analysts expect it to hold off until the campaign ends. Recent data suggest that the economy is picking up after a weak start to the year, though growth is unlikely to accelerate very much. Consumer spending was flat in August, the weakest showing in five months. And factories have struggled as businesses have put off investing in new machinery, computers and other equipment. Still, a recent private survey found that manufacturing expanded in September after shrinking in August. Orders for factory goods jumped, suggesting that output may rise further. Consumers also appear increasingly confident about the economy, which could stimulate a rebound in spending. Consumer confidence reached a nine-year high last month. Retailers are expecting robust spending for the holiday shopping season. The National Retail Federation projects that holiday spending will rise 3.6 percent this year from last year. That's better than last year's gain and slightly above the 3.4 percent average since the Great Recession officially ended in 2009. The economy expanded at just a tepid 1.1 percent annual pace in the first six months of the year. Still, economists have forecast that growth accelerated to a 2.5 percent to 3 percent annualized pace in the July-September quarter. The slower growth hasn't led employers to cut back on staffing. Applications for unemployment benefits, a proxy for layoffs, fell on average last month to a 43-year low. Summary: – Job gains in September were slightly weaker than the 172,000 jobs that Wall Street economists expected, but the 156,000 jobs that employers did add were enough to welcome new workers and bring back some of those who fell off the map after the Great Recession, per the New York Times. The Labor Department also said the unemployment rate ticked up to 5% from 4.9%, the AP reports, but mostly for a positive reason: More Americans came off the sidelines and looked for work, though not all of them found jobs. Job growth has averaged 178,000 a month so far this year, down from last year's pace of 229,000. Still, hiring at that level is enough to lower the unemployment rate over time. Economists have expected the pace to slow as the supply of unemployed workers declines. The hiring figures could keep the Federal Reserve on track to raise the short-term interest rate it controls by December. After seven years of pinning that rate at a record low near zero to try to spur more borrowing and spending, the Fed raised its rate in December. It hasn't acted since, but the Fed signaled last month it would likely do so in the coming months. Meanwhile, consumers appear increasingly confident about the economy, which could stimulate a rebound in spending. Consumer confidence reached a nine-year high last month, and retailers are expecting robust spending for the holiday shopping season. Taken all together, the news out of today's jobs report signals the US economy "looks more resilient than some campaign rhetoric might suggest," the Times notes.
{ "task_name": "multi_news" }
Project Gutenberg's The Hound of the Baskervilles, by A. Conan Doyle This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Hound of the Baskervilles Author: A. Conan Doyle Posting Date: December 8, 2008 [EBook #2852] Release Date: October, 2001 Language: English *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES *** Produced by Shreevatsa R THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES By A. Conan Doyle Chapter 1. Mr. Sherlock Holmes Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings, save upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all night, was seated at the breakfast table. I stood upon the hearth-rug and picked up the stick which our visitor had left behind him the night before. It was a fine, thick piece of wood, bulbous-headed, of the sort which is known as a "Penang lawyer." Just under the head was a broad silver band nearly an inch across. "To James Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his friends of the C.C.H.," was engraved upon it, with the date "1884." It was just such a stick as the old-fashioned family practitioner used to carry--dignified, solid, and reassuring. "Well, Watson, what do you make of it?" Holmes was sitting with his back to me, and I had given him no sign of my occupation. "How did you know what I was doing? I believe you have eyes in the back of your head." "I have, at least, a well-polished, silver-plated coffee-pot in front of me," said he. "But, tell me, Watson, what do you make of our visitor's stick? Since we have been so unfortunate as to miss him and have no notion of his errand, this accidental souvenir becomes of importance. Let me hear you reconstruct the man by an examination of it." "I think," said I, following as far as I could the methods of my companion, "that Dr. Mortimer is a successful, elderly medical man, well-esteemed since those who know him give him this mark of their appreciation." "Good!" said Holmes. "Excellent!" "I think also that the probability is in favour of his being a country practitioner who does a great deal of his visiting on foot." "Why so?" "Because this stick, though originally a very handsome one has been so knocked about that I can hardly imagine a town practitioner carrying it. The thick-iron ferrule is worn down, so it is evident that he has done a great amount of walking with it." "Perfectly sound!" said Holmes. "And then again, there is the 'friends of the C.C.H.' I should guess that to be the Something Hunt, the local hunt to whose members he has possibly given some surgical assistance, and which has made him a small presentation in return." "Really, Watson, you excel yourself," said Holmes, pushing back his chair and lighting a cigarette. "I am bound to say that in all the accounts which you have been so good as to give of my own small achievements you have habitually underrated your own abilities. It may be that you are not yourself luminous, but you are a conductor of light. Some people without possessing genius have a remarkable power of stimulating it. I confess, my dear fellow, that I am very much in your debt." He had never said as much before, and I must admit that his words gave me keen pleasure, for I had often been piqued by his indifference to my admiration and to the attempts which I had made to give publicity to his methods. I was proud, too, to think that I had so far mastered his system as to apply it in a way which earned his approval. He now took the stick from my hands and examined it for a few minutes with his naked eyes. Then with an expression of interest he laid down his cigarette, and carrying the cane to the window, he looked over it again with a convex lens. "Interesting, though elementary," said he as he returned to his favourite corner of the settee. "There are certainly one or two indications upon the stick. It gives us the basis for several deductions." "Has anything escaped me?" I asked with some self-importance. "I trust that there is nothing of consequence which I have overlooked?" "I am afraid, my dear Watson, that most of your conclusions were erroneous. When I said that you stimulated me I meant, to be frank, that in noting your fallacies I was occasionally guided towards the truth. Not that you are entirely wrong in this instance. The man is certainly a country practitioner. And he walks a good deal." "Then I was right." "To that extent." "But that was all." "No, no, my dear Watson, not all--by no means all. I would suggest, for example, that a presentation to a doctor is more likely to come from a hospital than from a hunt, and that when the initials 'C.C.' are placed before that hospital the words 'Charing Cross' very naturally suggest themselves." "You may be right." "The probability lies in that direction. And if we take this as a working hypothesis we have a fresh basis from which to start our construction of this unknown visitor." "Well, then, supposing that 'C.C.H.' does stand for 'Charing Cross Hospital,' what further inferences may we draw?" "Do none suggest themselves? You know my methods. Apply them!" "I can only think of the obvious conclusion that the man has practised in town before going to the country." "I think that we might venture a little farther than this. Look at it in this light. On what occasion would it be most probable that such a presentation would be made? When would his friends unite to give him a pledge of their good will? Obviously at the moment when Dr. Mortimer withdrew from the service of the hospital in order to start a practice for himself. We know there has been a presentation. We believe there has been a change from a town hospital to a country practice. Is it, then, stretching our inference too far to say that the presentation was on the occasion of the change?" "It certainly seems probable." "Now, you will observe that he could not have been on the staff of the hospital, since only a man well-established in a London practice could hold such a position, and such a one would not drift into the country. What was he, then? If he was in the hospital and yet not on the staff he could only have been a house-surgeon or a house-physician--little more than a senior student. And he left five years ago--the date is on the stick. So your grave, middle-aged family practitioner vanishes into thin air, my dear Watson, and there emerges a young fellow under thirty, amiable, unambitious, absent-minded, and the possessor of a favourite dog, which I should describe roughly as being larger than a terrier and smaller than a mastiff." I laughed incredulously as Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his settee and blew little wavering rings of smoke up to the ceiling. "As to the latter part, I have no means of checking you," said I, "but at least it is not difficult to find out a few particulars about the man's age and professional career." From my small medical shelf I took down the Medical Directory and turned up the name. There were several Mortimers, but only one who could be our visitor. I read his record aloud. "Mortimer, James, M.R.C.S., 1882, Grimpen, Dartmoor, Devon. House-surgeon, from 1882 to 1884, at Charing Cross Hospital. Winner of the Jackson prize for Comparative Pathology, with essay entitled 'Is Disease a Reversion?' Corresponding member of the Swedish Pathological Society. Author of 'Some Freaks of Atavism' (Lancet 1882). 'Do We Progress?' (Journal of Psychology, March, 1883). Medical Officer for the parishes of Grimpen, Thorsley, and High Barrow." "No mention of that local hunt, Watson," said Holmes with a mischievous smile, "but a country doctor, as you very astutely observed. I think that I am fairly justified in my inferences. As to the adjectives, I said, if I remember right, amiable, unambitious, and absent-minded. It is my experience that it is only an amiable man in this world who receives testimonials, only an unambitious one who abandons a London career for the country, and only an absent-minded one who leaves his stick and not his visiting-card after waiting an hour in your room." "And the dog?" "Has been in the habit of carrying this stick behind his master. Being a heavy stick the dog has held it tightly by the middle, and the marks of his teeth are very plainly visible. The dog's jaw, as shown in the space between these marks, is too broad in my opinion for a terrier and not broad enough for a mastiff. It may have been--yes, by Jove, it is a curly-haired spaniel." He had risen and paced the room as he spoke. Now he halted in the recess of the window. There was such a ring of conviction in his voice that I glanced up in surprise. "My dear fellow, how can you possibly be so sure of that?" "For the very simple reason that I see the dog himself on our very door-step, and there is the ring of its owner. Don't move, I beg you, Watson. He is a professional brother of yours, and your presence may be of assistance to me. Now is the dramatic moment of fate, Watson, when you hear a step upon the stair which is walking into your life, and you know not whether for good or ill. What does Dr. James Mortimer, the man of science, ask of Sherlock Holmes, the specialist in crime? Come in!" The appearance of our visitor was a surprise to me, since I had expected a typical country practitioner. He was a very tall, thin man, with a long nose like a beak, which jutted out between two keen, gray eyes, set closely together and sparkling brightly from behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. He was clad in a professional but rather slovenly fashion, for his frock-coat was dingy and his trousers frayed. Though young, his long back was already bowed, and he walked with a forward thrust of his head and a general air of peering benevolence. As he entered his eyes fell upon the stick in Holmes's hand, and he ran towards it with an exclamation of joy. "I am so very glad," said he. "I was not sure whether I had left it here or in the Shipping Office. I would not lose that stick for the world." "A presentation, I see," said Holmes. "Yes, sir." "From Charing Cross Hospital?" "From one or two friends there on the occasion of my marriage." "Dear, dear, that's bad!" said Holmes, shaking his head. Dr. Mortimer blinked through his glasses in mild astonishment. "Why was it bad?" "Only that you have disarranged our little deductions. Your marriage, you say?" "Yes, sir. I married, and so left the hospital, and with it all hopes of a consulting practice. It was necessary to make a home of my own." "Come, come, we are not so far wrong, after all," said Holmes. "And now, Dr. James Mortimer--" "Mister, sir, Mister--a humble M.R.C.S." "And a man of precise mind, evidently." "A dabbler in science, Mr. Holmes, a picker up of shells on the shores of the great unknown ocean. I presume that it is Mr. Sherlock Holmes whom I am addressing and not--" "No, this is my friend Dr. Watson." "Glad to meet you, sir. I have heard your name mentioned in connection with that of your friend. You interest me very much, Mr. Holmes. I had hardly expected so dolichocephalic a skull or such well-marked supra-orbital development. Would you have any objection to my running my finger along your parietal fissure? A cast of your skull, sir, until the original is available, would be an ornament to any anthropological museum. It is not my intention to be fulsome, but I confess that I covet your skull." Sherlock Holmes waved our strange visitor into a chair. "You are an enthusiast in your line of thought, I perceive, sir, as I am in mine," said he. "I observe from your forefinger that you make your own cigarettes. Have no hesitation in lighting one." The man drew out paper and tobacco and twirled the one up in the other with surprising dexterity. He had long, quivering fingers as agile and restless as the antennae of an insect. Holmes was silent, but his little darting glances showed me the interest which he took in our curious companion. "I presume, sir," said he at last, "that it was not merely for the purpose of examining my skull that you have done me the honour to call here last night and again today?" "No, sir, no; though I am happy to have had the opportunity of doing that as well. I came to you, Mr. Holmes, because I recognized that I am myself an unpractical man and because I am suddenly confronted with a most serious and extraordinary problem. Recognizing, as I do, that you are the second highest expert in Europe--" "Indeed, sir! May I inquire who has the honour to be the first?" asked Holmes with some asperity. "To the man of precisely scientific mind the work of Monsieur Bertillon must always appeal strongly." "Then had you not better consult him?" "I said, sir, to the precisely scientific mind. But as a practical man of affairs it is acknowledged that you stand alone. I trust, sir, that I have not inadvertently--" "Just a little," said Holmes. "I think, Dr. Mortimer, you would do wisely if without more ado you would kindly tell me plainly what the exact nature of the problem is in which you demand my assistance." Chapter 2. The Curse of the Baskervilles "I have in my pocket a manuscript," said Dr. James Mortimer. "I observed it as you entered the room," said Holmes. "It is an old manuscript." "Early eighteenth century, unless it is a forgery." "How can you say that, sir?" "You have presented an inch or two of it to my examination all the time that you have been talking. It would be a poor expert who could not give the date of a document within a decade or so. You may possibly have read my little monograph upon the subject. I put that at 1730." "The exact date is 1742." Dr. Mortimer drew it from his breast-pocket. "This family paper was committed to my care by Sir Charles Baskerville, whose sudden and tragic death some three months ago created so much excitement in Devonshire. I may say that I was his personal friend as well as his medical attendant. He was a strong-minded man, sir, shrewd, practical, and as unimaginative as I am myself. Yet he took this document very seriously, and his mind was prepared for just such an end as did eventually overtake him." Holmes stretched out his hand for the manuscript and flattened it upon his knee. "You will observe, Watson, the alternative use of the long s and the short. It is one of several indications which enabled me to fix the date." I looked over his shoulder at the yellow paper and the faded script. At the head was written: "Baskerville Hall," and below in large, scrawling figures: "1742." "It appears to be a statement of some sort." "Yes, it is a statement of a certain legend which runs in the Baskerville family." "But I understand that it is something more modern and practical upon which you wish to consult me?" "Most modern. A most practical, pressing matter, which must be decided within twenty-four hours. But the manuscript is short and is intimately connected with the affair. With your permission I will read it to you." Holmes leaned back in his chair, placed his finger-tips together, and closed his eyes, with an air of resignation. Dr. Mortimer turned the manuscript to the light and read in a high, cracking voice the following curious, old-world narrative: "Of the origin of the Hound of the Baskervilles there have been many statements, yet as I come in a direct line from Hugo Baskerville, and as I had the story from my father, who also had it from his, I have set it down with all belief that it occurred even as is here set forth. And I would have you believe, my sons, that the same Justice which punishes sin may also most graciously forgive it, and that no ban is so heavy but that by prayer and repentance it may be removed. Learn then from this story not to fear the fruits of the past, but rather to be circumspect in the future, that those foul passions whereby our family has suffered so grievously may not again be loosed to our undoing. "Know then that in the time of the Great Rebellion (the history of which by the learned Lord Clarendon I most earnestly commend to your attention) this Manor of Baskerville was held by Hugo of that name, nor can it be gainsaid that he was a most wild, profane, and godless man. This, in truth, his neighbours might have pardoned, seeing that saints have never flourished in those parts, but there was in him a certain wanton and cruel humour which made his name a by-word through the West. It chanced that this Hugo came to love (if, indeed, so dark a passion may be known under so bright a name) the daughter of a yeoman who held lands near the Baskerville estate. But the young maiden, being discreet and of good repute, would ever avoid him, for she feared his evil name. So it came to pass that one Michaelmas this Hugo, with five or six of his idle and wicked companions, stole down upon the farm and carried off the maiden, her father and brothers being from home, as he well knew. When they had brought her to the Hall the maiden was placed in an upper chamber, while Hugo and his friends sat down to a long carouse, as was their nightly custom. Now, the poor lass upstairs was like to have her wits turned at the singing and shouting and terrible oaths which came up to her from below, for they say that the words used by Hugo Baskerville, when he was in wine, were such as might blast the man who said them. At last in the stress of her fear she did that which might have daunted the bravest or most active man, for by the aid of the growth of ivy which covered (and still covers) the south wall she came down from under the eaves, and so homeward across the moor, there being three leagues betwixt the Hall and her father's farm. "It chanced that some little time later Hugo left his guests to carry food and drink--with other worse things, perchance--to his captive, and so found the cage empty and the bird escaped. Then, as it would seem, he became as one that hath a devil, for, rushing down the stairs into the dining-hall, he sprang upon the great table, flagons and trenchers flying before him, and he cried aloud before all the company that he would that very night render his body and soul to the Powers of Evil if he might but overtake the wench. And while the revellers stood aghast at the fury of the man, one more wicked or, it may be, more drunken than the rest, cried out that they should put the hounds upon her. Whereat Hugo ran from the house, crying to his grooms that they should saddle his mare and unkennel the pack, and giving the hounds a kerchief of the maid's, he swung them to the line, and so off full cry in the moonlight over the moor. "Now, for some space the revellers stood agape, unable to understand all that had been done in such haste. But anon their bemused wits awoke to the nature of the deed which was like to be done upon the moorlands. Everything was now in an uproar, some calling for their pistols, some for their horses, and some for another flask of wine. But at length some sense came back to their crazed minds, and the whole of them, thirteen in number, took horse and started in pursuit. The moon shone clear above them, and they rode swiftly abreast, taking that course which the maid must needs have taken if she were to reach her own home. "They had gone a mile or two when they passed one of the night shepherds upon the moorlands, and they cried to him to know if he had seen the hunt. And the man, as the story goes, was so crazed with fear that he could scarce speak, but at last he said that he had indeed seen the unhappy maiden, with the hounds upon her track. 'But I have seen more than that,' said he, 'for Hugo Baskerville passed me upon his black mare, and there ran mute behind him such a hound of hell as God forbid should ever be at my heels.' So the drunken squires cursed the shepherd and rode onward. But soon their skins turned cold, for there came a galloping across the moor, and the black mare, dabbled with white froth, went past with trailing bridle and empty saddle. Then the revellers rode close together, for a great fear was on them, but they still followed over the moor, though each, had he been alone, would have been right glad to have turned his horse's head. Riding slowly in this fashion they came at last upon the hounds. These, though known for their valour and their breed, were whimpering in a cluster at the head of a deep dip or goyal, as we call it, upon the moor, some slinking away and some, with starting hackles and staring eyes, gazing down the narrow valley before them. "The company had come to a halt, more sober men, as you may guess, than when they started. The most of them would by no means advance, but three of them, the boldest, or it may be the most drunken, rode forward down the goyal. Now, it opened into a broad space in which stood two of those great stones, still to be seen there, which were set by certain forgotten peoples in the days of old. The moon was shining bright upon the clearing, and there in the centre lay the unhappy maid where she had fallen, dead of fear and of fatigue. But it was not the sight of her body, nor yet was it that of the body of Hugo Baskerville lying near her, which raised the hair upon the heads of these three dare-devil roysterers, but it was that, standing over Hugo, and plucking at his throat, there stood a foul thing, a great, black beast, shaped like a hound, yet larger than any hound that ever mortal eye has rested upon. And even as they looked the thing tore the throat out of Hugo Baskerville, on which, as it turned its blazing eyes and dripping jaws upon them, the three shrieked with fear and rode for dear life, still screaming, across the moor. One, it is said, died that very night of what he had seen, and the other twain were but broken men for the rest of their days. "Such is the tale, my sons, of the coming of the hound which is said to have plagued the family so sorely ever since. If I have set it down it is because that which is clearly known hath less terror than that which is but hinted at and guessed. Nor can it be denied that many of the family have been unhappy in their deaths, which have been sudden, bloody, and mysterious. Yet may we shelter ourselves in the infinite goodness of Providence, which would not forever punish the innocent beyond that third or fourth generation which is threatened in Holy Writ. To that Providence, my sons, I hereby commend you, and I counsel you by way of caution to forbear from crossing the moor in those dark hours when the powers of evil are exalted. "[This from Hugo Baskerville to his sons Rodger and John, with instructions that they say nothing thereof to their sister Elizabeth.]" When Dr. Mortimer had finished reading this singular narrative he pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and stared across at Mr. Sherlock Holmes. The latter yawned and tossed the end of his cigarette into the fire. "Well?" said he. "Do you not find it interesting?" "To a collector of fairy tales." Dr. Mortimer drew a folded newspaper out of his pocket. "Now, Mr. Holmes, we will give you something a little more recent. This is the Devon County Chronicle of May 14th of this year. It is a short account of the facts elicited at the death of Sir Charles Baskerville which occurred a few days before that date." My friend leaned a little forward and his expression became intent. Our visitor readjusted his glasses and began: "The recent sudden death of Sir Charles Baskerville, whose name has been mentioned as the probable Liberal candidate for Mid-Devon at the next election, has cast a gloom over the county. Though Sir Charles had resided at Baskerville Hall for a comparatively short period his amiability of character and extreme generosity had won the affection and respect of all who had been brought into contact with him. In these days of nouveaux riches it is refreshing to find a case where the scion of an old county family which has fallen upon evil days is able to make his own fortune and to bring it back with him to restore the fallen grandeur of his line. Sir Charles, as is well known, made large sums of money in South African speculation. More wise than those who go on until the wheel turns against them, he realized his gains and returned to England with them. It is only two years since he took up his residence at Baskerville Hall, and it is common talk how large were those schemes of reconstruction and improvement which have been interrupted by his death. Being himself childless, it was his openly expressed desire that the whole countryside should, within his own lifetime, profit by his good fortune, and many will have personal reasons for bewailing his untimely end. His generous donations to local and county charities have been frequently chronicled in these columns. "The circumstances connected with the death of Sir Charles cannot be said to have been entirely cleared up by the inquest, but at least enough has been done to dispose of those rumours to which local superstition has given rise. There is no reason whatever to suspect foul play, or to imagine that death could be from any but natural causes. Sir Charles was a widower, and a man who may be said to have been in some ways of an eccentric habit of mind. In spite of his considerable wealth he was simple in his personal tastes, and his indoor servants at Baskerville Hall consisted of a married couple named Barrymore, the husband acting as butler and the wife as housekeeper. Their evidence, corroborated by that of several friends, tends to show that Sir Charles's health has for some time been impaired, and points especially to some affection of the heart, manifesting itself in changes of colour, breathlessness, and acute attacks of nervous depression. Dr. James Mortimer, the friend and medical attendant of the deceased, has given evidence to the same effect. "The facts of the case are simple. Sir Charles Baskerville was in the habit every night before going to bed of walking down the famous yew alley of Baskerville Hall. The evidence of the Barrymores shows that this had been his custom. On the fourth of May Sir Charles had declared his intention of starting next day for London, and had ordered Barrymore to prepare his luggage. That night he went out as usual for his nocturnal walk, in the course of which he was in the habit of smoking a cigar. He never returned. At twelve o'clock Barrymore, finding the hall door still open, became alarmed, and, lighting a lantern, went in search of his master. The day had been wet, and Sir Charles's footmarks were easily traced down the alley. Halfway down this walk there is a gate which leads out on to the moor. There were indications that Sir Charles had stood for some little time here. He then proceeded down the alley, and it was at the far end of it that his body was discovered. One fact which has not been explained is the statement of Barrymore that his master's footprints altered their character from the time that he passed the moor-gate, and that he appeared from thence onward to have been walking upon his toes. One Murphy, a gipsy horse-dealer, was on the moor at no great distance at the time, but he appears by his own confession to have been the worse for drink. He declares that he heard cries but is unable to state from what direction they came. No signs of violence were to be discovered upon Sir Charles's person, and though the doctor's evidence pointed to an almost incredible facial distortion--so great that Dr. Mortimer refused at first to believe that it was indeed his friend and patient who lay before him--it was explained that that is a symptom which is not unusual in cases of dyspnoea and death from cardiac exhaustion. This explanation was borne out by the post-mortem examination, which showed long-standing organic disease, and the coroner's jury returned a verdict in accordance with the medical evidence. It is well that this is so, for it is obviously of the utmost importance that Sir Charles's heir should settle at the Hall and continue the good work which has been so sadly interrupted. Had the prosaic finding of the coroner not finally put an end to the romantic stories which have been whispered in connection with the affair, it might have been difficult to find a tenant for Baskerville Hall. It is understood that the next of kin is Mr. Henry Baskerville, if he be still alive, the son of Sir Charles Baskerville's younger brother. The young man when last heard of was in America, and inquiries are being instituted with a view to informing him of his good fortune." Dr. Mortimer refolded his paper and replaced it in his pocket. "Those are the public facts, Mr. Holmes, in connection with the death of Sir Charles Baskerville." "I must thank you," said Sherlock Holmes, "for calling my attention to a case which certainly presents some features of interest. I had observed some newspaper comment at the time, but I was exceedingly preoccupied by that little affair of the Vatican cameos, and in my anxiety to oblige the Pope I lost touch with several interesting English cases. This article, you say, contains all the public facts?" "It does." "Then let me have the private ones." He leaned back, put his finger-tips together, and assumed his most impassive and judicial expression. "In doing so," said Dr. Mortimer, who had begun to show signs of some strong emotion, "I am telling that which I have not confided to anyone. My motive for withholding it from the coroner's inquiry is that a man of science shrinks from placing himself in the public position of seeming to indorse a popular superstition. I had the further motive that Baskerville Hall, as the paper says, would certainly remain untenanted if anything were done to increase its already rather grim reputation. For both these reasons I thought that I was justified in telling rather less than I knew, since no practical good could result from it, but with you there is no reason why I should not be perfectly frank. "The moor is very sparsely inhabited, and those who live near each other are thrown very much together. For this reason I saw a good deal of Sir Charles Baskerville. With the exception of Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Hall, and Mr. Stapleton, the naturalist, there are no other men of education within many miles. Sir Charles was a retiring man, but the chance of his illness brought us together, and a community of interests in science kept us so. He had brought back much scientific information from South Africa, and many a charming evening we have spent together discussing the comparative anatomy of the Bushman and the Hottentot. "Within the last few months it became increasingly plain to me that Sir Charles's nervous system was strained to the breaking point. He had taken this legend which I have read you exceedingly to heart--so much so that, although he would walk in his own grounds, nothing would induce him to go out upon the moor at night. Incredible as it may appear to you, Mr. Holmes, he was honestly convinced that a dreadful fate overhung his family, and certainly the records which he was able to give of his ancestors were not encouraging. The idea of some ghastly presence constantly haunted him, and on more than one occasion he has asked me whether I had on my medical journeys at night ever seen any strange creature or heard the baying of a hound. The latter question he put to me several times, and always with a voice which vibrated with excitement. "I can well remember driving up to his house in the evening some three weeks before the fatal event. He chanced to be at his hall door. I had descended from my gig and was standing in front of him, when I saw his eyes fix themselves over my shoulder and stare past me with an expression of the most dreadful horror. I whisked round and had just time to catch a glimpse of something which I took to be a large black calf passing at the head of the drive. So excited and alarmed was he that I was compelled to go down to the spot where the animal had been and look around for it. It was gone, however, and the incident appeared to make the worst impression upon his mind. I stayed with him all the evening, and it was on that occasion, to explain the emotion which he had shown, that he confided to my keeping that narrative which I read to you when first I came. I mention this small episode because it assumes some importance in view of the tragedy which followed, but I was convinced at the time that the matter was entirely trivial and that his excitement had no justification. "It was at my advice that Sir Charles was about to go to London. His heart was, I knew, affected, and the constant anxiety in which he lived, however chimerical the cause of it might be, was evidently having a serious effect upon his health. I thought that a few months among the distractions of town would send him back a new man. Mr. Stapleton, a mutual friend who was much concerned at his state of health, was of the same opinion. At the last instant came this terrible catastrophe. "On the night of Sir Charles's death Barrymore the butler, who made the discovery, sent Perkins the groom on horseback to me, and as I was sitting up late I was able to reach Baskerville Hall within an hour of the event. I checked and corroborated all the facts which were mentioned at the inquest. I followed the footsteps down the yew alley, I saw the spot at the moor-gate where he seemed to have waited, I remarked the change in the shape of the prints after that point, I noted that there were no other footsteps save those of Barrymore on the soft gravel, and finally I carefully examined the body, which had not been touched until my arrival. Sir Charles lay on his face, his arms out, his fingers dug into the ground, and his features convulsed with some strong emotion to such an extent that I could hardly have sworn to his identity. There was certainly no physical injury of any kind. But one false statement was made by Barrymore at the inquest. He said that there were no traces upon the ground round the body. He did not observe any. But I did--some little distance off, but fresh and clear." "Footprints?" "Footprints." "A man's or a woman's?" Dr. Mortimer looked strangely at us for an instant, and his voice sank almost to a whisper as he answered. "Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!" Chapter 3. The Problem I confess at these words a shudder passed through me. There was a thrill in the doctor's voice which showed that he was himself deeply moved by that which he told us. Holmes leaned forward in his excitement and his eyes had the hard, dry glitter which shot from them when he was keenly interested. "You saw this?" "As clearly as I see you." "And you said nothing?" "What was the use?" "How was it that no one else saw it?" "The marks were some twenty yards from the body and no one gave them a thought. I don't suppose I should have done so had I not known this legend." "There are many sheep-dogs on the moor?" "No doubt, but this was no sheep-dog." "You say it was large?" "Enormous." "But it had not approached the body?" "No." "What sort of night was it?' "Damp and raw." "But not actually raining?" "No." "What is the alley like?" "There are two lines of old yew hedge, twelve feet high and impenetrable. The walk in the centre is about eight feet across." "Is there anything between the hedges and the walk?" "Yes, there is a strip of grass about six feet broad on either side." "I understand that the yew hedge is penetrated at one point by a gate?" "Yes, the wicket-gate which leads on to the moor." "Is there any other opening?" "None." "So that to reach the yew alley one either has to come down it from the house or else to enter it by the moor-gate?" "There is an exit through a summer-house at the far end." "Had Sir Charles reached this?" "No; he lay about fifty yards from it." "Now, tell me, Dr. Mortimer--and this is important--the marks which you saw were on the path and not on the grass?" "No marks could show on the grass." "Were they on the same side of the path as the moor-gate?" "Yes; they were on the edge of the path on the same side as the moor-gate." "You interest me exceedingly. Another point. Was the wicket-gate closed?" "Closed and padlocked." "How high was it?" "About four feet high." "Then anyone could have got over it?" "Yes." "And what marks did you see by the wicket-gate?" "None in particular." "Good heaven! Did no one examine?" "Yes, I examined, myself." "And found nothing?" "It was all very confused. Sir Charles had evidently stood there for five or ten minutes." "How do you know that?" "Because the ash had twice dropped from his cigar." "Excellent! This is a colleague, Watson, after our own heart. But the marks?" "He had left his own marks all over that small patch of gravel. I could discern no others." Sherlock Holmes struck his hand against his knee with an impatient gesture. "If I had only been there!" he cried. "It is evidently a case of extraordinary interest, and one which presented immense opportunities to the scientific expert. That gravel page upon which I might have read so much has been long ere this smudged by the rain and defaced by the clogs of curious peasants. Oh, Dr. Mortimer, Dr. Mortimer, to think that you should not have called me in! You have indeed much to answer for." "I could not call you in, Mr. Holmes, without disclosing these facts to the world, and I have already given my reasons for not wishing to do so. Besides, besides--" "Why do you hesitate?" "There is a realm in which the most acute and most experienced of detectives is helpless." "You mean that the thing is supernatural?" "I did not positively say so." "No, but you evidently think it." "Since the tragedy, Mr. Holmes, there have come to my ears several incidents which are hard to reconcile with the settled order of Nature." "For example?" "I find that before the terrible event occurred several people had seen a creature upon the moor which corresponds with this Baskerville demon, and which could not possibly be any animal known to science. They all agreed that it was a huge creature, luminous, ghastly, and spectral. I have cross-examined these men, one of them a hard-headed countryman, one a farrier, and one a moorland farmer, who all tell the same story of this dreadful apparition, exactly corresponding to the hell-hound of the legend. I assure you that there is a reign of terror in the district, and that it is a hardy man who will cross the moor at night." "And you, a trained man of science, believe it to be supernatural?" "I do not know what to believe." Holmes shrugged his shoulders. "I have hitherto confined my investigations to this world," said he. "In a modest way I have combated evil, but to take on the Father of Evil himself would, perhaps, be too ambitious a task. Yet you must admit that the footmark is material." "The original hound was material enough to tug a man's throat out, and yet he was diabolical as well." "I see that you have quite gone over to the supernaturalists. But now, Dr. Mortimer, tell me this. If you hold these views, why have you come to consult me at all? You tell me in the same breath that it is useless to investigate Sir Charles's death, and that you desire me to do it." "I did not say that I desired you to do it." "Then, how can I assist you?" "By advising me as to what I should do with Sir Henry Baskerville, who arrives at Waterloo Station"--Dr. Mortimer looked at his watch--"in exactly one hour and a quarter." "He being the heir?" "Yes. On the death of Sir Charles we inquired for this young gentleman and found that he had been farming in Canada. From the accounts which have reached us he is an excellent fellow in every way. I speak now not as a medical man but as a trustee and executor of Sir Charles's will." "There is no other claimant, I presume?" "None. The only other kinsman whom we have been able to trace was Rodger Baskerville, the youngest of three brothers of whom poor Sir Charles was the elder. The second brother, who died young, is the father of this lad Henry. The third, Rodger, was the black sheep of the family. He came of the old masterful Baskerville strain and was the very image, they tell me, of the family picture of old Hugo. He made England too hot to hold him, fled to Central America, and died there in 1876 of yellow fever. Henry is the last of the Baskervilles. In one hour and five minutes I meet him at Waterloo Station. I have had a wire that he arrived at Southampton this morning. Now, Mr. Holmes, what would you advise me to do with him?" "Why should he not go to the home of his fathers?" "It seems natural, does it not? And yet, consider that every Baskerville who goes there meets with an evil fate. I feel sure that if Sir Charles could have spoken with me before his death he would have warned me against bringing this, the last of the old race, and the heir to great wealth, to that deadly place. And yet it cannot be denied that the prosperity of the whole poor, bleak countryside depends upon his presence. All the good work which has been done by Sir Charles will crash to the ground if there is no tenant of the Hall. I fear lest I should be swayed too much by my own obvious interest in the matter, and that is why I bring the case before you and ask for your advice." Holmes considered for a little time. "Put into plain words, the matter is this," said he. "In your opinion there is a diabolical agency which makes Dartmoor an unsafe abode for a Baskerville--that is your opinion?" "At least I might go the length of saying that there is some evidence that this may be so." "Exactly. But surely, if your supernatural theory be correct, it could work the young man evil in London as easily as in Devonshire. A devil with merely local powers like a parish vestry would be too inconceivable a thing." "You put the matter more flippantly, Mr. Holmes, than you would probably do if you were brought into personal contact with these things. Your advice, then, as I understand it, is that the young man will be as safe in Devonshire as in London. He comes in fifty minutes. What would you recommend?" "I recommend, sir, that you take a cab, call off your spaniel who is scratching at my front door, and proceed to Waterloo to meet Sir Henry Baskerville." "And then?" "And then you will say nothing to him at all until I have made up my mind about the matter." "How long will it take you to make up your mind?" "Twenty-four hours. At ten o'clock tomorrow, Dr. Mortimer, I will be much obliged to you if you will call upon me here, and it will be of help to me in my plans for the future if you will bring Sir Henry Baskerville with you." "I will do so, Mr. Holmes." He scribbled the appointment on his shirt-cuff and hurried off in his strange, peering, absent-minded fashion. Holmes stopped him at the head of the stair. "Only one more question, Dr. Mortimer. You say that before Sir Charles Baskerville's death several people saw this apparition upon the moor?" "Three people did." "Did any see it after?" "I have not heard of any." "Thank you. Good-morning." Holmes returned to his seat with that quiet look of inward satisfaction which meant that he had a congenial task before him. "Going out, Watson?" "Unless I can help you." "No, my dear fellow, it is at the hour of action that I turn to you for aid. But this is splendid, really unique from some points of view. When you pass Bradley's, would you ask him to send up a pound of the strongest shag tobacco? Thank you. It would be as well if you could make it convenient not to return before evening. Then I should be very glad to compare impressions as to this most interesting problem which has been submitted to us this morning." I knew that seclusion and solitude were very necessary for my friend in those hours of intense mental concentration during which he weighed every particle of evidence, constructed alternative theories, balanced one against the other, and made up his mind as to which points were essential and which immaterial. I therefore spent the day at my club and did not return to Baker Street until evening. It was nearly nine o'clock when I found myself in the sitting-room once more. My first impression as I opened the door was that a fire had broken out, for the room was so filled with smoke that the light of the lamp upon the table was blurred by it. As I entered, however, my fears were set at rest, for it was the acrid fumes of strong coarse tobacco which took me by the throat and set me coughing. Through the haze I had a vague vision of Holmes in his dressing-gown coiled up in an armchair with his black clay pipe between his lips. Several rolls of paper lay around him. "Caught cold, Watson?" said he. "No, it's this poisonous atmosphere." "I suppose it is pretty thick, now that you mention it." "Thick! It is intolerable." "Open the window, then! You have been at your club all day, I perceive." "My dear Holmes!" "Am I right?" "Certainly, but how?" He laughed at my bewildered expression. "There is a delightful freshness about you, Watson, which makes it a pleasure to exercise any small powers which I possess at your expense. A gentleman goes forth on a showery and miry day. He returns immaculate in the evening with the gloss still on his hat and his boots. He has been a fixture therefore all day. He is not a man with intimate friends. Where, then, could he have been? Is it not obvious?" "Well, it is rather obvious." "The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes. Where do you think that I have been?" "A fixture also." "On the contrary, I have been to Devonshire." "In spirit?" "Exactly. My body has remained in this armchair and has, I regret to observe, consumed in my absence two large pots of coffee and an incredible amount of tobacco. After you left I sent down to Stamford's for the Ordnance map of this portion of the moor, and my spirit has hovered over it all day. I flatter myself that I could find my way about." "A large-scale map, I presume?" "Very large." He unrolled one section and held it over his knee. "Here you have the particular district which concerns us. That is Baskerville Hall in the middle." "With a wood round it?" "Exactly. I fancy the yew alley, though not marked under that name, must stretch along this line, with the moor, as you perceive, upon the right of it. This small clump of buildings here is the hamlet of Grimpen, where our friend Dr. Mortimer has his headquarters. Within a radius of five miles there are, as you see, only a very few scattered dwellings. Here is Lafter Hall, which was mentioned in the narrative. There is a house indicated here which may be the residence of the naturalist--Stapleton, if I remember right, was his name. Here are two moorland farmhouses, High Tor and Foulmire. Then fourteen miles away the great convict prison of Princetown. Between and around these scattered points extends the desolate, lifeless moor. This, then, is the stage upon which tragedy has been played, and upon which we may help to play it again." "It must be a wild place." "Yes, the setting is a worthy one. If the devil did desire to have a hand in the affairs of men--" "Then you are yourself inclining to the supernatural explanation." "The devil's agents may be of flesh and blood, may they not? There are two questions waiting for us at the outset. The one is whether any crime has been committed at all; the second is, what is the crime and how was it committed? Of course, if Dr. Mortimer's surmise should be correct, and we are dealing with forces outside the ordinary laws of Nature, there is an end of our investigation. But we are bound to exhaust all other hypotheses before falling back upon this one. I think we'll shut that window again, if you don't mind. It is a singular thing, but I find that a concentrated atmosphere helps a concentration of thought. I have not pushed it to the length of getting into a box to think, but that is the logical outcome of my convictions. Have you turned the case over in your mind?" "Yes, I have thought a good deal of it in the course of the day." "What do you make of it?" "It is very bewildering." "It has certainly a character of its own. There are points of distinction about it. That change in the footprints, for example. What do you make of that?" "Mortimer said that the man had walked on tiptoe down that portion of the alley." "He only repeated what some fool had said at the inquest. Why should a man walk on tiptoe down the alley?" "What then?" "He was running, Watson--running desperately, running for his life, running until he burst his heart--and fell dead upon his face." "Running from what?" "There lies our problem. There are indications that the man was crazed with fear before ever he began to run." "How can you say that?" "I am presuming that the cause of his fears came to him across the moor. If that were so, and it seems most probable, only a man who had lost his wits would have run from the house instead of towards it. If the gipsy's evidence may be taken as true, he ran with cries for help in the direction where help was least likely to be. Then, again, whom was he waiting for that night, and why was he waiting for him in the yew alley rather than in his own house?" "You think that he was waiting for someone?" "The man was elderly and infirm. We can understand his taking an evening stroll, but the ground was damp and the night inclement. Is it natural that he should stand for five or ten minutes, as Dr. Mortimer, with more practical sense than I should have given him credit for, deduced from the cigar ash?" "But he went out every evening." "I think it unlikely that he waited at the moor-gate every evening. On the contrary, the evidence is that he avoided the moor. That night he waited there. It was the night before he made his departure for London. The thing takes shape, Watson. It becomes coherent. Might I ask you to hand me my violin, and we will postpone all further thought upon this business until we have had the advantage of meeting Dr. Mortimer and Sir Henry Baskerville in the morning." Chapter 4. Sir Henry Baskerville Our breakfast table was cleared early, and Holmes waited in his dressing-gown for the promised interview. Our clients were punctual to their appointment, for the clock had just struck ten when Dr. Mortimer was shown up, followed by the young baronet. The latter was a small, alert, dark-eyed man about thirty years of age, very sturdily built, with thick black eyebrows and a strong, pugnacious face. He wore a ruddy-tinted tweed suit and had the weather-beaten appearance of one who has spent most of his time in the open air, and yet there was something in his steady eye and the quiet assurance of his bearing which indicated the gentleman. "This is Sir Henry Baskerville," said Dr. Mortimer. "Why, yes," said he, "and the strange thing is, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, that if my friend here had not proposed coming round to you this morning I should have come on my own account. I understand that you think out little puzzles, and I've had one this morning which wants more thinking out than I am able to give it." "Pray take a seat, Sir Henry. Do I understand you to say that you have yourself had some remarkable experience since you arrived in London?" "Nothing of much importance, Mr. Holmes. Only a joke, as like as not. It was this letter, if you can call it a letter, which reached me this morning." He laid an envelope upon the table, and we all bent over it. It was of common quality, grayish in colour. The address, "Sir Henry Baskerville, Northumberland Hotel," was printed in rough characters; the post-mark "Charing Cross," and the date of posting the preceding evening. "Who knew that you were going to the Northumberland Hotel?" asked Holmes, glancing keenly across at our visitor. "No one could have known. We only decided after I met Dr. Mortimer." "But Dr. Mortimer was no doubt already stopping there?" "No, I had been staying with a friend," said the doctor. "There was no possible indication that we intended to go to this hotel." "Hum! Someone seems to be very deeply interested in your movements." Out of the envelope he took a half-sheet of foolscap paper folded into four. This he opened and spread flat upon the table. Across the middle of it a single sentence had been formed by the expedient of pasting printed words upon it. It ran: As you value your life or your reason keep away from the moor. The word "moor" only was printed in ink. "Now," said Sir Henry Baskerville, "perhaps you will tell me, Mr. Holmes, what in thunder is the meaning of that, and who it is that takes so much interest in my affairs?" "What do you make of it, Dr. Mortimer? You must allow that there is nothing supernatural about this, at any rate?" "No, sir, but it might very well come from someone who was convinced that the business is supernatural." "What business?" asked Sir Henry sharply. "It seems to me that all you gentlemen know a great deal more than I do about my own affairs." "You shall share our knowledge before you leave this room, Sir Henry. I promise you that," said Sherlock Holmes. "We will confine ourselves for the present with your permission to this very interesting document, which must have been put together and posted yesterday evening. Have you yesterday's Times, Watson?" "It is here in the corner." "Might I trouble you for it--the inside page, please, with the leading articles?" He glanced swiftly over it, running his eyes up and down the columns. "Capital article this on free trade. Permit me to give you an extract from it. 'You may be cajoled into imagining that your own special trade or your own industry will be encouraged by a protective tariff, but it stands to reason that such legislation must in the long run keep away wealth from the country, diminish the value of our imports, and lower the general conditions of life in this island.' "What do you think of that, Watson?" cried Holmes in high glee, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction. "Don't you think that is an admirable sentiment?" Dr. Mortimer looked at Holmes with an air of professional interest, and Sir Henry Baskerville turned a pair of puzzled dark eyes upon me. "I don't know much about the tariff and things of that kind," said he, "but it seems to me we've got a bit off the trail so far as that note is concerned." "On the contrary, I think we are particularly hot upon the trail, Sir Henry. Watson here knows more about my methods than you do, but I fear that even he has not quite grasped the significance of this sentence." "No, I confess that I see no connection." "And yet, my dear Watson, there is so very close a connection that the one is extracted out of the other. 'You,' 'your,' 'your,' 'life,' 'reason,' 'value,' 'keep away,' 'from the.' Don't you see now whence these words have been taken?" "By thunder, you're right! Well, if that isn't smart!" cried Sir Henry. "If any possible doubt remained it is settled by the fact that 'keep away' and 'from the' are cut out in one piece." "Well, now--so it is!" "Really, Mr. Holmes, this exceeds anything which I could have imagined," said Dr. Mortimer, gazing at my friend in amazement. "I could understand anyone saying that the words were from a newspaper; but that you should name which, and add that it came from the leading article, is really one of the most remarkable things which I have ever known. How did you do it?" "I presume, Doctor, that you could tell the skull of a negro from that of an Esquimau?" "Most certainly." "But how?" "Because that is my special hobby. The differences are obvious. The supra-orbital crest, the facial angle, the maxillary curve, the--" "But this is my special hobby, and the differences are equally obvious. There is as much difference to my eyes between the leaded bourgeois type of a Times article and the slovenly print of an evening half-penny paper as there could be between your negro and your Esquimau. The detection of types is one of the most elementary branches of knowledge to the special expert in crime, though I confess that once when I was very young I confused the Leeds Mercury with the Western Morning News. But a Times leader is entirely distinctive, and these words could have been taken from nothing else. As it was done yesterday the strong probability was that we should find the words in yesterday's issue." "So far as I can follow you, then, Mr. Holmes," said Sir Henry Baskerville, "someone cut out this message with a scissors--" "Nail-scissors," said Holmes. "You can see that it was a very short-bladed scissors, since the cutter had to take two snips over 'keep away.'" "That is so. Someone, then, cut out the message with a pair of short-bladed scissors, pasted it with paste--" "Gum," said Holmes. "With gum on to the paper. But I want to know why the word 'moor' should have been written?" "Because he could not find it in print. The other words were all simple and might be found in any issue, but 'moor' would be less common." "Why, of course, that would explain it. Have you read anything else in this message, Mr. Holmes?" "There are one or two indications, and yet the utmost pains have been taken to remove all clues. The address, you observe is printed in rough characters. But the Times is a paper which is seldom found in any hands but those of the highly educated. We may take it, therefore, that the letter was composed by an educated man who wished to pose as an uneducated one, and his effort to conceal his own writing suggests that that writing might be known, or come to be known, by you. Again, you will observe that the words are not gummed on in an accurate line, but that some are much higher than others. 'Life,' for example is quite out of its proper place. That may point to carelessness or it may point to agitation and hurry upon the part of the cutter. On the whole I incline to the latter view, since the matter was evidently important, and it is unlikely that the composer of such a letter would be careless. If he were in a hurry it opens up the interesting question why he should be in a hurry, since any letter posted up to early morning would reach Sir Henry before he would leave his hotel. Did the composer fear an interruption--and from whom?" "We are coming now rather into the region of guesswork," said Dr. Mortimer. "Say, rather, into the region where we balance probabilities and choose the most likely. It is the scientific use of the imagination, but we have always some material basis on which to start our speculation. Now, you would call it a guess, no doubt, but I am almost certain that this address has been written in a hotel." "How in the world can you say that?" "If you examine it carefully you will see that both the pen and the ink have given the writer trouble. The pen has spluttered twice in a single word and has run dry three times in a short address, showing that there was very little ink in the bottle. Now, a private pen or ink-bottle is seldom allowed to be in such a state, and the combination of the two must be quite rare. But you know the hotel ink and the hotel pen, where it is rare to get anything else. Yes, I have very little hesitation in saying that could we examine the waste-paper baskets of the hotels around Charing Cross until we found the remains of the mutilated Times leader we could lay our hands straight upon the person who sent this singular message. Halloa! Halloa! What's this?" He was carefully examining the foolscap, upon which the words were pasted, holding it only an inch or two from his eyes. "Well?" "Nothing," said he, throwing it down. "It is a blank half-sheet of paper, without even a water-mark upon it. I think we have drawn as much as we can from this curious letter; and now, Sir Henry, has anything else of interest happened to you since you have been in London?" "Why, no, Mr. Holmes. I think not." "You have not observed anyone follow or watch you?" "I seem to have walked right into the thick of a dime novel," said our visitor. "Why in thunder should anyone follow or watch me?" "We are coming to that. You have nothing else to report to us before we go into this matter?" "Well, it depends upon what you think worth reporting." "I think anything out of the ordinary routine of life well worth reporting." Sir Henry smiled. "I don't know much of British life yet, for I have spent nearly all my time in the States and in Canada. But I hope that to lose one of your boots is not part of the ordinary routine of life over here." "You have lost one of your boots?" "My dear sir," cried Dr. Mortimer, "it is only mislaid. You will find it when you return to the hotel. What is the use of troubling Mr. Holmes with trifles of this kind?" "Well, he asked me for anything outside the ordinary routine." "Exactly," said Holmes, "however foolish the incident may seem. You have lost one of your boots, you say?" "Well, mislaid it, anyhow. I put them both outside my door last night, and there was only one in the morning. I could get no sense out of the chap who cleans them. The worst of it is that I only bought the pair last night in the Strand, and I have never had them on." "If you have never worn them, why did you put them out to be cleaned?" "They were tan boots and had never been varnished. That was why I put them out." "Then I understand that on your arrival in London yesterday you went out at once and bought a pair of boots?" "I did a good deal of shopping. Dr. Mortimer here went round with me. You see, if I am to be squire down there I must dress the part, and it may be that I have got a little careless in my ways out West. Among other things I bought these brown boots--gave six dollars for them--and had one stolen before ever I had them on my feet." "It seems a singularly useless thing to steal," said Sherlock Holmes. "I confess that I share Dr. Mortimer's belief that it will not be long before the missing boot is found." "And, now, gentlemen," said the baronet with decision, "it seems to me that I have spoken quite enough about the little that I know. It is time that you kept your promise and gave me a full account of what we are all driving at." "Your request is a very reasonable one," Holmes answered. "Dr. Mortimer, I think you could not do better than to tell your story as you told it to us." Thus encouraged, our scientific friend drew his papers from his pocket and presented the whole case as he had done upon the morning before. Sir Henry Baskerville listened with the deepest attention and with an occasional exclamation of surprise. "Well, I seem to have come into an inheritance with a vengeance," said he when the long narrative was finished. "Of course, I've heard of the hound ever since I was in the nursery. It's the pet story of the family, though I never thought of taking it seriously before. But as to my uncle's death--well, it all seems boiling up in my head, and I can't get it clear yet. You don't seem quite to have made up your mind whether it's a case for a policeman or a clergyman." "Precisely." "And now there's this affair of the letter to me at the hotel. I suppose that fits into its place." "It seems to show that someone knows more than we do about what goes on upon the moor," said Dr. Mortimer. "And also," said Holmes, "that someone is not ill-disposed towards you, since they warn you of danger." "Or it may be that they wish, for their own purposes, to scare me away." "Well, of course, that is possible also. I am very much indebted to you, Dr. Mortimer, for introducing me to a problem which presents several interesting alternatives. But the practical point which we now have to decide, Sir Henry, is whether it is or is not advisable for you to go to Baskerville Hall." "Why should I not go?" "There seems to be danger." "Do you mean danger from this family fiend or do you mean danger from human beings?" "Well, that is what we have to find out." "Whichever it is, my answer is fixed. There is no devil in hell, Mr. Holmes, and there is no man upon earth who can prevent me from going to the home of my own people, and you may take that to be my final answer." His dark brows knitted and his face flushed to a dusky red as he spoke. It was evident that the fiery temper of the Baskervilles was not extinct in this their last representative. "Meanwhile," said he, "I have hardly had time to think over all that you have told me. It's a big thing for a man to have to understand and to decide at one sitting. I should like to have a quiet hour by myself to make up my mind. Now, look here, Mr. Holmes, it's half-past eleven now and I am going back right away to my hotel. Suppose you and your friend, Dr. Watson, come round and lunch with us at two. I'll be able to tell you more clearly then how this thing strikes me." "Is that convenient to you, Watson?" "Perfectly." "Then you may expect us. Shall I have a cab called?" "I'd prefer to walk, for this affair has flurried me rather." "I'll join you in a walk, with pleasure," said his companion. "Then we meet again at two o'clock. Au revoir, and good-morning!" We heard the steps of our visitors descend the stair and the bang of the front door. In an instant Holmes had changed from the languid dreamer to the man of action. "Your hat and boots, Watson, quick! Not a moment to lose!" He rushed into his room in his dressing-gown and was back again in a few seconds in a frock-coat. We hurried together down the stairs and into the street. Dr. Mortimer and Baskerville were still visible about two hundred yards ahead of us in the direction of Oxford Street. "Shall I run on and stop them?" "Not for the world, my dear Watson. I am perfectly satisfied with your company if you will tolerate mine. Our friends are wise, for it is certainly a very fine morning for a walk." He quickened his pace until we had decreased the distance which divided us by about half. Then, still keeping a hundred yards behind, we followed into Oxford Street and so down Regent Street. Once our friends stopped and stared into a shop window, upon which Holmes did the same. An instant afterwards he gave a little cry of satisfaction, and, following the direction of his eager eyes, I saw that a hansom cab with a man inside which had halted on the other side of the street was now proceeding slowly onward again. "There's our man, Watson! Come along! We'll have a good look at him, if we can do no more." At that instant I was aware of a bushy black beard and a pair of piercing eyes turned upon us through the side window of the cab. Instantly the trapdoor at the top flew up, something was screamed to the driver, and the cab flew madly off down Regent Street. Holmes looked eagerly round for another, but no empty one was in sight. Then he dashed in wild pursuit amid the stream of the traffic, but the start was too great, and already the cab was out of sight. "There now!" said Holmes bitterly as he emerged panting and white with vexation from the tide of vehicles. "Was ever such bad luck and such bad management, too? Watson, Watson, if you are an honest man you will record this also and set it against my successes!" "Who was the man?" "I have not an idea." "A spy?" "Well, it was evident from what we have heard that Baskerville has been very closely shadowed by someone since he has been in town. How else could it be known so quickly that it was the Northumberland Hotel which he had chosen? If they had followed him the first day I argued that they would follow him also the second. You may have observed that I twice strolled over to the window while Dr. Mortimer was reading his legend." "Yes, I remember." "I was looking out for loiterers in the street, but I saw none. We are dealing with a clever man, Watson. This matter cuts very deep, and though I have not finally made up my mind whether it is a benevolent or a malevolent agency which is in touch with us, I am conscious always of power and design. When our friends left I at once followed them in the hopes of marking down their invisible attendant. So wily was he that he had not trusted himself upon foot, but he had availed himself of a cab so that he could loiter behind or dash past them and so escape their notice. His method had the additional advantage that if they were to take a cab he was all ready to follow them. It has, however, one obvious disadvantage." "It puts him in the power of the cabman." "Exactly." "What a pity we did not get the number!" "My dear Watson, clumsy as I have been, you surely do not seriously imagine that I neglected to get the number? No. 2704 is our man. But that is no use to us for the moment." "I fail to see how you could have done more." "On observing the cab I should have instantly turned and walked in the other direction. I should then at my leisure have hired a second cab and followed the first at a respectful distance, or, better still, have driven to the Northumberland Hotel and waited there. When our unknown had followed Baskerville home we should have had the opportunity of playing his own game upon himself and seeing where he made for. As it is, by an indiscreet eagerness, which was taken advantage of with extraordinary quickness and energy by our opponent, we have betrayed ourselves and lost our man." We had been sauntering slowly down Regent Street during this conversation, and Dr. Mortimer, with his companion, had long vanished in front of us. "There is no object in our following them," said Holmes. "The shadow has departed and will not return. We must see what further cards we have in our hands and play them with decision. Could you swear to that man's face within the cab?" "I could swear only to the beard." "And so could I--from which I gather that in all probability it was a false one. A clever man upon so delicate an errand has no use for a beard save to conceal his features. Come in here, Watson!" He turned into one of the district messenger offices, where he was warmly greeted by the manager. "Ah, Wilson, I see you have not forgotten the little case in which I had the good fortune to help you?" "No, sir, indeed I have not. You saved my good name, and perhaps my life." "My dear fellow, you exaggerate. I have some recollection, Wilson, that you had among your boys a lad named Cartwright, who showed some ability during the investigation." "Yes, sir, he is still with us." "Could you ring him up?--thank you! And I should be glad to have change of this five-pound note." A lad of fourteen, with a bright, keen face, had obeyed the summons of the manager. He stood now gazing with great reverence at the famous detective. "Let me have the Hotel Directory," said Holmes. "Thank you! Now, Cartwright, there are the names of twenty-three hotels here, all in the immediate neighbourhood of Charing Cross. Do you see?" "Yes, sir." "You will visit each of these in turn." "Yes, sir." "You will begin in each case by giving the outside porter one shilling. Here are twenty-three shillings." "Yes, sir." "You will tell him that you want to see the waste-paper of yesterday. You will say that an important telegram has miscarried and that you are looking for it. You understand?" "Yes, sir." "But what you are really looking for is the centre page of the Times with some holes cut in it with scissors. Here is a copy of the Times. It is this page. You could easily recognize it, could you not?" "Yes, sir." "In each case the outside porter will send for the hall porter, to whom also you will give a shilling. Here are twenty-three shillings. You will then learn in possibly twenty cases out of the twenty-three that the waste of the day before has been burned or removed. In the three other cases you will be shown a heap of paper and you will look for this page of the Times among it. The odds are enormously against your finding it. There are ten shillings over in case of emergencies. Let me have a report by wire at Baker Street before evening. And now, Watson, it only remains for us to find out by wire the identity of the cabman, No. 2704, and then we will drop into one of the Bond Street picture galleries and fill in the time until we are due at the hotel." Chapter 5. Three Broken Threads Sherlock Holmes had, in a very remarkable degree, the power of detaching his mind at will. For two hours the strange business in which we had been involved appeared to be forgotten, and he was entirely absorbed in the pictures of the modern Belgian masters. He would talk of nothing but art, of which he had the crudest ideas, from our leaving the gallery until we found ourselves at the Northumberland Hotel. "Sir Henry Baskerville is upstairs expecting you," said the clerk. "He asked me to show you up at once when you came." "Have you any objection to my looking at your register?" said Holmes. "Not in the least." The book showed that two names had been added after that of Baskerville. One was Theophilus Johnson and family, of Newcastle; the other Mrs. Oldmore and maid, of High Lodge, Alton. "Surely that must be the same Johnson whom I used to know," said Holmes to the porter. "A lawyer, is he not, gray-headed, and walks with a limp?" "No, sir, this is Mr. Johnson, the coal-owner, a very active gentleman, not older than yourself." "Surely you are mistaken about his trade?" "No, sir! he has used this hotel for many years, and he is very well known to us." "Ah, that settles it. Mrs. Oldmore, too; I seem to remember the name. Excuse my curiosity, but often in calling upon one friend one finds another." "She is an invalid lady, sir. Her husband was once mayor of Gloucester. She always comes to us when she is in town." "Thank you; I am afraid I cannot claim her acquaintance. We have established a most important fact by these questions, Watson," he continued in a low voice as we went upstairs together. "We know now that the people who are so interested in our friend have not settled down in his own hotel. That means that while they are, as we have seen, very anxious to watch him, they are equally anxious that he should not see them. Now, this is a most suggestive fact." "What does it suggest?" "It suggests--halloa, my dear fellow, what on earth is the matter?" As we came round the top of the stairs we had run up against Sir Henry Baskerville himself. His face was flushed with anger, and he held an old and dusty boot in one of his hands. So furious was he that he was hardly articulate, and when he did speak it was in a much broader and more Western dialect than any which we had heard from him in the morning. "Seems to me they are playing me for a sucker in this hotel," he cried. "They'll find they've started in to monkey with the wrong man unless they are careful. By thunder, if that chap can't find my missing boot there will be trouble. I can take a joke with the best, Mr. Holmes, but they've got a bit over the mark this time." "Still looking for your boot?" "Yes, sir, and mean to find it." "But, surely, you said that it was a new brown boot?" "So it was, sir. And now it's an old black one." "What! you don't mean to say--?" "That's just what I do mean to say. I only had three pairs in the world--the new brown, the old black, and the patent leathers, which I am wearing. Last night they took one of my brown ones, and today they have sneaked one of the black. Well, have you got it? Speak out, man, and don't stand staring!" An agitated German waiter had appeared upon the scene. "No, sir; I have made inquiry all over the hotel, but I can hear no word of it." "Well, either that boot comes back before sundown or I'll see the manager and tell him that I go right straight out of this hotel." "It shall be found, sir--I promise you that if you will have a little patience it will be found." "Mind it is, for it's the last thing of mine that I'll lose in this den of thieves. Well, well, Mr. Holmes, you'll excuse my troubling you about such a trifle--" "I think it's well worth troubling about." "Why, you look very serious over it." "How do you explain it?" "I just don't attempt to explain it. It seems the very maddest, queerest thing that ever happened to me." "The queerest perhaps--" said Holmes thoughtfully. "What do you make of it yourself?" "Well, I don't profess to understand it yet. This case of yours is very complex, Sir Henry. When taken in conjunction with your uncle's death I am not sure that of all the five hundred cases of capital importance which I have handled there is one which cuts so deep. But we hold several threads in our hands, and the odds are that one or other of them guides us to the truth. We may waste time in following the wrong one, but sooner or later we must come upon the right." We had a pleasant luncheon in which little was said of the business which had brought us together. It was in the private sitting-room to which we afterwards repaired that Holmes asked Baskerville what were his intentions. "To go to Baskerville Hall." "And when?" "At the end of the week." "On the whole," said Holmes, "I think that your decision is a wise one. I have ample evidence that you are being dogged in London, and amid the millions of this great city it is difficult to discover who these people are or what their object can be. If their intentions are evil they might do you a mischief, and we should be powerless to prevent it. You did not know, Dr. Mortimer, that you were followed this morning from my house?" Dr. Mortimer started violently. "Followed! By whom?" "That, unfortunately, is what I cannot tell you. Have you among your neighbours or acquaintances on Dartmoor any man with a black, full beard?" "No--or, let me see--why, yes. Barrymore, Sir Charles's butler, is a man with a full, black beard." "Ha! Where is Barrymore?" "He is in charge of the Hall." "We had best ascertain if he is really there, or if by any possibility he might be in London." "How can you do that?" "Give me a telegraph form. 'Is all ready for Sir Henry?' That will do. Address to Mr. Barrymore, Baskerville Hall. What is the nearest telegraph-office? Grimpen. Very good, we will send a second wire to the postmaster, Grimpen: 'Telegram to Mr. Barrymore to be delivered into his own hand. If absent, please return wire to Sir Henry Baskerville, Northumberland Hotel.' That should let us know before evening whether Barrymore is at his post in Devonshire or not." "That's so," said Baskerville. "By the way, Dr. Mortimer, who is this Barrymore, anyhow?" "He is the son of the old caretaker, who is dead. They have looked after the Hall for four generations now. So far as I know, he and his wife are as respectable a couple as any in the county." "At the same time," said Baskerville, "it's clear enough that so long as there are none of the family at the Hall these people have a mighty fine home and nothing to do." "That is true." "Did Barrymore profit at all by Sir Charles's will?" asked Holmes. "He and his wife had five hundred pounds each." "Ha! Did they know that they would receive this?" "Yes; Sir Charles was very fond of talking about the provisions of his will." "That is very interesting." "I hope," said Dr. Mortimer, "that you do not look with suspicious eyes upon everyone who received a legacy from Sir Charles, for I also had a thousand pounds left to me." "Indeed! And anyone else?" "There were many insignificant sums to individuals, and a large number of public charities. The residue all went to Sir Henry." "And how much was the residue?" "Seven hundred and forty thousand pounds." Holmes raised his eyebrows in surprise. "I had no idea that so gigantic a sum was involved," said he. "Sir Charles had the reputation of being rich, but we did not know how very rich he was until we came to examine his securities. The total value of the estate was close on to a million." "Dear me! It is a stake for which a man might well play a desperate game. And one more question, Dr. Mortimer. Supposing that anything happened to our young friend here--you will forgive the unpleasant hypothesis!--who would inherit the estate?" "Since Rodger Baskerville, Sir Charles's younger brother died unmarried, the estate would descend to the Desmonds, who are distant cousins. James Desmond is an elderly clergyman in Westmoreland." "Thank you. These details are all of great interest. Have you met Mr. James Desmond?" "Yes; he once came down to visit Sir Charles. He is a man of venerable appearance and of saintly life. I remember that he refused to accept any settlement from Sir Charles, though he pressed it upon him." "And this man of simple tastes would be the heir to Sir Charles's thousands." "He would be the heir to the estate because that is entailed. He would also be the heir to the money unless it were willed otherwise by the present owner, who can, of course, do what he likes with it." "And have you made your will, Sir Henry?" "No, Mr. Holmes, I have not. I've had no time, for it was only yesterday that I learned how matters stood. But in any case I feel that the money should go with the title and estate. That was my poor uncle's idea. How is the owner going to restore the glories of the Baskervilles if he has not money enough to keep up the property? House, land, and dollars must go together." "Quite so. Well, Sir Henry, I am of one mind with you as to the advisability of your going down to Devonshire without delay. There is only one provision which I must make. You certainly must not go alone." "Dr. Mortimer returns with me." "But Dr. Mortimer has his practice to attend to, and his house is miles away from yours. With all the goodwill in the world he may be unable to help you. No, Sir Henry, you must take with you someone, a trusty man, who will be always by your side." "Is it possible that you could come yourself, Mr. Holmes?" "If matters came to a crisis I should endeavour to be present in person; but you can understand that, with my extensive consulting practice and with the constant appeals which reach me from many quarters, it is impossible for me to be absent from London for an indefinite time. At the present instant one of the most revered names in England is being besmirched by a blackmailer, and only I can stop a disastrous scandal. You will see how impossible it is for me to go to Dartmoor." "Whom would you recommend, then?" Holmes laid his hand upon my arm. "If my friend would undertake it there is no man who is better worth having at your side when you are in a tight place. No one can say so more confidently than I." The proposition took me completely by surprise, but before I had time to answer, Baskerville seized me by the hand and wrung it heartily. "Well, now, that is real kind of you, Dr. Watson," said he. "You see how it is with me, and you know just as much about the matter as I do. If you will come down to Baskerville Hall and see me through I'll never forget it." The promise of adventure had always a fascination for me, and I was complimented by the words of Holmes and by the eagerness with which the baronet hailed me as a companion. "I will come, with pleasure," said I. "I do not know how I could employ my time better." "And you will report very carefully to me," said Holmes. "When a crisis comes, as it will do, I will direct how you shall act. I suppose that by Saturday all might be ready?" "Would that suit Dr. Watson?" "Perfectly." "Then on Saturday, unless you hear to the contrary, we shall meet at the ten-thirty train from Paddington." We had risen to depart when Baskerville gave a cry, of triumph, and diving into one of the corners of the room he drew a brown boot from under a cabinet. "My missing boot!" he cried. "May all our difficulties vanish as easily!" said Sherlock Holmes. "But it is a very singular thing," Dr. Mortimer remarked. "I searched this room carefully before lunch." "And so did I," said Baskerville. "Every inch of it." "There was certainly no boot in it then." "In that case the waiter must have placed it there while we were lunching." The German was sent for but professed to know nothing of the matter, nor could any inquiry clear it up. Another item had been added to that constant and apparently purposeless series of small mysteries which had succeeded each other so rapidly. Setting aside the whole grim story of Sir Charles's death, we had a line of inexplicable incidents all within the limits of two days, which included the receipt of the printed letter, the black-bearded spy in the hansom, the loss of the new brown boot, the loss of the old black boot, and now the return of the new brown boot. Holmes sat in silence in the cab as we drove back to Baker Street, and I knew from his drawn brows and keen face that his mind, like my own, was busy in endeavouring to frame some scheme into which all these strange and apparently disconnected episodes could be fitted. All afternoon and late into the evening he sat lost in tobacco and thought. Just before dinner two telegrams were handed in. The first ran: Have just heard that Barrymore is at the Hall. BASKERVILLE. The second: Visited twenty-three hotels as directed, but sorry, to report unable to trace cut sheet of Times. CARTWRIGHT. "There go two of my threads, Watson. There is nothing more stimulating than a case where everything goes against you. We must cast round for another scent." "We have still the cabman who drove the spy." "Exactly. I have wired to get his name and address from the Official Registry. I should not be surprised if this were an answer to my question." The ring at the bell proved to be something even more satisfactory than an answer, however, for the door opened and a rough-looking fellow entered who was evidently the man himself. "I got a message from the head office that a gent at this address had been inquiring for No. 2704," said he. "I've driven my cab this seven years and never a word of complaint. I came here straight from the Yard to ask you to your face what you had against me." "I have nothing in the world against you, my good man," said Holmes. "On the contrary, I have half a sovereign for you if you will give me a clear answer to my questions." "Well, I've had a good day and no mistake," said the cabman with a grin. "What was it you wanted to ask, sir?" "First of all your name and address, in case I want you again." "John Clayton, 3 Turpey Street, the Borough. My cab is out of Shipley's Yard, near Waterloo Station." Sherlock Holmes made a note of it. "Now, Clayton, tell me all about the fare who came and watched this house at ten o'clock this morning and afterwards followed the two gentlemen down Regent Street." The man looked surprised and a little embarrassed. "Why, there's no good my telling you things, for you seem to know as much as I do already," said he. "The truth is that the gentleman told me that he was a detective and that I was to say nothing about him to anyone." "My good fellow; this is a very serious business, and you may find yourself in a pretty bad position if you try to hide anything from me. You say that your fare told you that he was a detective?" "Yes, he did." "When did he say this?" "When he left me." "Did he say anything more?" "He mentioned his name." Holmes cast a swift glance of triumph at me. "Oh, he mentioned his name, did he? That was imprudent. What was the name that he mentioned?" "His name," said the cabman, "was Mr. Sherlock Holmes." Never have I seen my friend more completely taken aback than by the cabman's reply. For an instant he sat in silent amazement. Then he burst into a hearty laugh. "A touch, Watson--an undeniable touch!" said he. "I feel a foil as quick and supple as my own. He got home upon me very prettily that time. So his name was Sherlock Holmes, was it?" "Yes, sir, that was the gentleman's name." "Excellent! Tell me where you picked him up and all that occurred." "He hailed me at half-past nine in Trafalgar Square. He said that he was a detective, and he offered me two guineas if I would do exactly what he wanted all day and ask no questions. I was glad enough to agree. First we drove down to the Northumberland Hotel and waited there until two gentlemen came out and took a cab from the rank. We followed their cab until it pulled up somewhere near here." "This very door," said Holmes. "Well, I couldn't be sure of that, but I dare say my fare knew all about it. We pulled up halfway down the street and waited an hour and a half. Then the two gentlemen passed us, walking, and we followed down Baker Street and along--" "I know," said Holmes. "Until we got three-quarters down Regent Street. Then my gentleman threw up the trap, and he cried that I should drive right away to Waterloo Station as hard as I could go. I whipped up the mare and we were there under the ten minutes. Then he paid up his two guineas, like a good one, and away he went into the station. Only just as he was leaving he turned round and he said: 'It might interest you to know that you have been driving Mr. Sherlock Holmes.' That's how I come to know the name." "I see. And you saw no more of him?" "Not after he went into the station." "And how would you describe Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" The cabman scratched his head. "Well, he wasn't altogether such an easy gentleman to describe. I'd put him at forty years of age, and he was of a middle height, two or three inches shorter than you, sir. He was dressed like a toff, and he had a black beard, cut square at the end, and a pale face. I don't know as I could say more than that." "Colour of his eyes?" "No, I can't say that." "Nothing more that you can remember?" "No, sir; nothing." "Well, then, here is your half-sovereign. There's another one waiting for you if you can bring any more information. Good-night!" "Good-night, sir, and thank you!" John Clayton departed chuckling, and Holmes turned to me with a shrug of his shoulders and a rueful smile. "Snap goes our third thread, and we end where we began," said he. "The cunning rascal! He knew our number, knew that Sir Henry Baskerville had consulted me, spotted who I was in Regent Street, conjectured that I had got the number of the cab and would lay my hands on the driver, and so sent back this audacious message. I tell you, Watson, this time we have got a foeman who is worthy of our steel. I've been checkmated in London. I can only wish you better luck in Devonshire. But I'm not easy in my mind about it." "About what?" "About sending you. It's an ugly business, Watson, an ugly dangerous business, and the more I see of it the less I like it. Yes, my dear fellow, you may laugh, but I give you my word that I shall be very glad to have you back safe and sound in Baker Street once more." Chapter 6. Baskerville Hall Sir Henry Baskerville and Dr. Mortimer were ready upon the appointed day, and we started as arranged for Devonshire. Mr. Sherlock Holmes drove with me to the station and gave me his last parting injunctions and advice. "I will not bias your mind by suggesting theories or suspicions, Watson," said he; "I wish you simply to report facts in the fullest possible manner to me, and you can leave me to do the theorizing." "What sort of facts?" I asked. "Anything which may seem to have a bearing however indirect upon the case, and especially the relations between young Baskerville and his neighbours or any fresh particulars concerning the death of Sir Charles. I have made some inquiries myself in the last few days, but the results have, I fear, been negative. One thing only appears to be certain, and that is that Mr. James Desmond, who is the next heir, is an elderly gentleman of a very amiable disposition, so that this persecution does not arise from him. I really think that we may eliminate him entirely from our calculations. There remain the people who will actually surround Sir Henry Baskerville upon the moor." "Would it not be well in the first place to get rid of this Barrymore couple?" "By no means. You could not make a greater mistake. If they are innocent it would be a cruel injustice, and if they are guilty we should be giving up all chance of bringing it home to them. No, no, we will preserve them upon our list of suspects. Then there is a groom at the Hall, if I remember right. There are two moorland farmers. There is our friend Dr. Mortimer, whom I believe to be entirely honest, and there is his wife, of whom we know nothing. There is this naturalist, Stapleton, and there is his sister, who is said to be a young lady of attractions. There is Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Hall, who is also an unknown factor, and there are one or two other neighbours. These are the folk who must be your very special study." "I will do my best." "You have arms, I suppose?" "Yes, I thought it as well to take them." "Most certainly. Keep your revolver near you night and day, and never relax your precautions." Our friends had already secured a first-class carriage and were waiting for us upon the platform. "No, we have no news of any kind," said Dr. Mortimer in answer to my friend's questions. "I can swear to one thing, and that is that we have not been shadowed during the last two days. We have never gone out without keeping a sharp watch, and no one could have escaped our notice." "You have always kept together, I presume?" "Except yesterday afternoon. I usually give up one day to pure amusement when I come to town, so I spent it at the Museum of the College of Surgeons." "And I went to look at the folk in the park," said Baskerville. "But we had no trouble of any kind." "It was imprudent, all the same," said Holmes, shaking his head and looking very grave. "I beg, Sir Henry, that you will not go about alone. Some great misfortune will befall you if you do. Did you get your other boot?" "No, sir, it is gone forever." "Indeed. That is very interesting. Well, good-bye," he added as the train began to glide down the platform. "Bear in mind, Sir Henry, one of the phrases in that queer old legend which Dr. Mortimer has read to us, and avoid the moor in those hours of darkness when the powers of evil are exalted." I looked back at the platform when we had left it far behind and saw the tall, austere figure of Holmes standing motionless and gazing after us. The journey was a swift and pleasant one, and I spent it in making the more intimate acquaintance of my two companions and in playing with Dr. Mortimer's spaniel. In a very few hours the brown earth had become ruddy, the brick had changed to granite, and red cows grazed in well-hedged fields where the lush grasses and more luxuriant vegetation spoke of a richer, if a damper, climate. Young Baskerville stared eagerly out of the window and cried aloud with delight as he recognized the familiar features of the Devon scenery. "I've been over a good part of the world since I left it, Dr. Watson," said he; "but I have never seen a place to compare with it." "I never saw a Devonshire man who did not swear by his county," I remarked. "It depends upon the breed of men quite as much as on the county," said Dr. Mortimer. "A glance at our friend here reveals the rounded head of the Celt, which carries inside it the Celtic enthusiasm and power of attachment. Poor Sir Charles's head was of a very rare type, half Gaelic, half Ivernian in its characteristics. But you were very young when you last saw Baskerville Hall, were you not?" "I was a boy in my teens at the time of my father's death and had never seen the Hall, for he lived in a little cottage on the South Coast. Thence I went straight to a friend in America. I tell you it is all as new to me as it is to Dr. Watson, and I'm as keen as possible to see the moor." "Are you? Then your wish is easily granted, for there is your first sight of the moor," said Dr. Mortimer, pointing out of the carriage window. Over the green squares of the fields and the low curve of a wood there rose in the distance a gray, melancholy hill, with a strange jagged summit, dim and vague in the distance, like some fantastic landscape in a dream. Baskerville sat for a long time, his eyes fixed upon it, and I read upon his eager face how much it meant to him, this first sight of that strange spot where the men of his blood had held sway so long and left their mark so deep. There he sat, with his tweed suit and his American accent, in the corner of a prosaic railway-carriage, and yet as I looked at his dark and expressive face I felt more than ever how true a descendant he was of that long line of high-blooded, fiery, and masterful men. There were pride, valour, and strength in his thick brows, his sensitive nostrils, and his large hazel eyes. If on that forbidding moor a difficult and dangerous quest should lie before us, this was at least a comrade for whom one might venture to take a risk with the certainty that he would bravely share it. The train pulled up at a small wayside station and we all descended. Outside, beyond the low, white fence, a wagonette with a pair of cobs was waiting. Our coming was evidently a great event, for station-master and porters clustered round us to carry out our luggage. It was a sweet, simple country spot, but I was surprised to observe that by the gate there stood two soldierly men in dark uniforms who leaned upon their short rifles and glanced keenly at us as we passed. The coachman, a hard-faced, gnarled little fellow, saluted Sir Henry Baskerville, and in a few minutes we were flying swiftly down the broad, white road. Rolling pasture lands curved upward on either side of us, and old gabled houses peeped out from amid the thick green foliage, but behind the peaceful and sunlit countryside there rose ever, dark against the evening sky, the long, gloomy curve of the moor, broken by the jagged and sinister hills. The wagonette swung round into a side road, and we curved upward through deep lanes worn by centuries of wheels, high banks on either side, heavy with dripping moss and fleshy hart's-tongue ferns. Bronzing bracken and mottled bramble gleamed in the light of the sinking sun. Still steadily rising, we passed over a narrow granite bridge and skirted a noisy stream which gushed swiftly down, foaming and roaring amid the gray boulders. Both road and stream wound up through a valley dense with scrub oak and fir. At every turn Baskerville gave an exclamation of delight, looking eagerly about him and asking countless questions. To his eyes all seemed beautiful, but to me a tinge of melancholy lay upon the countryside, which bore so clearly the mark of the waning year. Yellow leaves carpeted the lanes and fluttered down upon us as we passed. The rattle of our wheels died away as we drove through drifts of rotting vegetation--sad gifts, as it seemed to me, for Nature to throw before the carriage of the returning heir of the Baskervilles. "Halloa!" cried Dr. Mortimer, "what is this?" A steep curve of heath-clad land, an outlying spur of the moor, lay in front of us. On the summit, hard and clear like an equestrian statue upon its pedestal, was a mounted soldier, dark and stern, his rifle poised ready over his forearm. He was watching the road along which we travelled. "What is this, Perkins?" asked Dr. Mortimer. Our driver half turned in his seat. "There's a convict escaped from Princetown, sir. He's been out three days now, and the warders watch every road and every station, but they've had no sight of him yet. The farmers about here don't like it, sir, and that's a fact." "Well, I understand that they get five pounds if they can give information." "Yes, sir, but the chance of five pounds is but a poor thing compared to the chance of having your throat cut. You see, it isn't like any ordinary convict. This is a man that would stick at nothing." "Who is he, then?" "It is Selden, the Notting Hill murderer." I remembered the case well, for it was one in which Holmes had taken an interest on account of the peculiar ferocity of the crime and the wanton brutality which had marked all the actions of the assassin. The commutation of his death sentence had been due to some doubts as to his complete sanity, so atrocious was his conduct. Our wagonette had topped a rise and in front of us rose the huge expanse of the moor, mottled with gnarled and craggy cairns and tors. A cold wind swept down from it and set us shivering. Somewhere there, on that desolate plain, was lurking this fiendish man, hiding in a burrow like a wild beast, his heart full of malignancy against the whole race which had cast him out. It needed but this to complete the grim suggestiveness of the barren waste, the chilling wind, and the darkling sky. Even Baskerville fell silent and pulled his overcoat more closely around him. We had left the fertile country behind and beneath us. We looked back on it now, the slanting rays of a low sun turning the streams to threads of gold and glowing on the red earth new turned by the plough and the broad tangle of the woodlands. The road in front of us grew bleaker and wilder over huge russet and olive slopes, sprinkled with giant boulders. Now and then we passed a moorland cottage, walled and roofed with stone, with no creeper to break its harsh outline. Suddenly we looked down into a cuplike depression, patched with stunted oaks and firs which had been twisted and bent by the fury of years of storm. Two high, narrow towers rose over the trees. The driver pointed with his whip. "Baskerville Hall," said he. Its master had risen and was staring with flushed cheeks and shining eyes. A few minutes later we had reached the lodge-gates, a maze of fantastic tracery in wrought iron, with weather-bitten pillars on either side, blotched with lichens, and surmounted by the boars' heads of the Baskervilles. The lodge was a ruin of black granite and bared ribs of rafters, but facing it was a new building, half constructed, the first fruit of Sir Charles's South African gold. Through the gateway we passed into the avenue, where the wheels were again hushed amid the leaves, and the old trees shot their branches in a sombre tunnel over our heads. Baskerville shuddered as he looked up the long, dark drive to where the house glimmered like a ghost at the farther end. "Was it here?" he asked in a low voice. "No, no, the yew alley is on the other side." The young heir glanced round with a gloomy face. "It's no wonder my uncle felt as if trouble were coming on him in such a place as this," said he. "It's enough to scare any man. I'll have a row of electric lamps up here inside of six months, and you won't know it again, with a thousand candle-power Swan and Edison right here in front of the hall door." The avenue opened into a broad expanse of turf, and the house lay before us. In the fading light I could see that the centre was a heavy block of building from which a porch projected. The whole front was draped in ivy, with a patch clipped bare here and there where a window or a coat of arms broke through the dark veil. From this central block rose the twin towers, ancient, crenelated, and pierced with many loopholes. To right and left of the turrets were more modern wings of black granite. A dull light shone through heavy mullioned windows, and from the high chimneys which rose from the steep, high-angled roof there sprang a single black column of smoke. "Welcome, Sir Henry! Welcome to Baskerville Hall!" A tall man had stepped from the shadow of the porch to open the door of the wagonette. The figure of a woman was silhouetted against the yellow light of the hall. She came out and helped the man to hand down our bags. "You don't mind my driving straight home, Sir Henry?" said Dr. Mortimer. "My wife is expecting me." "Surely you will stay and have some dinner?" "No, I must go. I shall probably find some work awaiting me. I would stay to show you over the house, but Barrymore will be a better guide than I. Good-bye, and never hesitate night or day to send for me if I can be of service." The wheels died away down the drive while Sir Henry and I turned into the hall, and the door clanged heavily behind us. It was a fine apartment in which we found ourselves, large, lofty, and heavily raftered with huge baulks of age-blackened oak. In the great old-fashioned fireplace behind the high iron dogs a log-fire crackled and snapped. Sir Henry and I held out our hands to it, for we were numb from our long drive. Then we gazed round us at the high, thin window of old stained glass, the oak panelling, the stags' heads, the coats of arms upon the walls, all dim and sombre in the subdued light of the central lamp. "It's just as I imagined it," said Sir Henry. "Is it not the very picture of an old family home? To think that this should be the same hall in which for five hundred years my people have lived. It strikes me solemn to think of it." I saw his dark face lit up with a boyish enthusiasm as he gazed about him. The light beat upon him where he stood, but long shadows trailed down the walls and hung like a black canopy above him. Barrymore had returned from taking our luggage to our rooms. He stood in front of us now with the subdued manner of a well-trained servant. He was a remarkable-looking man, tall, handsome, with a square black beard and pale, distinguished features. "Would you wish dinner to be served at once, sir?" "Is it ready?" "In a very few minutes, sir. You will find hot water in your rooms. My wife and I will be happy, Sir Henry, to stay with you until you have made your fresh arrangements, but you will understand that under the new conditions this house will require a considerable staff." "What new conditions?" "I only meant, sir, that Sir Charles led a very retired life, and we were able to look after his wants. You would, naturally, wish to have more company, and so you will need changes in your household." "Do you mean that your wife and you wish to leave?" "Only when it is quite convenient to you, sir." "But your family have been with us for several generations, have they not? I should be sorry to begin my life here by breaking an old family connection." I seemed to discern some signs of emotion upon the butler's white face. "I feel that also, sir, and so does my wife. But to tell the truth, sir, we were both very much attached to Sir Charles, and his death gave us a shock and made these surroundings very painful to us. I fear that we shall never again be easy in our minds at Baskerville Hall." "But what do you intend to do?" "I have no doubt, sir, that we shall succeed in establishing ourselves in some business. Sir Charles's generosity has given us the means to do so. And now, sir, perhaps I had best show you to your rooms." A square balustraded gallery ran round the top of the old hall, approached by a double stair. From this central point two long corridors extended the whole length of the building, from which all the bedrooms opened. My own was in the same wing as Baskerville's and almost next door to it. These rooms appeared to be much more modern than the central part of the house, and the bright paper and numerous candles did something to remove the sombre impression which our arrival had left upon my mind. But the dining-room which opened out of the hall was a place of shadow and gloom. It was a long chamber with a step separating the dais where the family sat from the lower portion reserved for their dependents. At one end a minstrel's gallery overlooked it. Black beams shot across above our heads, with a smoke-darkened ceiling beyond them. With rows of flaring torches to light it up, and the colour and rude hilarity of an old-time banquet, it might have softened; but now, when two black-clothed gentlemen sat in the little circle of light thrown by a shaded lamp, one's voice became hushed and one's spirit subdued. A dim line of ancestors, in every variety of dress, from the Elizabethan knight to the buck of the Regency, stared down upon us and daunted us by their silent company. We talked little, and I for one was glad when the meal was over and we were able to retire into the modern billiard-room and smoke a cigarette. "My word, it isn't a very cheerful place," said Sir Henry. "I suppose one can tone down to it, but I feel a bit out of the picture at present. I don't wonder that my uncle got a little jumpy if he lived all alone in such a house as this. However, if it suits you, we will retire early tonight, and perhaps things may seem more cheerful in the morning." I drew aside my curtains before I went to bed and looked out from my window. It opened upon the grassy space which lay in front of the hall door. Beyond, two copses of trees moaned and swung in a rising wind. A half moon broke through the rifts of racing clouds. In its cold light I saw beyond the trees a broken fringe of rocks, and the long, low curve of the melancholy moor. I closed the curtain, feeling that my last impression was in keeping with the rest. And yet it was not quite the last. I found myself weary and yet wakeful, tossing restlessly from side to side, seeking for the sleep which would not come. Far away a chiming clock struck out the quarters of the hours, but otherwise a deathly silence lay upon the old house. And then suddenly, in the very dead of the night, there came a sound to my ears, clear, resonant, and unmistakable. It was the sob of a woman, the muffled, strangling gasp of one who is torn by an uncontrollable sorrow. I sat up in bed and listened intently. The noise could not have been far away and was certainly in the house. For half an hour I waited with every nerve on the alert, but there came no other sound save the chiming clock and the rustle of the ivy on the wall. Chapter 7. The Stapletons of Merripit House The fresh beauty of the following morning did something to efface from our minds the grim and gray impression which had been left upon both of us by our first experience of Baskerville Hall. As Sir Henry and I sat at breakfast the sunlight flooded in through the high mullioned windows, throwing watery patches of colour from the coats of arms which covered them. The dark panelling glowed like bronze in the golden rays, and it was hard to realize that this was indeed the chamber which had struck such a gloom into our souls upon the evening before. "I guess it is ourselves and not the house that we have to blame!" said the baronet. "We were tired with our journey and chilled by our drive, so we took a gray view of the place. Now we are fresh and well, so it is all cheerful once more." "And yet it was not entirely a question of imagination," I answered. "Did you, for example, happen to hear someone, a woman I think, sobbing in the night?" "That is curious, for I did when I was half asleep fancy that I heard something of the sort. I waited quite a time, but there was no more of it, so I concluded that it was all a dream." "I heard it distinctly, and I am sure that it was really the sob of a woman." "We must ask about this right away." He rang the bell and asked Barrymore whether he could account for our experience. It seemed to me that the pallid features of the butler turned a shade paler still as he listened to his master's question. "There are only two women in the house, Sir Henry," he answered. "One is the scullery-maid, who sleeps in the other wing. The other is my wife, and I can answer for it that the sound could not have come from her." And yet he lied as he said it, for it chanced that after breakfast I met Mrs. Barrymore in the long corridor with the sun full upon her face. She was a large, impassive, heavy-featured woman with a stern set expression of mouth. But her telltale eyes were red and glanced at me from between swollen lids. It was she, then, who wept in the night, and if she did so her husband must know it. Yet he had taken the obvious risk of discovery in declaring that it was not so. Why had he done this? And why did she weep so bitterly? Already round this pale-faced, handsome, black-bearded man there was gathering an atmosphere of mystery and of gloom. It was he who had been the first to discover the body of Sir Charles, and we had only his word for all the circumstances which led up to the old man's death. Was it possible that it was Barrymore, after all, whom we had seen in the cab in Regent Street? The beard might well have been the same. The cabman had described a somewhat shorter man, but such an impression might easily have been erroneous. How could I settle the point forever? Obviously the first thing to do was to see the Grimpen postmaster and find whether the test telegram had really been placed in Barrymore's own hands. Be the answer what it might, I should at least have something to report to Sherlock Holmes. Sir Henry had numerous papers to examine after breakfast, so that the time was propitious for my excursion. It was a pleasant walk of four miles along the edge of the moor, leading me at last to a small gray hamlet, in which two larger buildings, which proved to be the inn and the house of Dr. Mortimer, stood high above the rest. The postmaster, who was also the village grocer, had a clear recollection of the telegram. "Certainly, sir," said he, "I had the telegram delivered to Mr. Barrymore exactly as directed." "Who delivered it?" "My boy here. James, you delivered that telegram to Mr. Barrymore at the Hall last week, did you not?" "Yes, father, I delivered it." "Into his own hands?" I asked. "Well, he was up in the loft at the time, so that I could not put it into his own hands, but I gave it into Mrs. Barrymore's hands, and she promised to deliver it at once." "Did you see Mr. Barrymore?" "No, sir; I tell you he was in the loft." "If you didn't see him, how do you know he was in the loft?" "Well, surely his own wife ought to know where he is," said the postmaster testily. "Didn't he get the telegram? If there is any mistake it is for Mr. Barrymore himself to complain." It seemed hopeless to pursue the inquiry any farther, but it was clear that in spite of Holmes's ruse we had no proof that Barrymore had not been in London all the time. Suppose that it were so--suppose that the same man had been the last who had seen Sir Charles alive, and the first to dog the new heir when he returned to England. What then? Was he the agent of others or had he some sinister design of his own? What interest could he have in persecuting the Baskerville family? I thought of the strange warning clipped out of the leading article of the Times. Was that his work or was it possibly the doing of someone who was bent upon counteracting his schemes? The only conceivable motive was that which had been suggested by Sir Henry, that if the family could be scared away a comfortable and permanent home would be secured for the Barrymores. But surely such an explanation as that would be quite inadequate to account for the deep and subtle scheming which seemed to be weaving an invisible net round the young baronet. Holmes himself had said that no more complex case had come to him in all the long series of his sensational investigations. I prayed, as I walked back along the gray, lonely road, that my friend might soon be freed from his preoccupations and able to come down to take this heavy burden of responsibility from my shoulders. Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of running feet behind me and by a voice which called me by name. I turned, expecting to see Dr. Mortimer, but to my surprise it was a stranger who was pursuing me. He was a small, slim, clean-shaven, prim-faced man, flaxen-haired and leanjawed, between thirty and forty years of age, dressed in a gray suit and wearing a straw hat. A tin box for botanical specimens hung over his shoulder and he carried a green butterfly-net in one of his hands. "You will, I am sure, excuse my presumption, Dr. Watson," said he as he came panting up to where I stood. "Here on the moor we are homely folk and do not wait for formal introductions. You may possibly have heard my name from our mutual friend, Mortimer. I am Stapleton, of Merripit House." "Your net and box would have told me as much," said I, "for I knew that Mr. Stapleton was a naturalist. But how did you know me?" "I have been calling on Mortimer, and he pointed you out to me from the window of his surgery as you passed. As our road lay the same way I thought that I would overtake you and introduce myself. I trust that Sir Henry is none the worse for his journey?" "He is very well, thank you." "We were all rather afraid that after the sad death of Sir Charles the new baronet might refuse to live here. It is asking much of a wealthy man to come down and bury himself in a place of this kind, but I need not tell you that it means a very great deal to the countryside. Sir Henry has, I suppose, no superstitious fears in the matter?" "I do not think that it is likely." "Of course you know the legend of the fiend dog which haunts the family?" "I have heard it." "It is extraordinary how credulous the peasants are about here! Any number of them are ready to swear that they have seen such a creature upon the moor." He spoke with a smile, but I seemed to read in his eyes that he took the matter more seriously. "The story took a great hold upon the imagination of Sir Charles, and I have no doubt that it led to his tragic end." "But how?" "His nerves were so worked up that the appearance of any dog might have had a fatal effect upon his diseased heart. I fancy that he really did see something of the kind upon that last night in the yew alley. I feared that some disaster might occur, for I was very fond of the old man, and I knew that his heart was weak." "How did you know that?" "My friend Mortimer told me." "You think, then, that some dog pursued Sir Charles, and that he died of fright in consequence?" "Have you any better explanation?" "I have not come to any conclusion." "Has Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" The words took away my breath for an instant but a glance at the placid face and steadfast eyes of my companion showed that no surprise was intended. "It is useless for us to pretend that we do not know you, Dr. Watson," said he. "The records of your detective have reached us here, and you could not celebrate him without being known yourself. When Mortimer told me your name he could not deny your identity. If you are here, then it follows that Mr. Sherlock Holmes is interesting himself in the matter, and I am naturally curious to know what view he may take." "I am afraid that I cannot answer that question." "May I ask if he is going to honour us with a visit himself?" "He cannot leave town at present. He has other cases which engage his attention." "What a pity! He might throw some light on that which is so dark to us. But as to your own researches, if there is any possible way in which I can be of service to you I trust that you will command me. If I had any indication of the nature of your suspicions or how you propose to investigate the case, I might perhaps even now give you some aid or advice." "I assure you that I am simply here upon a visit to my friend, Sir Henry, and that I need no help of any kind." "Excellent!" said Stapleton. "You are perfectly right to be wary and discreet. I am justly reproved for what I feel was an unjustifiable intrusion, and I promise you that I will not mention the matter again." We had come to a point where a narrow grassy path struck off from the road and wound away across the moor. A steep, boulder-sprinkled hill lay upon the right which had in bygone days been cut into a granite quarry. The face which was turned towards us formed a dark cliff, with ferns and brambles growing in its niches. From over a distant rise there floated a gray plume of smoke. "A moderate walk along this moor-path brings us to Merripit House," said he. "Perhaps you will spare an hour that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to my sister." My first thought was that I should be by Sir Henry's side. But then I remembered the pile of papers and bills with which his study table was littered. It was certain that I could not help with those. And Holmes had expressly said that I should study the neighbours upon the moor. I accepted Stapleton's invitation, and we turned together down the path. "It is a wonderful place, the moor," said he, looking round over the undulating downs, long green rollers, with crests of jagged granite foaming up into fantastic surges. "You never tire of the moor. You cannot think the wonderful secrets which it contains. It is so vast, and so barren, and so mysterious." "You know it well, then?" "I have only been here two years. The residents would call me a newcomer. We came shortly after Sir Charles settled. But my tastes led me to explore every part of the country round, and I should think that there are few men who know it better than I do." "Is it hard to know?" "Very hard. You see, for example, this great plain to the north here with the queer hills breaking out of it. Do you observe anything remarkable about that?" "It would be a rare place for a gallop." "You would naturally think so and the thought has cost several their lives before now. You notice those bright green spots scattered thickly over it?" "Yes, they seem more fertile than the rest." Stapleton laughed. "That is the great Grimpen Mire," said he. "A false step yonder means death to man or beast. Only yesterday I saw one of the moor ponies wander into it. He never came out. I saw his head for quite a long time craning out of the bog-hole, but it sucked him down at last. Even in dry seasons it is a danger to cross it, but after these autumn rains it is an awful place. And yet I can find my way to the very heart of it and return alive. By George, there is another of those miserable ponies!" Something brown was rolling and tossing among the green sedges. Then a long, agonized, writhing neck shot upward and a dreadful cry echoed over the moor. It turned me cold with horror, but my companion's nerves seemed to be stronger than mine. "It's gone!" said he. "The mire has him. Two in two days, and many more, perhaps, for they get in the way of going there in the dry weather and never know the difference until the mire has them in its clutches. It's a bad place, the great Grimpen Mire." "And you say you can penetrate it?" "Yes, there are one or two paths which a very active man can take. I have found them out." "But why should you wish to go into so horrible a place?" "Well, you see the hills beyond? They are really islands cut off on all sides by the impassable mire, which has crawled round them in the course of years. That is where the rare plants and the butterflies are, if you have the wit to reach them." "I shall try my luck some day." He looked at me with a surprised face. "For God's sake put such an idea out of your mind," said he. "Your blood would be upon my head. I assure you that there would not be the least chance of your coming back alive. It is only by remembering certain complex landmarks that I am able to do it." "Halloa!" I cried. "What is that?" A long, low moan, indescribably sad, swept over the moor. It filled the whole air, and yet it was impossible to say whence it came. From a dull murmur it swelled into a deep roar, and then sank back into a melancholy, throbbing murmur once again. Stapleton looked at me with a curious expression in his face. "Queer place, the moor!" said he. "But what is it?" "The peasants say it is the Hound of the Baskervilles calling for its prey. I've heard it once or twice before, but never quite so loud." I looked round, with a chill of fear in my heart, at the huge swelling plain, mottled with the green patches of rushes. Nothing stirred over the vast expanse save a pair of ravens, which croaked loudly from a tor behind us. "You are an educated man. You don't believe such nonsense as that?" said I. "What do you think is the cause of so strange a sound?" "Bogs make queer noises sometimes. It's the mud settling, or the water rising, or something." "No, no, that was a living voice." "Well, perhaps it was. Did you ever hear a bittern booming?" "No, I never did." "It's a very rare bird--practically extinct--in England now, but all things are possible upon the moor. Yes, I should not be surprised to learn that what we have heard is the cry of the last of the bitterns." "It's the weirdest, strangest thing that ever I heard in my life." "Yes, it's rather an uncanny place altogether. Look at the hillside yonder. What do you make of those?" The whole steep slope was covered with gray circular rings of stone, a score of them at least. "What are they? Sheep-pens?" "No, they are the homes of our worthy ancestors. Prehistoric man lived thickly on the moor, and as no one in particular has lived there since, we find all his little arrangements exactly as he left them. These are his wigwams with the roofs off. You can even see his hearth and his couch if you have the curiosity to go inside. "But it is quite a town. When was it inhabited?" "Neolithic man--no date." "What did he do?" "He grazed his cattle on these slopes, and he learned to dig for tin when the bronze sword began to supersede the stone axe. Look at the great trench in the opposite hill. That is his mark. Yes, you will find some very singular points about the moor, Dr. Watson. Oh, excuse me an instant! It is surely Cyclopides." A small fly or moth had fluttered across our path, and in an instant Stapleton was rushing with extraordinary energy and speed in pursuit of it. To my dismay the creature flew straight for the great mire, and my acquaintance never paused for an instant, bounding from tuft to tuft behind it, his green net waving in the air. His gray clothes and jerky, zigzag, irregular progress made him not unlike some huge moth himself. I was standing watching his pursuit with a mixture of admiration for his extraordinary activity and fear lest he should lose his footing in the treacherous mire, when I heard the sound of steps and, turning round, found a woman near me upon the path. She had come from the direction in which the plume of smoke indicated the position of Merripit House, but the dip of the moor had hid her until she was quite close. I could not doubt that this was the Miss Stapleton of whom I had been told, since ladies of any sort must be few upon the moor, and I remembered that I had heard someone describe her as being a beauty. The woman who approached me was certainly that, and of a most uncommon type. There could not have been a greater contrast between brother and sister, for Stapleton was neutral tinted, with light hair and gray eyes, while she was darker than any brunette whom I have seen in England--slim, elegant, and tall. She had a proud, finely cut face, so regular that it might have seemed impassive were it not for the sensitive mouth and the beautiful dark, eager eyes. With her perfect figure and elegant dress she was, indeed, a strange apparition upon a lonely moorland path. Her eyes were on her brother as I turned, and then she quickened her pace towards me. I had raised my hat and was about to make some explanatory remark when her own words turned all my thoughts into a new channel. "Go back!" she said. "Go straight back to London, instantly." I could only stare at her in stupid surprise. Her eyes blazed at me, and she tapped the ground impatiently with her foot. "Why should I go back?" I asked. "I cannot explain." She spoke in a low, eager voice, with a curious lisp in her utterance. "But for God's sake do what I ask you. Go back and never set foot upon the moor again." "But I have only just come." "Man, man!" she cried. "Can you not tell when a warning is for your own good? Go back to London! Start tonight! Get away from this place at all costs! Hush, my brother is coming! Not a word of what I have said. Would you mind getting that orchid for me among the mare's-tails yonder? We are very rich in orchids on the moor, though, of course, you are rather late to see the beauties of the place." Stapleton had abandoned the chase and came back to us breathing hard and flushed with his exertions. "Halloa, Beryl!" said he, and it seemed to me that the tone of his greeting was not altogether a cordial one. "Well, Jack, you are very hot." "Yes, I was chasing a Cyclopides. He is very rare and seldom found in the late autumn. What a pity that I should have missed him!" He spoke unconcernedly, but his small light eyes glanced incessantly from the girl to me. "You have introduced yourselves, I can see." "Yes. I was telling Sir Henry that it was rather late for him to see the true beauties of the moor." "Why, who do you think this is?" "I imagine that it must be Sir Henry Baskerville." "No, no," said I. "Only a humble commoner, but his friend. My name is Dr. Watson." A flush of vexation passed over her expressive face. "We have been talking at cross purposes," said she. "Why, you had not very much time for talk," her brother remarked with the same questioning eyes. "I talked as if Dr. Watson were a resident instead of being merely a visitor," said she. "It cannot much matter to him whether it is early or late for the orchids. But you will come on, will you not, and see Merripit House?" A short walk brought us to it, a bleak moorland house, once the farm of some grazier in the old prosperous days, but now put into repair and turned into a modern dwelling. An orchard surrounded it, but the trees, as is usual upon the moor, were stunted and nipped, and the effect of the whole place was mean and melancholy. We were admitted by a strange, wizened, rusty-coated old manservant, who seemed in keeping with the house. Inside, however, there were large rooms furnished with an elegance in which I seemed to recognize the taste of the lady. As I looked from their windows at the interminable granite-flecked moor rolling unbroken to the farthest horizon I could not but marvel at what could have brought this highly educated man and this beautiful woman to live in such a place. "Queer spot to choose, is it not?" said he as if in answer to my thought. "And yet we manage to make ourselves fairly happy, do we not, Beryl?" "Quite happy," said she, but there was no ring of conviction in her words. "I had a school," said Stapleton. "It was in the north country. The work to a man of my temperament was mechanical and uninteresting, but the privilege of living with youth, of helping to mould those young minds, and of impressing them with one's own character and ideals was very dear to me. However, the fates were against us. A serious epidemic broke out in the school and three of the boys died. It never recovered from the blow, and much of my capital was irretrievably swallowed up. And yet, if it were not for the loss of the charming companionship of the boys, I could rejoice over my own misfortune, for, with my strong tastes for botany and zoology, I find an unlimited field of work here, and my sister is as devoted to Nature as I am. All this, Dr. Watson, has been brought upon your head by your expression as you surveyed the moor out of our window." "It certainly did cross my mind that it might be a little dull--less for you, perhaps, than for your sister." "No, no, I am never dull," said she quickly. "We have books, we have our studies, and we have interesting neighbours. Dr. Mortimer is a most learned man in his own line. Poor Sir Charles was also an admirable companion. We knew him well and miss him more than I can tell. Do you think that I should intrude if I were to call this afternoon and make the acquaintance of Sir Henry?" "I am sure that he would be delighted." "Then perhaps you would mention that I propose to do so. We may in our humble way do something to make things more easy for him until he becomes accustomed to his new surroundings. Will you come upstairs, Dr. Watson, and inspect my collection of Lepidoptera? I think it is the most complete one in the south-west of England. By the time that you have looked through them lunch will be almost ready." But I was eager to get back to my charge. The melancholy of the moor, the death of the unfortunate pony, the weird sound which had been associated with the grim legend of the Baskervilles, all these things tinged my thoughts with sadness. Then on the top of these more or less vague impressions there had come the definite and distinct warning of Miss Stapleton, delivered with such intense earnestness that I could not doubt that some grave and deep reason lay behind it. I resisted all pressure to stay for lunch, and I set off at once upon my return journey, taking the grass-grown path by which we had come. It seems, however, that there must have been some short cut for those who knew it, for before I had reached the road I was astounded to see Miss Stapleton sitting upon a rock by the side of the track. Her face was beautifully flushed with her exertions and she held her hand to her side. "I have run all the way in order to cut you off, Dr. Watson," said she. "I had not even time to put on my hat. I must not stop, or my brother may miss me. I wanted to say to you how sorry I am about the stupid mistake I made in thinking that you were Sir Henry. Please forget the words I said, which have no application whatever to you." "But I can't forget them, Miss Stapleton," said I. "I am Sir Henry's friend, and his welfare is a very close concern of mine. Tell me why it was that you were so eager that Sir Henry should return to London." "A woman's whim, Dr. Watson. When you know me better you will understand that I cannot always give reasons for what I say or do." "No, no. I remember the thrill in your voice. I remember the look in your eyes. Please, please, be frank with me, Miss Stapleton, for ever since I have been here I have been conscious of shadows all round me. Life has become like that great Grimpen Mire, with little green patches everywhere into which one may sink and with no guide to point the track. Tell me then what it was that you meant, and I will promise to convey your warning to Sir Henry." An expression of irresolution passed for an instant over her face, but her eyes had hardened again when she answered me. "You make too much of it, Dr. Watson," said she. "My brother and I were very much shocked by the death of Sir Charles. We knew him very intimately, for his favourite walk was over the moor to our house. He was deeply impressed with the curse which hung over the family, and when this tragedy came I naturally felt that there must be some grounds for the fears which he had expressed. I was distressed therefore when another member of the family came down to live here, and I felt that he should be warned of the danger which he will run. That was all which I intended to convey. "But what is the danger?" "You know the story of the hound?" "I do not believe in such nonsense." "But I do. If you have any influence with Sir Henry, take him away from a place which has always been fatal to his family. The world is wide. Why should he wish to live at the place of danger?" "Because it is the place of danger. That is Sir Henry's nature. I fear that unless you can give me some more definite information than this it would be impossible to get him to move." "I cannot say anything definite, for I do not know anything definite." "I would ask you one more question, Miss Stapleton. If you meant no more than this when you first spoke to me, why should you not wish your brother to overhear what you said? There is nothing to which he, or anyone else, could object." "My brother is very anxious to have the Hall inhabited, for he thinks it is for the good of the poor folk upon the moor. He would be very angry if he knew that I have said anything which might induce Sir Henry to go away. But I have done my duty now and I will say no more. I must go back, or he will miss me and suspect that I have seen you. Good-bye!" She turned and had disappeared in a few minutes among the scattered boulders, while I, with my soul full of vague fears, pursued my way to Baskerville Hall. Chapter 8. First Report of Dr. Watson From this point onward I will follow the course of events by transcribing my own letters to Mr. Sherlock Holmes which lie before me on the table. One page is missing, but otherwise they are exactly as written and show my feelings and suspicions of the moment more accurately than my memory, clear as it is upon these tragic events, can possibly do. Baskerville Hall, October 13th. MY DEAR HOLMES: My previous letters and telegrams have kept you pretty well up to date as to all that has occurred in this most God-forsaken corner of the world. The longer one stays here the more does the spirit of the moor sink into one's soul, its vastness, and also its grim charm. When you are once out upon its bosom you have left all traces of modern England behind you, but, on the other hand, you are conscious everywhere of the homes and the work of the prehistoric people. On all sides of you as you walk are the houses of these forgotten folk, with their graves and the huge monoliths which are supposed to have marked their temples. As you look at their gray stone huts against the scarred hillsides you leave your own age behind you, and if you were to see a skin-clad, hairy man crawl out from the low door fitting a flint-tipped arrow on to the string of his bow, you would feel that his presence there was more natural than your own. The strange thing is that they should have lived so thickly on what must always have been most unfruitful soil. I am no antiquarian, but I could imagine that they were some unwarlike and harried race who were forced to accept that which none other would occupy. All this, however, is foreign to the mission on which you sent me and will probably be very uninteresting to your severely practical mind. I can still remember your complete indifference as to whether the sun moved round the earth or the earth round the sun. Let me, therefore, return to the facts concerning Sir Henry Baskerville. If you have not had any report within the last few days it is because up to today there was nothing of importance to relate. Then a very surprising circumstance occurred, which I shall tell you in due course. But, first of all, I must keep you in touch with some of the other factors in the situation. One of these, concerning which I have said little, is the escaped convict upon the moor. There is strong reason now to believe that he has got right away, which is a considerable relief to the lonely householders of this district. A fortnight has passed since his flight, during which he has not been seen and nothing has been heard of him. It is surely inconceivable that he could have held out upon the moor during all that time. Of course, so far as his concealment goes there is no difficulty at all. Any one of these stone huts would give him a hiding-place. But there is nothing to eat unless he were to catch and slaughter one of the moor sheep. We think, therefore, that he has gone, and the outlying farmers sleep the better in consequence. We are four able-bodied men in this household, so that we could take good care of ourselves, but I confess that I have had uneasy moments when I have thought of the Stapletons. They live miles from any help. There are one maid, an old manservant, the sister, and the brother, the latter not a very strong man. They would be helpless in the hands of a desperate fellow like this Notting Hill criminal if he could once effect an entrance. Both Sir Henry and I were concerned at their situation, and it was suggested that Perkins the groom should go over to sleep there, but Stapleton would not hear of it. The fact is that our friend, the baronet, begins to display a considerable interest in our fair neighbour. It is not to be wondered at, for time hangs heavily in this lonely spot to an active man like him, and she is a very fascinating and beautiful woman. There is something tropical and exotic about her which forms a singular contrast to her cool and unemotional brother. Yet he also gives the idea of hidden fires. He has certainly a very marked influence over her, for I have seen her continually glance at him as she talked as if seeking approbation for what she said. I trust that he is kind to her. There is a dry glitter in his eyes and a firm set of his thin lips, which goes with a positive and possibly a harsh nature. You would find him an interesting study. He came over to call upon Baskerville on that first day, and the very next morning he took us both to show us the spot where the legend of the wicked Hugo is supposed to have had its origin. It was an excursion of some miles across the moor to a place which is so dismal that it might have suggested the story. We found a short valley between rugged tors which led to an open, grassy space flecked over with the white cotton grass. In the middle of it rose two great stones, worn and sharpened at the upper end until they looked like the huge corroding fangs of some monstrous beast. In every way it corresponded with the scene of the old tragedy. Sir Henry was much interested and asked Stapleton more than once whether he did really believe in the possibility of the interference of the supernatural in the affairs of men. He spoke lightly, but it was evident that he was very much in earnest. Stapleton was guarded in his replies, but it was easy to see that he said less than he might, and that he would not express his whole opinion out of consideration for the feelings of the baronet. He told us of similar cases, where families had suffered from some evil influence, and he left us with the impression that he shared the popular view upon the matter. On our way back we stayed for lunch at Merripit House, and it was there that Sir Henry made the acquaintance of Miss Stapleton. From the first moment that he saw her he appeared to be strongly attracted by her, and I am much mistaken if the feeling was not mutual. He referred to her again and again on our walk home, and since then hardly a day has passed that we have not seen something of the brother and sister. They dine here tonight, and there is some talk of our going to them next week. One would imagine that such a match would be very welcome to Stapleton, and yet I have more than once caught a look of the strongest disapprobation in his face when Sir Henry has been paying some attention to his sister. He is much attached to her, no doubt, and would lead a lonely life without her, but it would seem the height of selfishness if he were to stand in the way of her making so brilliant a marriage. Yet I am certain that he does not wish their intimacy to ripen into love, and I have several times observed that he has taken pains to prevent them from being tete-a-tete. By the way, your instructions to me never to allow Sir Henry to go out alone will become very much more onerous if a love affair were to be added to our other difficulties. My popularity would soon suffer if I were to carry out your orders to the letter. The other day--Thursday, to be more exact--Dr. Mortimer lunched with us. He has been excavating a barrow at Long Down and has got a prehistoric skull which fills him with great joy. Never was there such a single-minded enthusiast as he! The Stapletons came in afterwards, and the good doctor took us all to the yew alley at Sir Henry's request to show us exactly how everything occurred upon that fatal night. It is a long, dismal walk, the yew alley, between two high walls of clipped hedge, with a narrow band of grass upon either side. At the far end is an old tumble-down summer-house. Halfway down is the moor-gate, where the old gentleman left his cigar-ash. It is a white wooden gate with a latch. Beyond it lies the wide moor. I remembered your theory of the affair and tried to picture all that had occurred. As the old man stood there he saw something coming across the moor, something which terrified him so that he lost his wits and ran and ran until he died of sheer horror and exhaustion. There was the long, gloomy tunnel down which he fled. And from what? A sheep-dog of the moor? Or a spectral hound, black, silent, and monstrous? Was there a human agency in the matter? Did the pale, watchful Barrymore know more than he cared to say? It was all dim and vague, but always there is the dark shadow of crime behind it. One other neighbour I have met since I wrote last. This is Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Hall, who lives some four miles to the south of us. He is an elderly man, red-faced, white-haired, and choleric. His passion is for the British law, and he has spent a large fortune in litigation. He fights for the mere pleasure of fighting and is equally ready to take up either side of a question, so that it is no wonder that he has found it a costly amusement. Sometimes he will shut up a right of way and defy the parish to make him open it. At others he will with his own hands tear down some other man's gate and declare that a path has existed there from time immemorial, defying the owner to prosecute him for trespass. He is learned in old manorial and communal rights, and he applies his knowledge sometimes in favour of the villagers of Fernworthy and sometimes against them, so that he is periodically either carried in triumph down the village street or else burned in effigy, according to his latest exploit. He is said to have about seven lawsuits upon his hands at present, which will probably swallow up the remainder of his fortune and so draw his sting and leave him harmless for the future. Apart from the law he seems a kindly, good-natured person, and I only mention him because you were particular that I should send some description of the people who surround us. He is curiously employed at present, for, being an amateur astronomer, he has an excellent telescope, with which he lies upon the roof of his own house and sweeps the moor all day in the hope of catching a glimpse of the escaped convict. If he would confine his energies to this all would be well, but there are rumours that he intends to prosecute Dr. Mortimer for opening a grave without the consent of the next of kin because he dug up the Neolithic skull in the barrow on Long Down. He helps to keep our lives from being monotonous and gives a little comic relief where it is badly needed. And now, having brought you up to date in the escaped convict, the Stapletons, Dr. Mortimer, and Frankland, of Lafter Hall, let me end on that which is most important and tell you more about the Barrymores, and especially about the surprising development of last night. First of all about the test telegram, which you sent from London in order to make sure that Barrymore was really here. I have already explained that the testimony of the postmaster shows that the test was worthless and that we have no proof one way or the other. I told Sir Henry how the matter stood, and he at once, in his downright fashion, had Barrymore up and asked him whether he had received the telegram himself. Barrymore said that he had. "Did the boy deliver it into your own hands?" asked Sir Henry. Barrymore looked surprised, and considered for a little time. "No," said he, "I was in the box-room at the time, and my wife brought it up to me." "Did you answer it yourself?" "No; I told my wife what to answer and she went down to write it." In the evening he recurred to the subject of his own accord. "I could not quite understand the object of your questions this morning, Sir Henry," said he. "I trust that they do not mean that I have done anything to forfeit your confidence?" Sir Henry had to assure him that it was not so and pacify him by giving him a considerable part of his old wardrobe, the London outfit having now all arrived. Mrs. Barrymore is of interest to me. She is a heavy, solid person, very limited, intensely respectable, and inclined to be puritanical. You could hardly conceive a less emotional subject. Yet I have told you how, on the first night here, I heard her sobbing bitterly, and since then I have more than once observed traces of tears upon her face. Some deep sorrow gnaws ever at her heart. Sometimes I wonder if she has a guilty memory which haunts her, and sometimes I suspect Barrymore of being a domestic tyrant. I have always felt that there was something singular and questionable in this man's character, but the adventure of last night brings all my suspicions to a head. And yet it may seem a small matter in itself. You are aware that I am not a very sound sleeper, and since I have been on guard in this house my slumbers have been lighter than ever. Last night, about two in the morning, I was aroused by a stealthy step passing my room. I rose, opened my door, and peeped out. A long black shadow was trailing down the corridor. It was thrown by a man who walked softly down the passage with a candle held in his hand. He was in shirt and trousers, with no covering to his feet. I could merely see the outline, but his height told me that it was Barrymore. He walked very slowly and circumspectly, and there was something indescribably guilty and furtive in his whole appearance. I have told you that the corridor is broken by the balcony which runs round the hall, but that it is resumed upon the farther side. I waited until he had passed out of sight and then I followed him. When I came round the balcony he had reached the end of the farther corridor, and I could see from the glimmer of light through an open door that he had entered one of the rooms. Now, all these rooms are unfurnished and unoccupied so that his expedition became more mysterious than ever. The light shone steadily as if he were standing motionless. I crept down the passage as noiselessly as I could and peeped round the corner of the door. Barrymore was crouching at the window with the candle held against the glass. His profile was half turned towards me, and his face seemed to be rigid with expectation as he stared out into the blackness of the moor. For some minutes he stood watching intently. Then he gave a deep groan and with an impatient gesture he put out the light. Instantly I made my way back to my room, and very shortly came the stealthy steps passing once more upon their return journey. Long afterwards when I had fallen into a light sleep I heard a key turn somewhere in a lock, but I could not tell whence the sound came. What it all means I cannot guess, but there is some secret business going on in this house of gloom which sooner or later we shall get to the bottom of. I do not trouble you with my theories, for you asked me to furnish you only with facts. I have had a long talk with Sir Henry this morning, and we have made a plan of campaign founded upon my observations of last night. I will not speak about it just now, but it should make my next report interesting reading. Chapter 9. The Light upon the Moor [Second Report of Dr. Watson] Baskerville Hall, Oct. 15th. MY DEAR HOLMES: If I was compelled to leave you without much news during the early days of my mission you must acknowledge that I am making up for lost time, and that events are now crowding thick and fast upon us. In my last report I ended upon my top note with Barrymore at the window, and now I have quite a budget already which will, unless I am much mistaken, considerably surprise you. Things have taken a turn which I could not have anticipated. In some ways they have within the last forty-eight hours become much clearer and in some ways they have become more complicated. But I will tell you all and you shall judge for yourself. Before breakfast on the morning following my adventure I went down the corridor and examined the room in which Barrymore had been on the night before. The western window through which he had stared so intently has, I noticed, one peculiarity above all other windows in the house--it commands the nearest outlook on to the moor. There is an opening between two trees which enables one from this point of view to look right down upon it, while from all the other windows it is only a distant glimpse which can be obtained. It follows, therefore, that Barrymore, since only this window would serve the purpose, must have been looking out for something or somebody upon the moor. The night was very dark, so that I can hardly imagine how he could have hoped to see anyone. It had struck me that it was possible that some love intrigue was on foot. That would have accounted for his stealthy movements and also for the uneasiness of his wife. The man is a striking-looking fellow, very well equipped to steal the heart of a country girl, so that this theory seemed to have something to support it. That opening of the door which I had heard after I had returned to my room might mean that he had gone out to keep some clandestine appointment. So I reasoned with myself in the morning, and I tell you the direction of my suspicions, however much the result may have shown that they were unfounded. But whatever the true explanation of Barrymore's movements might be, I felt that the responsibility of keeping them to myself until I could explain them was more than I could bear. I had an interview with the baronet in his study after breakfast, and I told him all that I had seen. He was less surprised than I had expected. "I knew that Barrymore walked about nights, and I had a mind to speak to him about it," said he. "Two or three times I have heard his steps in the passage, coming and going, just about the hour you name." "Perhaps then he pays a visit every night to that particular window," I suggested. "Perhaps he does. If so, we should be able to shadow him and see what it is that he is after. I wonder what your friend Holmes would do if he were here." "I believe that he would do exactly what you now suggest," said I. "He would follow Barrymore and see what he did." "Then we shall do it together." "But surely he would hear us." "The man is rather deaf, and in any case we must take our chance of that. We'll sit up in my room tonight and wait until he passes." Sir Henry rubbed his hands with pleasure, and it was evident that he hailed the adventure as a relief to his somewhat quiet life upon the moor. The baronet has been in communication with the architect who prepared the plans for Sir Charles, and with a contractor from London, so that we may expect great changes to begin here soon. There have been decorators and furnishers up from Plymouth, and it is evident that our friend has large ideas and means to spare no pains or expense to restore the grandeur of his family. When the house is renovated and refurnished, all that he will need will be a wife to make it complete. Between ourselves there are pretty clear signs that this will not be wanting if the lady is willing, for I have seldom seen a man more infatuated with a woman than he is with our beautiful neighbour, Miss Stapleton. And yet the course of true love does not run quite as smoothly as one would under the circumstances expect. Today, for example, its surface was broken by a very unexpected ripple, which has caused our friend considerable perplexity and annoyance. After the conversation which I have quoted about Barrymore, Sir Henry put on his hat and prepared to go out. As a matter of course I did the same. "What, are you coming, Watson?" he asked, looking at me in a curious way. "That depends on whether you are going on the moor," said I. "Yes, I am." "Well, you know what my instructions are. I am sorry to intrude, but you heard how earnestly Holmes insisted that I should not leave you, and especially that you should not go alone upon the moor." Sir Henry put his hand upon my shoulder with a pleasant smile. "My dear fellow," said he, "Holmes, with all his wisdom, did not foresee some things which have happened since I have been on the moor. You understand me? I am sure that you are the last man in the world who would wish to be a spoil-sport. I must go out alone." It put me in a most awkward position. I was at a loss what to say or what to do, and before I had made up my mind he picked up his cane and was gone. But when I came to think the matter over my conscience reproached me bitterly for having on any pretext allowed him to go out of my sight. I imagined what my feelings would be if I had to return to you and to confess that some misfortune had occurred through my disregard for your instructions. I assure you my cheeks flushed at the very thought. It might not even now be too late to overtake him, so I set off at once in the direction of Merripit House. I hurried along the road at the top of my speed without seeing anything of Sir Henry, until I came to the point where the moor path branches off. There, fearing that perhaps I had come in the wrong direction after all, I mounted a hill from which I could command a view--the same hill which is cut into the dark quarry. Thence I saw him at once. He was on the moor path about a quarter of a mile off, and a lady was by his side who could only be Miss Stapleton. It was clear that there was already an understanding between them and that they had met by appointment. They were walking slowly along in deep conversation, and I saw her making quick little movements of her hands as if she were very earnest in what she was saying, while he listened intently, and once or twice shook his head in strong dissent. I stood among the rocks watching them, very much puzzled as to what I should do next. To follow them and break into their intimate conversation seemed to be an outrage, and yet my clear duty was never for an instant to let him out of my sight. To act the spy upon a friend was a hateful task. Still, I could see no better course than to observe him from the hill, and to clear my conscience by confessing to him afterwards what I had done. It is true that if any sudden danger had threatened him I was too far away to be of use, and yet I am sure that you will agree with me that the position was very difficult, and that there was nothing more which I could do. Our friend, Sir Henry, and the lady had halted on the path and were standing deeply absorbed in their conversation, when I was suddenly aware that I was not the only witness of their interview. A wisp of green floating in the air caught my eye, and another glance showed me that it was carried on a stick by a man who was moving among the broken ground. It was Stapleton with his butterfly-net. He was very much closer to the pair than I was, and he appeared to be moving in their direction. At this instant Sir Henry suddenly drew Miss Stapleton to his side. His arm was round her, but it seemed to me that she was straining away from him with her face averted. He stooped his head to hers, and she raised one hand as if in protest. Next moment I saw them spring apart and turn hurriedly round. Stapleton was the cause of the interruption. He was running wildly towards them, his absurd net dangling behind him. He gesticulated and almost danced with excitement in front of the lovers. What the scene meant I could not imagine, but it seemed to me that Stapleton was abusing Sir Henry, who offered explanations, which became more angry as the other refused to accept them. The lady stood by in haughty silence. Finally Stapleton turned upon his heel and beckoned in a peremptory way to his sister, who, after an irresolute glance at Sir Henry, walked off by the side of her brother. The naturalist's angry gestures showed that the lady was included in his displeasure. The baronet stood for a minute looking after them, and then he walked slowly back the way that he had come, his head hanging, the very picture of dejection. What all this meant I could not imagine, but I was deeply ashamed to have witnessed so intimate a scene without my friend's knowledge. I ran down the hill therefore and met the baronet at the bottom. His face was flushed with anger and his brows were wrinkled, like one who is at his wit's ends what to do. "Halloa, Watson! Where have you dropped from?" said he. "You don't mean to say that you came after me in spite of all?" I explained everything to him: how I had found it impossible to remain behind, how I had followed him, and how I had witnessed all that had occurred. For an instant his eyes blazed at me, but my frankness disarmed his anger, and he broke at last into a rather rueful laugh. "You would have thought the middle of that prairie a fairly safe place for a man to be private," said he, "but, by thunder, the whole countryside seems to have been out to see me do my wooing--and a mighty poor wooing at that! Where had you engaged a seat?" "I was on that hill." "Quite in the back row, eh? But her brother was well up to the front. Did you see him come out on us?" "Yes, I did." "Did he ever strike you as being crazy--this brother of hers?" "I can't say that he ever did." "I dare say not. I always thought him sane enough until today, but you can take it from me that either he or I ought to be in a straitjacket. What's the matter with me, anyhow? You've lived near me for some weeks, Watson. Tell me straight, now! Is there anything that would prevent me from making a good husband to a woman that I loved?" "I should say not." "He can't object to my worldly position, so it must be myself that he has this down on. What has he against me? I never hurt man or woman in my life that I know of. And yet he would not so much as let me touch the tips of her fingers." "Did he say so?" "That, and a deal more. I tell you, Watson, I've only known her these few weeks, but from the first I just felt that she was made for me, and she, too--she was happy when she was with me, and that I'll swear. There's a light in a woman's eyes that speaks louder than words. But he has never let us get together and it was only today for the first time that I saw a chance of having a few words with her alone. She was glad to meet me, but when she did it was not love that she would talk about, and she wouldn't have let me talk about it either if she could have stopped it. She kept coming back to it that this was a place of danger, and that she would never be happy until I had left it. I told her that since I had seen her I was in no hurry to leave it, and that if she really wanted me to go, the only way to work it was for her to arrange to go with me. With that I offered in as many words to marry her, but before she could answer, down came this brother of hers, running at us with a face on him like a madman. He was just white with rage, and those light eyes of his were blazing with fury. What was I doing with the lady? How dared I offer her attentions which were distasteful to her? Did I think that because I was a baronet I could do what I liked? If he had not been her brother I should have known better how to answer him. As it was I told him that my feelings towards his sister were such as I was not ashamed of, and that I hoped that she might honour me by becoming my wife. That seemed to make the matter no better, so then I lost my temper too, and I answered him rather more hotly than I should perhaps, considering that she was standing by. So it ended by his going off with her, as you saw, and here am I as badly puzzled a man as any in this county. Just tell me what it all means, Watson, and I'll owe you more than ever I can hope to pay." I tried one or two explanations, but, indeed, I was completely puzzled myself. Our friend's title, his fortune, his age, his character, and his appearance are all in his favour, and I know nothing against him unless it be this dark fate which runs in his family. That his advances should be rejected so brusquely without any reference to the lady's own wishes and that the lady should accept the situation without protest is very amazing. However, our conjectures were set at rest by a visit from Stapleton himself that very afternoon. He had come to offer apologies for his rudeness of the morning, and after a long private interview with Sir Henry in his study the upshot of their conversation was that the breach is quite healed, and that we are to dine at Merripit House next Friday as a sign of it. "I don't say now that he isn't a crazy man," said Sir Henry; "I can't forget the look in his eyes when he ran at me this morning, but I must allow that no man could make a more handsome apology than he has done." "Did he give any explanation of his conduct?" "His sister is everything in his life, he says. That is natural enough, and I am glad that he should understand her value. They have always been together, and according to his account he has been a very lonely man with only her as a companion, so that the thought of losing her was really terrible to him. He had not understood, he said, that I was becoming attached to her, but when he saw with his own eyes that it was really so, and that she might be taken away from him, it gave him such a shock that for a time he was not responsible for what he said or did. He was very sorry for all that had passed, and he recognized how foolish and how selfish it was that he should imagine that he could hold a beautiful woman like his sister to himself for her whole life. If she had to leave him he had rather it was to a neighbour like myself than to anyone else. But in any case it was a blow to him and it would take him some time before he could prepare himself to meet it. He would withdraw all opposition upon his part if I would promise for three months to let the matter rest and to be content with cultivating the lady's friendship during that time without claiming her love. This I promised, and so the matter rests." So there is one of our small mysteries cleared up. It is something to have touched bottom anywhere in this bog in which we are floundering. We know now why Stapleton looked with disfavour upon his sister's suitor--even when that suitor was so eligible a one as Sir Henry. And now I pass on to another thread which I have extricated out of the tangled skein, the mystery of the sobs in the night, of the tear-stained face of Mrs. Barrymore, of the secret journey of the butler to the western lattice window. Congratulate me, my dear Holmes, and tell me that I have not disappointed you as an agent--that you do not regret the confidence which you showed in me when you sent me down. All these things have by one night's work been thoroughly cleared. I have said "by one night's work," but, in truth, it was by two nights' work, for on the first we drew entirely blank. I sat up with Sir Henry in his rooms until nearly three o'clock in the morning, but no sound of any sort did we hear except the chiming clock upon the stairs. It was a most melancholy vigil and ended by each of us falling asleep in our chairs. Fortunately we were not discouraged, and we determined to try again. The next night we lowered the lamp and sat smoking cigarettes without making the least sound. It was incredible how slowly the hours crawled by, and yet we were helped through it by the same sort of patient interest which the hunter must feel as he watches the trap into which he hopes the game may wander. One struck, and two, and we had almost for the second time given it up in despair when in an instant we both sat bolt upright in our chairs with all our weary senses keenly on the alert once more. We had heard the creak of a step in the passage. Very stealthily we heard it pass along until it died away in the distance. Then the baronet gently opened his door and we set out in pursuit. Already our man had gone round the gallery and the corridor was all in darkness. Softly we stole along until we had come into the other wing. We were just in time to catch a glimpse of the tall, black-bearded figure, his shoulders rounded as he tiptoed down the passage. Then he passed through the same door as before, and the light of the candle framed it in the darkness and shot one single yellow beam across the gloom of the corridor. We shuffled cautiously towards it, trying every plank before we dared to put our whole weight upon it. We had taken the precaution of leaving our boots behind us, but, even so, the old boards snapped and creaked beneath our tread. Sometimes it seemed impossible that he should fail to hear our approach. However, the man is fortunately rather deaf, and he was entirely preoccupied in that which he was doing. When at last we reached the door and peeped through we found him crouching at the window, candle in hand, his white, intent face pressed against the pane, exactly as I had seen him two nights before. We had arranged no plan of campaign, but the baronet is a man to whom the most direct way is always the most natural. He walked into the room, and as he did so Barrymore sprang up from the window with a sharp hiss of his breath and stood, livid and trembling, before us. His dark eyes, glaring out of the white mask of his face, were full of horror and astonishment as he gazed from Sir Henry to me. "What are you doing here, Barrymore?" "Nothing, sir." His agitation was so great that he could hardly speak, and the shadows sprang up and down from the shaking of his candle. "It was the window, sir. I go round at night to see that they are fastened." "On the second floor?" "Yes, sir, all the windows." "Look here, Barrymore," said Sir Henry sternly, "we have made up our minds to have the truth out of you, so it will save you trouble to tell it sooner rather than later. Come, now! No lies! What were you doing at that window?" The fellow looked at us in a helpless way, and he wrung his hands together like one who is in the last extremity of doubt and misery. "I was doing no harm, sir. I was holding a candle to the window." "And why were you holding a candle to the window?" "Don't ask me, Sir Henry--don't ask me! I give you my word, sir, that it is not my secret, and that I cannot tell it. If it concerned no one but myself I would not try to keep it from you." A sudden idea occurred to me, and I took the candle from the trembling hand of the butler. "He must have been holding it as a signal," said I. "Let us see if there is any answer." I held it as he had done, and stared out into the darkness of the night. Vaguely I could discern the black bank of the trees and the lighter expanse of the moor, for the moon was behind the clouds. And then I gave a cry of exultation, for a tiny pinpoint of yellow light had suddenly transfixed the dark veil, and glowed steadily in the centre of the black square framed by the window. "There it is!" I cried. "No, no, sir, it is nothing--nothing at all!" the butler broke in; "I assure you, sir--" "Move your light across the window, Watson!" cried the baronet. "See, the other moves also! Now, you rascal, do you deny that it is a signal? Come, speak up! Who is your confederate out yonder, and what is this conspiracy that is going on?" The man's face became openly defiant. "It is my business, and not yours. I will not tell." "Then you leave my employment right away." "Very good, sir. If I must I must." "And you go in disgrace. By thunder, you may well be ashamed of yourself. Your family has lived with mine for over a hundred years under this roof, and here I find you deep in some dark plot against me." "No, no, sir; no, not against you!" It was a woman's voice, and Mrs. Barrymore, paler and more horror-struck than her husband, was standing at the door. Her bulky figure in a shawl and skirt might have been comic were it not for the intensity of feeling upon her face. "We have to go, Eliza. This is the end of it. You can pack our things," said the butler. "Oh, John, John, have I brought you to this? It is my doing, Sir Henry--all mine. He has done nothing except for my sake and because I asked him." "Speak out, then! What does it mean?" "My unhappy brother is starving on the moor. We cannot let him perish at our very gates. The light is a signal to him that food is ready for him, and his light out yonder is to show the spot to which to bring it." "Then your brother is--" "The escaped convict, sir--Selden, the criminal." "That's the truth, sir," said Barrymore. "I said that it was not my secret and that I could not tell it to you. But now you have heard it, and you will see that if there was a plot it was not against you." This, then, was the explanation of the stealthy expeditions at night and the light at the window. Sir Henry and I both stared at the woman in amazement. Was it possible that this stolidly respectable person was of the same blood as one of the most notorious criminals in the country? "Yes, sir, my name was Selden, and he is my younger brother. We humoured him too much when he was a lad and gave him his own way in everything until he came to think that the world was made for his pleasure, and that he could do what he liked in it. Then as he grew older he met wicked companions, and the devil entered into him until he broke my mother's heart and dragged our name in the dirt. From crime to crime he sank lower and lower until it is only the mercy of God which has snatched him from the scaffold; but to me, sir, he was always the little curly-headed boy that I had nursed and played with as an elder sister would. That was why he broke prison, sir. He knew that I was here and that we could not refuse to help him. When he dragged himself here one night, weary and starving, with the warders hard at his heels, what could we do? We took him in and fed him and cared for him. Then you returned, sir, and my brother thought he would be safer on the moor than anywhere else until the hue and cry was over, so he lay in hiding there. But every second night we made sure if he was still there by putting a light in the window, and if there was an answer my husband took out some bread and meat to him. Every day we hoped that he was gone, but as long as he was there we could not desert him. That is the whole truth, as I am an honest Christian woman and you will see that if there is blame in the matter it does not lie with my husband but with me, for whose sake he has done all that he has." The woman's words came with an intense earnestness which carried conviction with them. "Is this true, Barrymore?" "Yes, Sir Henry. Every word of it." "Well, I cannot blame you for standing by your own wife. Forget what I have said. Go to your room, you two, and we shall talk further about this matter in the morning." When they were gone we looked out of the window again. Sir Henry had flung it open, and the cold night wind beat in upon our faces. Far away in the black distance there still glowed that one tiny point of yellow light. "I wonder he dares," said Sir Henry. "It may be so placed as to be only visible from here." "Very likely. How far do you think it is?" "Out by the Cleft Tor, I think." "Not more than a mile or two off." "Hardly that." "Well, it cannot be far if Barrymore had to carry out the food to it. And he is waiting, this villain, beside that candle. By thunder, Watson, I am going out to take that man!" The same thought had crossed my own mind. It was not as if the Barrymores had taken us into their confidence. Their secret had been forced from them. The man was a danger to the community, an unmitigated scoundrel for whom there was neither pity nor excuse. We were only doing our duty in taking this chance of putting him back where he could do no harm. With his brutal and violent nature, others would have to pay the price if we held our hands. Any night, for example, our neighbours the Stapletons might be attacked by him, and it may have been the thought of this which made Sir Henry so keen upon the adventure. "I will come," said I. "Then get your revolver and put on your boots. The sooner we start the better, as the fellow may put out his light and be off." In five minutes we were outside the door, starting upon our expedition. We hurried through the dark shrubbery, amid the dull moaning of the autumn wind and the rustle of the falling leaves. The night air was heavy with the smell of damp and decay. Now and again the moon peeped out for an instant, but clouds were driving over the face of the sky, and just as we came out on the moor a thin rain began to fall. The light still burned steadily in front. "Are you armed?" I asked. "I have a hunting-crop." "We must close in on him rapidly, for he is said to be a desperate fellow. We shall take him by surprise and have him at our mercy before he can resist." "I say, Watson," said the baronet, "what would Holmes say to this? How about that hour of darkness in which the power of evil is exalted?" As if in answer to his words there rose suddenly out of the vast gloom of the moor that strange cry which I had already heard upon the borders of the great Grimpen Mire. It came with the wind through the silence of the night, a long, deep mutter, then a rising howl, and then the sad moan in which it died away. Again and again it sounded, the whole air throbbing with it, strident, wild, and menacing. The baronet caught my sleeve and his face glimmered white through the darkness. "My God, what's that, Watson?" "I don't know. It's a sound they have on the moor. I heard it once before." It died away, and an absolute silence closed in upon us. We stood straining our ears, but nothing came. "Watson," said the baronet, "it was the cry of a hound." My blood ran cold in my veins, for there was a break in his voice which told of the sudden horror which had seized him. "What do they call this sound?" he asked. "Who?" "The folk on the countryside." "Oh, they are ignorant people. Why should you mind what they call it?" "Tell me, Watson. What do they say of it?" I hesitated but could not escape the question. "They say it is the cry of the Hound of the Baskervilles." He groaned and was silent for a few moments. "A hound it was," he said at last, "but it seemed to come from miles away, over yonder, I think." "It was hard to say whence it came." "It rose and fell with the wind. Isn't that the direction of the great Grimpen Mire?" "Yes, it is." "Well, it was up there. Come now, Watson, didn't you think yourself that it was the cry of a hound? I am not a child. You need not fear to speak the truth." "Stapleton was with me when I heard it last. He said that it might be the calling of a strange bird." "No, no, it was a hound. My God, can there be some truth in all these stories? Is it possible that I am really in danger from so dark a cause? You don't believe it, do you, Watson?" "No, no." "And yet it was one thing to laugh about it in London, and it is another to stand out here in the darkness of the moor and to hear such a cry as that. And my uncle! There was the footprint of the hound beside him as he lay. It all fits together. I don't think that I am a coward, Watson, but that sound seemed to freeze my very blood. Feel my hand!" It was as cold as a block of marble. "You'll be all right tomorrow." "I don't think I'll get that cry out of my head. What do you advise that we do now?" "Shall we turn back?" "No, by thunder; we have come out to get our man, and we will do it. We after the convict, and a hell-hound, as likely as not, after us. Come on! We'll see it through if all the fiends of the pit were loose upon the moor." We stumbled slowly along in the darkness, with the black loom of the craggy hills around us, and the yellow speck of light burning steadily in front. There is nothing so deceptive as the distance of a light upon a pitch-dark night, and sometimes the glimmer seemed to be far away upon the horizon and sometimes it might have been within a few yards of us. But at last we could see whence it came, and then we knew that we were indeed very close. A guttering candle was stuck in a crevice of the rocks which flanked it on each side so as to keep the wind from it and also to prevent it from being visible, save in the direction of Baskerville Hall. A boulder of granite concealed our approach, and crouching behind it we gazed over it at the signal light. It was strange to see this single candle burning there in the middle of the moor, with no sign of life near it--just the one straight yellow flame and the gleam of the rock on each side of it. "What shall we do now?" whispered Sir Henry. "Wait here. He must be near his light. Let us see if we can get a glimpse of him." The words were hardly out of my mouth when we both saw him. Over the rocks, in the crevice of which the candle burned, there was thrust out an evil yellow face, a terrible animal face, all seamed and scored with vile passions. Foul with mire, with a bristling beard, and hung with matted hair, it might well have belonged to one of those old savages who dwelt in the burrows on the hillsides. The light beneath him was reflected in his small, cunning eyes which peered fiercely to right and left through the darkness like a crafty and savage animal who has heard the steps of the hunters. Something had evidently aroused his suspicions. It may have been that Barrymore had some private signal which we had neglected to give, or the fellow may have had some other reason for thinking that all was not well, but I could read his fears upon his wicked face. Any instant he might dash out the light and vanish in the darkness. I sprang forward therefore, and Sir Henry did the same. At the same moment the convict screamed out a curse at us and hurled a rock which splintered up against the boulder which had sheltered us. I caught one glimpse of his short, squat, strongly built figure as he sprang to his feet and turned to run. At the same moment by a lucky chance the moon broke through the clouds. We rushed over the brow of the hill, and there was our man running with great speed down the other side, springing over the stones in his way with the activity of a mountain goat. A lucky long shot of my revolver might have crippled him, but I had brought it only to defend myself if attacked and not to shoot an unarmed man who was running away. We were both swift runners and in fairly good training, but we soon found that we had no chance of overtaking him. We saw him for a long time in the moonlight until he was only a small speck moving swiftly among the boulders upon the side of a distant hill. We ran and ran until we were completely blown, but the space between us grew ever wider. Finally we stopped and sat panting on two rocks, while we watched him disappearing in the distance. And it was at this moment that there occurred a most strange and unexpected thing. We had risen from our rocks and were turning to go home, having abandoned the hopeless chase. The moon was low upon the right, and the jagged pinnacle of a granite tor stood up against the lower curve of its silver disc. There, outlined as black as an ebony statue on that shining background, I saw the figure of a man upon the tor. Do not think that it was a delusion, Holmes. I assure you that I have never in my life seen anything more clearly. As far as I could judge, the figure was that of a tall, thin man. He stood with his legs a little separated, his arms folded, his head bowed, as if he were brooding over that enormous wilderness of peat and granite which lay before him. He might have been the very spirit of that terrible place. It was not the convict. This man was far from the place where the latter had disappeared. Besides, he was a much taller man. With a cry of surprise I pointed him out to the baronet, but in the instant during which I had turned to grasp his arm the man was gone. There was the sharp pinnacle of granite still cutting the lower edge of the moon, but its peak bore no trace of that silent and motionless figure. I wished to go in that direction and to search the tor, but it was some distance away. The baronet's nerves were still quivering from that cry, which recalled the dark story of his family, and he was not in the mood for fresh adventures. He had not seen this lonely man upon the tor and could not feel the thrill which his strange presence and his commanding attitude had given to me. "A warder, no doubt," said he. "The moor has been thick with them since this fellow escaped." Well, perhaps his explanation may be the right one, but I should like to have some further proof of it. Today we mean to communicate to the Princetown people where they should look for their missing man, but it is hard lines that we have not actually had the triumph of bringing him back as our own prisoner. Such are the adventures of last night, and you must acknowledge, my dear Holmes, that I have done you very well in the matter of a report. Much of what I tell you is no doubt quite irrelevant, but still I feel that it is best that I should let you have all the facts and leave you to select for yourself those which will be of most service to you in helping you to your conclusions. We are certainly making some progress. So far as the Barrymores go we have found the motive of their actions, and that has cleared up the situation very much. But the moor with its mysteries and its strange inhabitants remains as inscrutable as ever. Perhaps in my next I may be able to throw some light upon this also. Best of all would it be if you could come down to us. In any case you will hear from me again in the course of the next few days. Chapter 10. Extract from the Diary of Dr. Watson So far I have been able to quote from the reports which I have forwarded during these early days to Sherlock Holmes. Now, however, I have arrived at a point in my narrative where I am compelled to abandon this method and to trust once more to my recollections, aided by the diary which I kept at the time. A few extracts from the latter will carry me on to those scenes which are indelibly fixed in every detail upon my memory. I proceed, then, from the morning which followed our abortive chase of the convict and our other strange experiences upon the moor. October 16th. A dull and foggy day with a drizzle of rain. The house is banked in with rolling clouds, which rise now and then to show the dreary curves of the moor, with thin, silver veins upon the sides of the hills, and the distant boulders gleaming where the light strikes upon their wet faces. It is melancholy outside and in. The baronet is in a black reaction after the excitements of the night. I am conscious myself of a weight at my heart and a feeling of impending danger--ever present danger, which is the more terrible because I am unable to define it. And have I not cause for such a feeling? Consider the long sequence of incidents which have all pointed to some sinister influence which is at work around us. There is the death of the last occupant of the Hall, fulfilling so exactly the conditions of the family legend, and there are the repeated reports from peasants of the appearance of a strange creature upon the moor. Twice I have with my own ears heard the sound which resembled the distant baying of a hound. It is incredible, impossible, that it should really be outside the ordinary laws of nature. A spectral hound which leaves material footmarks and fills the air with its howling is surely not to be thought of. Stapleton may fall in with such a superstition, and Mortimer also, but if I have one quality upon earth it is common sense, and nothing will persuade me to believe in such a thing. To do so would be to descend to the level of these poor peasants, who are not content with a mere fiend dog but must needs describe him with hell-fire shooting from his mouth and eyes. Holmes would not listen to such fancies, and I am his agent. But facts are facts, and I have twice heard this crying upon the moor. Suppose that there were really some huge hound loose upon it; that would go far to explain everything. But where could such a hound lie concealed, where did it get its food, where did it come from, how was it that no one saw it by day? It must be confessed that the natural explanation offers almost as many difficulties as the other. And always, apart from the hound, there is the fact of the human agency in London, the man in the cab, and the letter which warned Sir Henry against the moor. This at least was real, but it might have been the work of a protecting friend as easily as of an enemy. Where is that friend or enemy now? Has he remained in London, or has he followed us down here? Could he--could he be the stranger whom I saw upon the tor? It is true that I have had only the one glance at him, and yet there are some things to which I am ready to swear. He is no one whom I have seen down here, and I have now met all the neighbours. The figure was far taller than that of Stapleton, far thinner than that of Frankland. Barrymore it might possibly have been, but we had left him behind us, and I am certain that he could not have followed us. A stranger then is still dogging us, just as a stranger dogged us in London. We have never shaken him off. If I could lay my hands upon that man, then at last we might find ourselves at the end of all our difficulties. To this one purpose I must now devote all my energies. My first impulse was to tell Sir Henry all my plans. My second and wisest one is to play my own game and speak as little as possible to anyone. He is silent and distrait. His nerves have been strangely shaken by that sound upon the moor. I will say nothing to add to his anxieties, but I will take my own steps to attain my own end. We had a small scene this morning after breakfast. Barrymore asked leave to speak with Sir Henry, and they were closeted in his study some little time. Sitting in the billiard-room I more than once heard the sound of voices raised, and I had a pretty good idea what the point was which was under discussion. After a time the baronet opened his door and called for me. "Barrymore considers that he has a grievance," he said. "He thinks that it was unfair on our part to hunt his brother-in-law down when he, of his own free will, had told us the secret." The butler was standing very pale but very collected before us. "I may have spoken too warmly, sir," said he, "and if I have, I am sure that I beg your pardon. At the same time, I was very much surprised when I heard you two gentlemen come back this morning and learned that you had been chasing Selden. The poor fellow has enough to fight against without my putting more upon his track." "If you had told us of your own free will it would have been a different thing," said the baronet, "you only told us, or rather your wife only told us, when it was forced from you and you could not help yourself." "I didn't think you would have taken advantage of it, Sir Henry--indeed I didn't." "The man is a public danger. There are lonely houses scattered over the moor, and he is a fellow who would stick at nothing. You only want to get a glimpse of his face to see that. Look at Mr. Stapleton's house, for example, with no one but himself to defend it. There's no safety for anyone until he is under lock and key." "He'll break into no house, sir. I give you my solemn word upon that. But he will never trouble anyone in this country again. I assure you, Sir Henry, that in a very few days the necessary arrangements will have been made and he will be on his way to South America. For God's sake, sir, I beg of you not to let the police know that he is still on the moor. They have given up the chase there, and he can lie quiet until the ship is ready for him. You can't tell on him without getting my wife and me into trouble. I beg you, sir, to say nothing to the police." "What do you say, Watson?" I shrugged my shoulders. "If he were safely out of the country it would relieve the tax-payer of a burden." "But how about the chance of his holding someone up before he goes?" "He would not do anything so mad, sir. We have provided him with all that he can want. To commit a crime would be to show where he was hiding." "That is true," said Sir Henry. "Well, Barrymore--" "God bless you, sir, and thank you from my heart! It would have killed my poor wife had he been taken again." "I guess we are aiding and abetting a felony, Watson? But, after what we have heard I don't feel as if I could give the man up, so there is an end of it. All right, Barrymore, you can go." With a few broken words of gratitude the man turned, but he hesitated and then came back. "You've been so kind to us, sir, that I should like to do the best I can for you in return. I know something, Sir Henry, and perhaps I should have said it before, but it was long after the inquest that I found it out. I've never breathed a word about it yet to mortal man. It's about poor Sir Charles's death." The baronet and I were both upon our feet. "Do you know how he died?" "No, sir, I don't know that." "What then?" "I know why he was at the gate at that hour. It was to meet a woman." "To meet a woman! He?" "Yes, sir." "And the woman's name?" "I can't give you the name, sir, but I can give you the initials. Her initials were L. L." "How do you know this, Barrymore?" "Well, Sir Henry, your uncle had a letter that morning. He had usually a great many letters, for he was a public man and well known for his kind heart, so that everyone who was in trouble was glad to turn to him. But that morning, as it chanced, there was only this one letter, so I took the more notice of it. It was from Coombe Tracey, and it was addressed in a woman's hand." "Well?" "Well, sir, I thought no more of the matter, and never would have done had it not been for my wife. Only a few weeks ago she was cleaning out Sir Charles's study--it had never been touched since his death--and she found the ashes of a burned letter in the back of the grate. The greater part of it was charred to pieces, but one little slip, the end of a page, hung together, and the writing could still be read, though it was gray on a black ground. It seemed to us to be a postscript at the end of the letter and it said: 'Please, please, as you are a gentleman, burn this letter, and be at the gate by ten o clock. Beneath it were signed the initials L. L." "Have you got that slip?" "No, sir, it crumbled all to bits after we moved it." "Had Sir Charles received any other letters in the same writing?" "Well, sir, I took no particular notice of his letters. I should not have noticed this one, only it happened to come alone." "And you have no idea who L. L. is?" "No, sir. No more than you have. But I expect if we could lay our hands upon that lady we should know more about Sir Charles's death." "I cannot understand, Barrymore, how you came to conceal this important information." "Well, sir, it was immediately after that our own trouble came to us. And then again, sir, we were both of us very fond of Sir Charles, as we well might be considering all that he has done for us. To rake this up couldn't help our poor master, and it's well to go carefully when there's a lady in the case. Even the best of us--" "You thought it might injure his reputation?" "Well, sir, I thought no good could come of it. But now you have been kind to us, and I feel as if it would be treating you unfairly not to tell you all that I know about the matter." "Very good, Barrymore; you can go." When the butler had left us Sir Henry turned to me. "Well, Watson, what do you think of this new light?" "It seems to leave the darkness rather blacker than before." "So I think. But if we can only trace L. L. it should clear up the whole business. We have gained that much. We know that there is someone who has the facts if we can only find her. What do you think we should do?" "Let Holmes know all about it at once. It will give him the clue for which he has been seeking. I am much mistaken if it does not bring him down." I went at once to my room and drew up my report of the morning's conversation for Holmes. It was evident to me that he had been very busy of late, for the notes which I had from Baker Street were few and short, with no comments upon the information which I had supplied and hardly any reference to my mission. No doubt his blackmailing case is absorbing all his faculties. And yet this new factor must surely arrest his attention and renew his interest. I wish that he were here. October 17th. All day today the rain poured down, rustling on the ivy and dripping from the eaves. I thought of the convict out upon the bleak, cold, shelterless moor. Poor devil! Whatever his crimes, he has suffered something to atone for them. And then I thought of that other one--the face in the cab, the figure against the moon. Was he also out in that deluged--the unseen watcher, the man of darkness? In the evening I put on my waterproof and I walked far upon the sodden moor, full of dark imaginings, the rain beating upon my face and the wind whistling about my ears. God help those who wander into the great mire now, for even the firm uplands are becoming a morass. I found the black tor upon which I had seen the solitary watcher, and from its craggy summit I looked out myself across the melancholy downs. Rain squalls drifted across their russet face, and the heavy, slate-coloured clouds hung low over the landscape, trailing in gray wreaths down the sides of the fantastic hills. In the distant hollow on the left, half hidden by the mist, the two thin towers of Baskerville Hall rose above the trees. They were the only signs of human life which I could see, save only those prehistoric huts which lay thickly upon the slopes of the hills. Nowhere was there any trace of that lonely man whom I had seen on the same spot two nights before. As I walked back I was overtaken by Dr. Mortimer driving in his dog-cart over a rough moorland track which led from the outlying farmhouse of Foulmire. He has been very attentive to us, and hardly a day has passed that he has not called at the Hall to see how we were getting on. He insisted upon my climbing into his dog-cart, and he gave me a lift homeward. I found him much troubled over the disappearance of his little spaniel. It had wandered on to the moor and had never come back. I gave him such consolation as I might, but I thought of the pony on the Grimpen Mire, and I do not fancy that he will see his little dog again. "By the way, Mortimer," said I as we jolted along the rough road, "I suppose there are few people living within driving distance of this whom you do not know?" "Hardly any, I think." "Can you, then, tell me the name of any woman whose initials are L. L.?" He thought for a few minutes. "No," said he. "There are a few gipsies and labouring folk for whom I can't answer, but among the farmers or gentry there is no one whose initials are those. Wait a bit though," he added after a pause. "There is Laura Lyons--her initials are L. L.--but she lives in Coombe Tracey." "Who is she?" I asked. "She is Frankland's daughter." "What! Old Frankland the crank?" "Exactly. She married an artist named Lyons, who came sketching on the moor. He proved to be a blackguard and deserted her. The fault from what I hear may not have been entirely on one side. Her father refused to have anything to do with her because she had married without his consent and perhaps for one or two other reasons as well. So, between the old sinner and the young one the girl has had a pretty bad time." "How does she live?" "I fancy old Frankland allows her a pittance, but it cannot be more, for his own affairs are considerably involved. Whatever she may have deserved one could not allow her to go hopelessly to the bad. Her story got about, and several of the people here did something to enable her to earn an honest living. Stapleton did for one, and Sir Charles for another. I gave a trifle myself. It was to set her up in a typewriting business." He wanted to know the object of my inquiries, but I managed to satisfy his curiosity without telling him too much, for there is no reason why we should take anyone into our confidence. Tomorrow morning I shall find my way to Coombe Tracey, and if I can see this Mrs. Laura Lyons, of equivocal reputation, a long step will have been made towards clearing one incident in this chain of mysteries. I am certainly developing the wisdom of the serpent, for when Mortimer pressed his questions to an inconvenient extent I asked him casually to what type Frankland's skull belonged, and so heard nothing but craniology for the rest of our drive. I have not lived for years with Sherlock Holmes for nothing. I have only one other incident to record upon this tempestuous and melancholy day. This was my conversation with Barrymore just now, which gives me one more strong card which I can play in due time. Mortimer had stayed to dinner, and he and the baronet played ecarte afterwards. The butler brought me my coffee into the library, and I took the chance to ask him a few questions. "Well," said I, "has this precious relation of yours departed, or is he still lurking out yonder?" "I don't know, sir. I hope to heaven that he has gone, for he has brought nothing but trouble here! I've not heard of him since I left out food for him last, and that was three days ago." "Did you see him then?" "No, sir, but the food was gone when next I went that way." "Then he was certainly there?" "So you would think, sir, unless it was the other man who took it." I sat with my coffee-cup halfway to my lips and stared at Barrymore. "You know that there is another man then?" "Yes, sir; there is another man upon the moor." "Have you seen him?" "No, sir." "How do you know of him then?" "Selden told me of him, sir, a week ago or more. He's in hiding, too, but he's not a convict as far as I can make out. I don't like it, Dr. Watson--I tell you straight, sir, that I don't like it." He spoke with a sudden passion of earnestness. "Now, listen to me, Barrymore! I have no interest in this matter but that of your master. I have come here with no object except to help him. Tell me, frankly, what it is that you don't like." Barrymore hesitated for a moment, as if he regretted his outburst or found it difficult to express his own feelings in words. "It's all these goings-on, sir," he cried at last, waving his hand towards the rain-lashed window which faced the moor. "There's foul play somewhere, and there's black villainy brewing, to that I'll swear! Very glad I should be, sir, to see Sir Henry on his way back to London again!" "But what is it that alarms you?" "Look at Sir Charles's death! That was bad enough, for all that the coroner said. Look at the noises on the moor at night. There's not a man would cross it after sundown if he was paid for it. Look at this stranger hiding out yonder, and watching and waiting! What's he waiting for? What does it mean? It means no good to anyone of the name of Baskerville, and very glad I shall be to be quit of it all on the day that Sir Henry's new servants are ready to take over the Hall." "But about this stranger," said I. "Can you tell me anything about him? What did Selden say? Did he find out where he hid, or what he was doing?" "He saw him once or twice, but he is a deep one and gives nothing away. At first he thought that he was the police, but soon he found that he had some lay of his own. A kind of gentleman he was, as far as he could see, but what he was doing he could not make out." "And where did he say that he lived?" "Among the old houses on the hillside--the stone huts where the old folk used to live." "But how about his food?" "Selden found out that he has got a lad who works for him and brings all he needs. I dare say he goes to Coombe Tracey for what he wants." "Very good, Barrymore. We may talk further of this some other time." When the butler had gone I walked over to the black window, and I looked through a blurred pane at the driving clouds and at the tossing outline of the wind-swept trees. It is a wild night indoors, and what must it be in a stone hut upon the moor. What passion of hatred can it be which leads a man to lurk in such a place at such a time! And what deep and earnest purpose can he have which calls for such a trial! There, in that hut upon the moor, seems to lie the very centre of that problem which has vexed me so sorely. I swear that another day shall not have passed before I have done all that man can do to reach the heart of the mystery. Chapter 11. The Man on the Tor The extract from my private diary which forms the last chapter has brought my narrative up to the eighteenth of October, a time when these strange events began to move swiftly towards their terrible conclusion. The incidents of the next few days are indelibly graven upon my recollection, and I can tell them without reference to the notes made at the time. I start them from the day which succeeded that upon which I had established two facts of great importance, the one that Mrs. Laura Lyons of Coombe Tracey had written to Sir Charles Baskerville and made an appointment with him at the very place and hour that he met his death, the other that the lurking man upon the moor was to be found among the stone huts upon the hillside. With these two facts in my possession I felt that either my intelligence or my courage must be deficient if I could not throw some further light upon these dark places. I had no opportunity to tell the baronet what I had learned about Mrs. Lyons upon the evening before, for Dr. Mortimer remained with him at cards until it was very late. At breakfast, however, I informed him about my discovery and asked him whether he would care to accompany me to Coombe Tracey. At first he was very eager to come, but on second thoughts it seemed to both of us that if I went alone the results might be better. The more formal we made the visit the less information we might obtain. I left Sir Henry behind, therefore, not without some prickings of conscience, and drove off upon my new quest. When I reached Coombe Tracey I told Perkins to put up the horses, and I made inquiries for the lady whom I had come to interrogate. I had no difficulty in finding her rooms, which were central and well appointed. A maid showed me in without ceremony, and as I entered the sitting-room a lady, who was sitting before a Remington typewriter, sprang up with a pleasant smile of welcome. Her face fell, however, when she saw that I was a stranger, and she sat down again and asked me the object of my visit. The first impression left by Mrs. Lyons was one of extreme beauty. Her eyes and hair were of the same rich hazel colour, and her cheeks, though considerably freckled, were flushed with the exquisite bloom of the brunette, the dainty pink which lurks at the heart of the sulphur rose. Admiration was, I repeat, the first impression. But the second was criticism. There was something subtly wrong with the face, some coarseness of expression, some hardness, perhaps, of eye, some looseness of lip which marred its perfect beauty. But these, of course, are afterthoughts. At the moment I was simply conscious that I was in the presence of a very handsome woman, and that she was asking me the reasons for my visit. I had not quite understood until that instant how delicate my mission was. "I have the pleasure," said I, "of knowing your father." It was a clumsy introduction, and the lady made me feel it. "There is nothing in common between my father and me," she said. "I owe him nothing, and his friends are not mine. If it were not for the late Sir Charles Baskerville and some other kind hearts I might have starved for all that my father cared." "It was about the late Sir Charles Baskerville that I have come here to see you." The freckles started out on the lady's face. "What can I tell you about him?" she asked, and her fingers played nervously over the stops of her typewriter. "You knew him, did you not?" "I have already said that I owe a great deal to his kindness. If I am able to support myself it is largely due to the interest which he took in my unhappy situation." "Did you correspond with him?" The lady looked quickly up with an angry gleam in her hazel eyes. "What is the object of these questions?" she asked sharply. "The object is to avoid a public scandal. It is better that I should ask them here than that the matter should pass outside our control." She was silent and her face was still very pale. At last she looked up with something reckless and defiant in her manner. "Well, I'll answer," she said. "What are your questions?" "Did you correspond with Sir Charles?" "I certainly wrote to him once or twice to acknowledge his delicacy and his generosity." "Have you the dates of those letters?" "No." "Have you ever met him?" "Yes, once or twice, when he came into Coombe Tracey. He was a very retiring man, and he preferred to do good by stealth." "But if you saw him so seldom and wrote so seldom, how did he know enough about your affairs to be able to help you, as you say that he has done?" She met my difficulty with the utmost readiness. "There were several gentlemen who knew my sad history and united to help me. One was Mr. Stapleton, a neighbour and intimate friend of Sir Charles's. He was exceedingly kind, and it was through him that Sir Charles learned about my affairs." I knew already that Sir Charles Baskerville had made Stapleton his almoner upon several occasions, so the lady's statement bore the impress of truth upon it. "Did you ever write to Sir Charles asking him to meet you?" I continued. Mrs. Lyons flushed with anger again. "Really, sir, this is a very extraordinary question." "I am sorry, madam, but I must repeat it." "Then I answer, certainly not." "Not on the very day of Sir Charles's death?" The flush had faded in an instant, and a deathly face was before me. Her dry lips could not speak the "No" which I saw rather than heard. "Surely your memory deceives you," said I. "I could even quote a passage of your letter. It ran 'Please, please, as you are a gentleman, burn this letter, and be at the gate by ten o'clock.'" I thought that she had fainted, but she recovered herself by a supreme effort. "Is there no such thing as a gentleman?" she gasped. "You do Sir Charles an injustice. He did burn the letter. But sometimes a letter may be legible even when burned. You acknowledge now that you wrote it?" "Yes, I did write it," she cried, pouring out her soul in a torrent of words. "I did write it. Why should I deny it? I have no reason to be ashamed of it. I wished him to help me. I believed that if I had an interview I could gain his help, so I asked him to meet me." "But why at such an hour?" "Because I had only just learned that he was going to London next day and might be away for months. There were reasons why I could not get there earlier." "But why a rendezvous in the garden instead of a visit to the house?" "Do you think a woman could go alone at that hour to a bachelor's house?" "Well, what happened when you did get there?" "I never went." "Mrs. Lyons!" "No, I swear it to you on all I hold sacred. I never went. Something intervened to prevent my going." "What was that?" "That is a private matter. I cannot tell it." "You acknowledge then that you made an appointment with Sir Charles at the very hour and place at which he met his death, but you deny that you kept the appointment." "That is the truth." Again and again I cross-questioned her, but I could never get past that point. "Mrs. Lyons," said I as I rose from this long and inconclusive interview, "you are taking a very great responsibility and putting yourself in a very false position by not making an absolutely clean breast of all that you know. If I have to call in the aid of the police you will find how seriously you are compromised. If your position is innocent, why did you in the first instance deny having written to Sir Charles upon that date?" "Because I feared that some false conclusion might be drawn from it and that I might find myself involved in a scandal." "And why were you so pressing that Sir Charles should destroy your letter?" "If you have read the letter you will know." "I did not say that I had read all the letter." "You quoted some of it." "I quoted the postscript. The letter had, as I said, been burned and it was not all legible. I ask you once again why it was that you were so pressing that Sir Charles should destroy this letter which he received on the day of his death." "The matter is a very private one." "The more reason why you should avoid a public investigation." "I will tell you, then. If you have heard anything of my unhappy history you will know that I made a rash marriage and had reason to regret it." "I have heard so much." "My life has been one incessant persecution from a husband whom I abhor. The law is upon his side, and every day I am faced by the possibility that he may force me to live with him. At the time that I wrote this letter to Sir Charles I had learned that there was a prospect of my regaining my freedom if certain expenses could be met. It meant everything to me--peace of mind, happiness, self-respect--everything. I knew Sir Charles's generosity, and I thought that if he heard the story from my own lips he would help me." "Then how is it that you did not go?" "Because I received help in the interval from another source." "Why then, did you not write to Sir Charles and explain this?" "So I should have done had I not seen his death in the paper next morning." The woman's story hung coherently together, and all my questions were unable to shake it. I could only check it by finding if she had, indeed, instituted divorce proceedings against her husband at or about the time of the tragedy. It was unlikely that she would dare to say that she had not been to Baskerville Hall if she really had been, for a trap would be necessary to take her there, and could not have returned to Coombe Tracey until the early hours of the morning. Such an excursion could not be kept secret. The probability was, therefore, that she was telling the truth, or, at least, a part of the truth. I came away baffled and disheartened. Once again I had reached that dead wall which seemed to be built across every path by which I tried to get at the object of my mission. And yet the more I thought of the lady's face and of her manner the more I felt that something was being held back from me. Why should she turn so pale? Why should she fight against every admission until it was forced from her? Why should she have been so reticent at the time of the tragedy? Surely the explanation of all this could not be as innocent as she would have me believe. For the moment I could proceed no farther in that direction, but must turn back to that other clue which was to be sought for among the stone huts upon the moor. And that was a most vague direction. I realized it as I drove back and noted how hill after hill showed traces of the ancient people. Barrymore's only indication had been that the stranger lived in one of these abandoned huts, and many hundreds of them are scattered throughout the length and breadth of the moor. But I had my own experience for a guide since it had shown me the man himself standing upon the summit of the Black Tor. That, then, should be the centre of my search. From there I should explore every hut upon the moor until I lighted upon the right one. If this man were inside it I should find out from his own lips, at the point of my revolver if necessary, who he was and why he had dogged us so long. He might slip away from us in the crowd of Regent Street, but it would puzzle him to do so upon the lonely moor. On the other hand, if I should find the hut and its tenant should not be within it I must remain there, however long the vigil, until he returned. Holmes had missed him in London. It would indeed be a triumph for me if I could run him to earth where my master had failed. Luck had been against us again and again in this inquiry, but now at last it came to my aid. And the messenger of good fortune was none other than Mr. Frankland, who was standing, gray-whiskered and red-faced, outside the gate of his garden, which opened on to the highroad along which I travelled. "Good-day, Dr. Watson," cried he with unwonted good humour, "you must really give your horses a rest and come in to have a glass of wine and to congratulate me." My feelings towards him were very far from being friendly after what I had heard of his treatment of his daughter, but I was anxious to send Perkins and the wagonette home, and the opportunity was a good one. I alighted and sent a message to Sir Henry that I should walk over in time for dinner. Then I followed Frankland into his dining-room. "It is a great day for me, sir--one of the red-letter days of my life," he cried with many chuckles. "I have brought off a double event. I mean to teach them in these parts that law is law, and that there is a man here who does not fear to invoke it. I have established a right of way through the centre of old Middleton's park, slap across it, sir, within a hundred yards of his own front door. What do you think of that? We'll teach these magnates that they cannot ride roughshod over the rights of the commoners, confound them! And I've closed the wood where the Fernworthy folk used to picnic. These infernal people seem to think that there are no rights of property, and that they can swarm where they like with their papers and their bottles. Both cases decided, Dr. Watson, and both in my favour. I haven't had such a day since I had Sir John Morland for trespass because he shot in his own warren." "How on earth did you do that?" "Look it up in the books, sir. It will repay reading--Frankland v. Morland, Court of Queen's Bench. It cost me 200 pounds, but I got my verdict." "Did it do you any good?" "None, sir, none. I am proud to say that I had no interest in the matter. I act entirely from a sense of public duty. I have no doubt, for example, that the Fernworthy people will burn me in effigy tonight. I told the police last time they did it that they should stop these disgraceful exhibitions. The County Constabulary is in a scandalous state, sir, and it has not afforded me the protection to which I am entitled. The case of Frankland v. Regina will bring the matter before the attention of the public. I told them that they would have occasion to regret their treatment of me, and already my words have come true." "How so?" I asked. The old man put on a very knowing expression. "Because I could tell them what they are dying to know; but nothing would induce me to help the rascals in any way." I had been casting round for some excuse by which I could get away from his gossip, but now I began to wish to hear more of it. I had seen enough of the contrary nature of the old sinner to understand that any strong sign of interest would be the surest way to stop his confidences. "Some poaching case, no doubt?" said I with an indifferent manner. "Ha, ha, my boy, a very much more important matter than that! What about the convict on the moor?" I stared. "You don't mean that you know where he is?" said I. "I may not know exactly where he is, but I am quite sure that I could help the police to lay their hands on him. Has it never struck you that the way to catch that man was to find out where he got his food and so trace it to him?" He certainly seemed to be getting uncomfortably near the truth. "No doubt," said I; "but how do you know that he is anywhere upon the moor?" "I know it because I have seen with my own eyes the messenger who takes him his food." My heart sank for Barrymore. It was a serious thing to be in the power of this spiteful old busybody. But his next remark took a weight from my mind. "You'll be surprised to hear that his food is taken to him by a child. I see him every day through my telescope upon the roof. He passes along the same path at the same hour, and to whom should he be going except to the convict?" Here was luck indeed! And yet I suppressed all appearance of interest. A child! Barrymore had said that our unknown was supplied by a boy. It was on his track, and not upon the convict's, that Frankland had stumbled. If I could get his knowledge it might save me a long and weary hunt. But incredulity and indifference were evidently my strongest cards. "I should say that it was much more likely that it was the son of one of the moorland shepherds taking out his father's dinner." The least appearance of opposition struck fire out of the old autocrat. His eyes looked malignantly at me, and his gray whiskers bristled like those of an angry cat. "Indeed, sir!" said he, pointing out over the wide-stretching moor. "Do you see that Black Tor over yonder? Well, do you see the low hill beyond with the thornbush upon it? It is the stoniest part of the whole moor. Is that a place where a shepherd would be likely to take his station? Your suggestion, sir, is a most absurd one." I meekly answered that I had spoken without knowing all the facts. My submission pleased him and led him to further confidences. "You may be sure, sir, that I have very good grounds before I come to an opinion. I have seen the boy again and again with his bundle. Every day, and sometimes twice a day, I have been able--but wait a moment, Dr. Watson. Do my eyes deceive me, or is there at the present moment something moving upon that hillside?" It was several miles off, but I could distinctly see a small dark dot against the dull green and gray. "Come, sir, come!" cried Frankland, rushing upstairs. "You will see with your own eyes and judge for yourself." The telescope, a formidable instrument mounted upon a tripod, stood upon the flat leads of the house. Frankland clapped his eye to it and gave a cry of satisfaction. "Quick, Dr. Watson, quick, before he passes over the hill!" There he was, sure enough, a small urchin with a little bundle upon his shoulder, toiling slowly up the hill. When he reached the crest I saw the ragged uncouth figure outlined for an instant against the cold blue sky. He looked round him with a furtive and stealthy air, as one who dreads pursuit. Then he vanished over the hill. "Well! Am I right?" "Certainly, there is a boy who seems to have some secret errand." "And what the errand is even a county constable could guess. But not one word shall they have from me, and I bind you to secrecy also, Dr. Watson. Not a word! You understand!" "Just as you wish." "They have treated me shamefully--shamefully. When the facts come out in Frankland v. Regina I venture to think that a thrill of indignation will run through the country. Nothing would induce me to help the police in any way. For all they cared it might have been me, instead of my effigy, which these rascals burned at the stake. Surely you are not going! You will help me to empty the decanter in honour of this great occasion!" But I resisted all his solicitations and succeeded in dissuading him from his announced intention of walking home with me. I kept the road as long as his eye was on me, and then I struck off across the moor and made for the stony hill over which the boy had disappeared. Everything was working in my favour, and I swore that it should not be through lack of energy or perseverance that I should miss the chance which fortune had thrown in my way. The sun was already sinking when I reached the summit of the hill, and the long slopes beneath me were all golden-green on one side and gray shadow on the other. A haze lay low upon the farthest sky-line, out of which jutted the fantastic shapes of Belliver and Vixen Tor. Over the wide expanse there was no sound and no movement. One great gray bird, a gull or curlew, soared aloft in the blue heaven. He and I seemed to be the only living things between the huge arch of the sky and the desert beneath it. The barren scene, the sense of loneliness, and the mystery and urgency of my task all struck a chill into my heart. The boy was nowhere to be seen. But down beneath me in a cleft of the hills there was a circle of the old stone huts, and in the middle of them there was one which retained sufficient roof to act as a screen against the weather. My heart leaped within me as I saw it. This must be the burrow where the stranger lurked. At last my foot was on the threshold of his hiding place--his secret was within my grasp. As I approached the hut, walking as warily as Stapleton would do when with poised net he drew near the settled butterfly, I satisfied myself that the place had indeed been used as a habitation. A vague pathway among the boulders led to the dilapidated opening which served as a door. All was silent within. The unknown might be lurking there, or he might be prowling on the moor. My nerves tingled with the sense of adventure. Throwing aside my cigarette, I closed my hand upon the butt of my revolver and, walking swiftly up to the door, I looked in. The place was empty. But there were ample signs that I had not come upon a false scent. This was certainly where the man lived. Some blankets rolled in a waterproof lay upon that very stone slab upon which Neolithic man had once slumbered. The ashes of a fire were heaped in a rude grate. Beside it lay some cooking utensils and a bucket half-full of water. A litter of empty tins showed that the place had been occupied for some time, and I saw, as my eyes became accustomed to the checkered light, a pannikin and a half-full bottle of spirits standing in the corner. In the middle of the hut a flat stone served the purpose of a table, and upon this stood a small cloth bundle--the same, no doubt, which I had seen through the telescope upon the shoulder of the boy. It contained a loaf of bread, a tinned tongue, and two tins of preserved peaches. As I set it down again, after having examined it, my heart leaped to see that beneath it there lay a sheet of paper with writing upon it. I raised it, and this was what I read, roughly scrawled in pencil: "Dr. Watson has gone to Coombe Tracey." For a minute I stood there with the paper in my hands thinking out the meaning of this curt message. It was I, then, and not Sir Henry, who was being dogged by this secret man. He had not followed me himself, but he had set an agent--the boy, perhaps--upon my track, and this was his report. Possibly I had taken no step since I had been upon the moor which had not been observed and reported. Always there was this feeling of an unseen force, a fine net drawn round us with infinite skill and delicacy, holding us so lightly that it was only at some supreme moment that one realized that one was indeed entangled in its meshes. If there was one report there might be others, so I looked round the hut in search of them. There was no trace, however, of anything of the kind, nor could I discover any sign which might indicate the character or intentions of the man who lived in this singular place, save that he must be of Spartan habits and cared little for the comforts of life. When I thought of the heavy rains and looked at the gaping roof I understood how strong and immutable must be the purpose which had kept him in that inhospitable abode. Was he our malignant enemy, or was he by chance our guardian angel? I swore that I would not leave the hut until I knew. Outside the sun was sinking low and the west was blazing with scarlet and gold. Its reflection was shot back in ruddy patches by the distant pools which lay amid the great Grimpen Mire. There were the two towers of Baskerville Hall, and there a distant blur of smoke which marked the village of Grimpen. Between the two, behind the hill, was the house of the Stapletons. All was sweet and mellow and peaceful in the golden evening light, and yet as I looked at them my soul shared none of the peace of Nature but quivered at the vagueness and the terror of that interview which every instant was bringing nearer. With tingling nerves but a fixed purpose, I sat in the dark recess of the hut and waited with sombre patience for the coming of its tenant. And then at last I heard him. Far away came the sharp clink of a boot striking upon a stone. Then another and yet another, coming nearer and nearer. I shrank back into the darkest corner and cocked the pistol in my pocket, determined not to discover myself until I had an opportunity of seeing something of the stranger. There was a long pause which showed that he had stopped. Then once more the footsteps approached and a shadow fell across the opening of the hut. "It is a lovely evening, my dear Watson," said a well-known voice. "I really think that you will be more comfortable outside than in." Chapter 12. Death on the Moor For a moment or two I sat breathless, hardly able to believe my ears. Then my senses and my voice came back to me, while a crushing weight of responsibility seemed in an instant to be lifted from my soul. That cold, incisive, ironical voice could belong to but one man in all the world. "Holmes!" I cried--"Holmes!" "Come out," said he, "and please be careful with the revolver." I stooped under the rude lintel, and there he sat upon a stone outside, his gray eyes dancing with amusement as they fell upon my astonished features. He was thin and worn, but clear and alert, his keen face bronzed by the sun and roughened by the wind. In his tweed suit and cloth cap he looked like any other tourist upon the moor, and he had contrived, with that catlike love of personal cleanliness which was one of his characteristics, that his chin should be as smooth and his linen as perfect as if he were in Baker Street. "I never was more glad to see anyone in my life," said I as I wrung him by the hand. "Or more astonished, eh?" "Well, I must confess to it." "The surprise was not all on one side, I assure you. I had no idea that you had found my occasional retreat, still less that you were inside it, until I was within twenty paces of the door." "My footprint, I presume?" "No, Watson, I fear that I could not undertake to recognize your footprint amid all the footprints of the world. If you seriously desire to deceive me you must change your tobacconist; for when I see the stub of a cigarette marked Bradley, Oxford Street, I know that my friend Watson is in the neighbourhood. You will see it there beside the path. You threw it down, no doubt, at that supreme moment when you charged into the empty hut." "Exactly." "I thought as much--and knowing your admirable tenacity I was convinced that you were sitting in ambush, a weapon within reach, waiting for the tenant to return. So you actually thought that I was the criminal?" "I did not know who you were, but I was determined to find out." "Excellent, Watson! And how did you localize me? You saw me, perhaps, on the night of the convict hunt, when I was so imprudent as to allow the moon to rise behind me?" "Yes, I saw you then." "And have no doubt searched all the huts until you came to this one?" "No, your boy had been observed, and that gave me a guide where to look." "The old gentleman with the telescope, no doubt. I could not make it out when first I saw the light flashing upon the lens." He rose and peeped into the hut. "Ha, I see that Cartwright has brought up some supplies. What's this paper? So you have been to Coombe Tracey, have you?" "Yes." "To see Mrs. Laura Lyons?" "Exactly." "Well done! Our researches have evidently been running on parallel lines, and when we unite our results I expect we shall have a fairly full knowledge of the case." "Well, I am glad from my heart that you are here, for indeed the responsibility and the mystery were both becoming too much for my nerves. But how in the name of wonder did you come here, and what have you been doing? I thought that you were in Baker Street working out that case of blackmailing." "That was what I wished you to think." "Then you use me, and yet do not trust me!" I cried with some bitterness. "I think that I have deserved better at your hands, Holmes." "My dear fellow, you have been invaluable to me in this as in many other cases, and I beg that you will forgive me if I have seemed to play a trick upon you. In truth, it was partly for your own sake that I did it, and it was my appreciation of the danger which you ran which led me to come down and examine the matter for myself. Had I been with Sir Henry and you it is confident that my point of view would have been the same as yours, and my presence would have warned our very formidable opponents to be on their guard. As it is, I have been able to get about as I could not possibly have done had I been living in the Hall, and I remain an unknown factor in the business, ready to throw in all my weight at a critical moment." "But why keep me in the dark?" "For you to know could not have helped us and might possibly have led to my discovery. You would have wished to tell me something, or in your kindness you would have brought me out some comfort or other, and so an unnecessary risk would be run. I brought Cartwright down with me--you remember the little chap at the express office--and he has seen after my simple wants: a loaf of bread and a clean collar. What does man want more? He has given me an extra pair of eyes upon a very active pair of feet, and both have been invaluable." "Then my reports have all been wasted!"--My voice trembled as I recalled the pains and the pride with which I had composed them. Holmes took a bundle of papers from his pocket. "Here are your reports, my dear fellow, and very well thumbed, I assure you. I made excellent arrangements, and they are only delayed one day upon their way. I must compliment you exceedingly upon the zeal and the intelligence which you have shown over an extraordinarily difficult case." I was still rather raw over the deception which had been practised upon me, but the warmth of Holmes's praise drove my anger from my mind. I felt also in my heart that he was right in what he said and that it was really best for our purpose that I should not have known that he was upon the moor. "That's better," said he, seeing the shadow rise from my face. "And now tell me the result of your visit to Mrs. Laura Lyons--it was not difficult for me to guess that it was to see her that you had gone, for I am already aware that she is the one person in Coombe Tracey who might be of service to us in the matter. In fact, if you had not gone today it is exceedingly probable that I should have gone tomorrow." The sun had set and dusk was settling over the moor. The air had turned chill and we withdrew into the hut for warmth. There, sitting together in the twilight, I told Holmes of my conversation with the lady. So interested was he that I had to repeat some of it twice before he was satisfied. "This is most important," said he when I had concluded. "It fills up a gap which I had been unable to bridge in this most complex affair. You are aware, perhaps, that a close intimacy exists between this lady and the man Stapleton?" "I did not know of a close intimacy." "There can be no doubt about the matter. They meet, they write, there is a complete understanding between them. Now, this puts a very powerful weapon into our hands. If I could only use it to detach his wife--" "His wife?" "I am giving you some information now, in return for all that you have given me. The lady who has passed here as Miss Stapleton is in reality his wife." "Good heavens, Holmes! Are you sure of what you say? How could he have permitted Sir Henry to fall in love with her?" "Sir Henry's falling in love could do no harm to anyone except Sir Henry. He took particular care that Sir Henry did not make love to her, as you have yourself observed. I repeat that the lady is his wife and not his sister." "But why this elaborate deception?" "Because he foresaw that she would be very much more useful to him in the character of a free woman." All my unspoken instincts, my vague suspicions, suddenly took shape and centred upon the naturalist. In that impassive colourless man, with his straw hat and his butterfly-net, I seemed to see something terrible--a creature of infinite patience and craft, with a smiling face and a murderous heart. "It is he, then, who is our enemy--it is he who dogged us in London?" "So I read the riddle." "And the warning--it must have come from her!" "Exactly." The shape of some monstrous villainy, half seen, half guessed, loomed through the darkness which had girt me so long. "But are you sure of this, Holmes? How do you know that the woman is his wife?" "Because he so far forgot himself as to tell you a true piece of autobiography upon the occasion when he first met you, and I dare say he has many a time regretted it since. He was once a schoolmaster in the north of England. Now, there is no one more easy to trace than a schoolmaster. There are scholastic agencies by which one may identify any man who has been in the profession. A little investigation showed me that a school had come to grief under atrocious circumstances, and that the man who had owned it--the name was different--had disappeared with his wife. The descriptions agreed. When I learned that the missing man was devoted to entomology the identification was complete." The darkness was rising, but much was still hidden by the shadows. "If this woman is in truth his wife, where does Mrs. Laura Lyons come in?" I asked. "That is one of the points upon which your own researches have shed a light. Your interview with the lady has cleared the situation very much. I did not know about a projected divorce between herself and her husband. In that case, regarding Stapleton as an unmarried man, she counted no doubt upon becoming his wife." "And when she is undeceived?" "Why, then we may find the lady of service. It must be our first duty to see her--both of us--tomorrow. Don't you think, Watson, that you are away from your charge rather long? Your place should be at Baskerville Hall." The last red streaks had faded away in the west and night had settled upon the moor. A few faint stars were gleaming in a violet sky. "One last question, Holmes," I said as I rose. "Surely there is no need of secrecy between you and me. What is the meaning of it all? What is he after?" Holmes's voice sank as he answered: "It is murder, Watson--refined, cold-blooded, deliberate murder. Do not ask me for particulars. My nets are closing upon him, even as his are upon Sir Henry, and with your help he is already almost at my mercy. There is but one danger which can threaten us. It is that he should strike before we are ready to do so. Another day--two at the most--and I have my case complete, but until then guard your charge as closely as ever a fond mother watched her ailing child. Your mission today has justified itself, and yet I could almost wish that you had not left his side. Hark!" A terrible scream--a prolonged yell of horror and anguish--burst out of the silence of the moor. That frightful cry turned the blood to ice in my veins. "Oh, my God!" I gasped. "What is it? What does it mean?" Holmes had sprung to his feet, and I saw his dark, athletic outline at the door of the hut, his shoulders stooping, his head thrust forward, his face peering into the darkness. "Hush!" he whispered. "Hush!" The cry had been loud on account of its vehemence, but it had pealed out from somewhere far off on the shadowy plain. Now it burst upon our ears, nearer, louder, more urgent than before. "Where is it?" Holmes whispered; and I knew from the thrill of his voice that he, the man of iron, was shaken to the soul. "Where is it, Watson?" "There, I think." I pointed into the darkness. "No, there!" Again the agonized cry swept through the silent night, louder and much nearer than ever. And a new sound mingled with it, a deep, muttered rumble, musical and yet menacing, rising and falling like the low, constant murmur of the sea. "The hound!" cried Holmes. "Come, Watson, come! Great heavens, if we are too late!" He had started running swiftly over the moor, and I had followed at his heels. But now from somewhere among the broken ground immediately in front of us there came one last despairing yell, and then a dull, heavy thud. We halted and listened. Not another sound broke the heavy silence of the windless night. I saw Holmes put his hand to his forehead like a man distracted. He stamped his feet upon the ground. "He has beaten us, Watson. We are too late." "No, no, surely not!" "Fool that I was to hold my hand. And you, Watson, see what comes of abandoning your charge! But, by Heaven, if the worst has happened we'll avenge him!" Blindly we ran through the gloom, blundering against boulders, forcing our way through gorse bushes, panting up hills and rushing down slopes, heading always in the direction whence those dreadful sounds had come. At every rise Holmes looked eagerly round him, but the shadows were thick upon the moor, and nothing moved upon its dreary face. "Can you see anything?" "Nothing." "But, hark, what is that?" A low moan had fallen upon our ears. There it was again upon our left! On that side a ridge of rocks ended in a sheer cliff which overlooked a stone-strewn slope. On its jagged face was spread-eagled some dark, irregular object. As we ran towards it the vague outline hardened into a definite shape. It was a prostrate man face downward upon the ground, the head doubled under him at a horrible angle, the shoulders rounded and the body hunched together as if in the act of throwing a somersault. So grotesque was the attitude that I could not for the instant realize that that moan had been the passing of his soul. Not a whisper, not a rustle, rose now from the dark figure over which we stooped. Holmes laid his hand upon him and held it up again with an exclamation of horror. The gleam of the match which he struck shone upon his clotted fingers and upon the ghastly pool which widened slowly from the crushed skull of the victim. And it shone upon something else which turned our hearts sick and faint within us--the body of Sir Henry Baskerville! There was no chance of either of us forgetting that peculiar ruddy tweed suit--the very one which he had worn on the first morning that we had seen him in Baker Street. We caught the one clear glimpse of it, and then the match flickered and went out, even as the hope had gone out of our souls. Holmes groaned, and his face glimmered white through the darkness. "The brute! The brute!" I cried with clenched hands. "Oh Holmes, I shall never forgive myself for having left him to his fate." "I am more to blame than you, Watson. In order to have my case well rounded and complete, I have thrown away the life of my client. It is the greatest blow which has befallen me in my career. But how could I know--how could I know--that he would risk his life alone upon the moor in the face of all my warnings?" "That we should have heard his screams--my God, those screams!--and yet have been unable to save him! Where is this brute of a hound which drove him to his death? It may be lurking among these rocks at this instant. And Stapleton, where is he? He shall answer for this deed." "He shall. I will see to that. Uncle and nephew have been murdered--the one frightened to death by the very sight of a beast which he thought to be supernatural, the other driven to his end in his wild flight to escape from it. But now we have to prove the connection between the man and the beast. Save from what we heard, we cannot even swear to the existence of the latter, since Sir Henry has evidently died from the fall. But, by heavens, cunning as he is, the fellow shall be in my power before another day is past!" We stood with bitter hearts on either side of the mangled body, overwhelmed by this sudden and irrevocable disaster which had brought all our long and weary labours to so piteous an end. Then as the moon rose we climbed to the top of the rocks over which our poor friend had fallen, and from the summit we gazed out over the shadowy moor, half silver and half gloom. Far away, miles off, in the direction of Grimpen, a single steady yellow light was shining. It could only come from the lonely abode of the Stapletons. With a bitter curse I shook my fist at it as I gazed. "Why should we not seize him at once?" "Our case is not complete. The fellow is wary and cunning to the last degree. It is not what we know, but what we can prove. If we make one false move the villain may escape us yet." "What can we do?" "There will be plenty for us to do tomorrow. Tonight we can only perform the last offices to our poor friend." Together we made our way down the precipitous slope and approached the body, black and clear against the silvered stones. The agony of those contorted limbs struck me with a spasm of pain and blurred my eyes with tears. "We must send for help, Holmes! We cannot carry him all the way to the Hall. Good heavens, are you mad?" He had uttered a cry and bent over the body. Now he was dancing and laughing and wringing my hand. Could this be my stern, self-contained friend? These were hidden fires, indeed! "A beard! A beard! The man has a beard!" "A beard?" "It is not the baronet--it is--why, it is my neighbour, the convict!" With feverish haste we had turned the body over, and that dripping beard was pointing up to the cold, clear moon. There could be no doubt about the beetling forehead, the sunken animal eyes. It was indeed the same face which had glared upon me in the light of the candle from over the rock--the face of Selden, the criminal. Then in an instant it was all clear to me. I remembered how the baronet had told me that he had handed his old wardrobe to Barrymore. Barrymore had passed it on in order to help Selden in his escape. Boots, shirt, cap--it was all Sir Henry's. The tragedy was still black enough, but this man had at least deserved death by the laws of his country. I told Holmes how the matter stood, my heart bubbling over with thankfulness and joy. "Then the clothes have been the poor devil's death," said he. "It is clear enough that the hound has been laid on from some article of Sir Henry's--the boot which was abstracted in the hotel, in all probability--and so ran this man down. There is one very singular thing, however: How came Selden, in the darkness, to know that the hound was on his trail?" "He heard him." "To hear a hound upon the moor would not work a hard man like this convict into such a paroxysm of terror that he would risk recapture by screaming wildly for help. By his cries he must have run a long way after he knew the animal was on his track. How did he know?" "A greater mystery to me is why this hound, presuming that all our conjectures are correct--" "I presume nothing." "Well, then, why this hound should be loose tonight. I suppose that it does not always run loose upon the moor. Stapleton would not let it go unless he had reason to think that Sir Henry would be there." "My difficulty is the more formidable of the two, for I think that we shall very shortly get an explanation of yours, while mine may remain forever a mystery. The question now is, what shall we do with this poor wretch's body? We cannot leave it here to the foxes and the ravens." "I suggest that we put it in one of the huts until we can communicate with the police." "Exactly. I have no doubt that you and I could carry it so far. Halloa, Watson, what's this? It's the man himself, by all that's wonderful and audacious! Not a word to show your suspicions--not a word, or my plans crumble to the ground." A figure was approaching us over the moor, and I saw the dull red glow of a cigar. The moon shone upon him, and I could distinguish the dapper shape and jaunty walk of the naturalist. He stopped when he saw us, and then came on again. "Why, Dr. Watson, that's not you, is it? You are the last man that I should have expected to see out on the moor at this time of night. But, dear me, what's this? Somebody hurt? Not--don't tell me that it is our friend Sir Henry!" He hurried past me and stooped over the dead man. I heard a sharp intake of his breath and the cigar fell from his fingers. "Who--who's this?" he stammered. "It is Selden, the man who escaped from Princetown." Stapleton turned a ghastly face upon us, but by a supreme effort he had overcome his amazement and his disappointment. He looked sharply from Holmes to me. "Dear me! What a very shocking affair! How did he die?" "He appears to have broken his neck by falling over these rocks. My friend and I were strolling on the moor when we heard a cry." "I heard a cry also. That was what brought me out. I was uneasy about Sir Henry." "Why about Sir Henry in particular?" I could not help asking. "Because I had suggested that he should come over. When he did not come I was surprised, and I naturally became alarmed for his safety when I heard cries upon the moor. By the way"--his eyes darted again from my face to Holmes's--"did you hear anything else besides a cry?" "No," said Holmes; "did you?" "No." "What do you mean, then?" "Oh, you know the stories that the peasants tell about a phantom hound, and so on. It is said to be heard at night upon the moor. I was wondering if there were any evidence of such a sound tonight." "We heard nothing of the kind," said I. "And what is your theory of this poor fellow's death?" "I have no doubt that anxiety and exposure have driven him off his head. He has rushed about the moor in a crazy state and eventually fallen over here and broken his neck." "That seems the most reasonable theory," said Stapleton, and he gave a sigh which I took to indicate his relief. "What do you think about it, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" My friend bowed his compliments. "You are quick at identification," said he. "We have been expecting you in these parts since Dr. Watson came down. You are in time to see a tragedy." "Yes, indeed. I have no doubt that my friend's explanation will cover the facts. I will take an unpleasant remembrance back to London with me tomorrow." "Oh, you return tomorrow?" "That is my intention." "I hope your visit has cast some light upon those occurrences which have puzzled us?" Holmes shrugged his shoulders. "One cannot always have the success for which one hopes. An investigator needs facts and not legends or rumours. It has not been a satisfactory case." My friend spoke in his frankest and most unconcerned manner. Stapleton still looked hard at him. Then he turned to me. "I would suggest carrying this poor fellow to my house, but it would give my sister such a fright that I do not feel justified in doing it. I think that if we put something over his face he will be safe until morning." And so it was arranged. Resisting Stapleton's offer of hospitality, Holmes and I set off to Baskerville Hall, leaving the naturalist to return alone. Looking back we saw the figure moving slowly away over the broad moor, and behind him that one black smudge on the silvered slope which showed where the man was lying who had come so horribly to his end. Chapter 13. Fixing the Nets "We're at close grips at last," said Holmes as we walked together across the moor. "What a nerve the fellow has! How he pulled himself together in the face of what must have been a paralyzing shock when he found that the wrong man had fallen a victim to his plot. I told you in London, Watson, and I tell you now again, that we have never had a foeman more worthy of our steel." "I am sorry that he has seen you." "And so was I at first. But there was no getting out of it." "What effect do you think it will have upon his plans now that he knows you are here?" "It may cause him to be more cautious, or it may drive him to desperate measures at once. Like most clever criminals, he may be too confident in his own cleverness and imagine that he has completely deceived us." "Why should we not arrest him at once?" "My dear Watson, you were born to be a man of action. Your instinct is always to do something energetic. But supposing, for argument's sake, that we had him arrested tonight, what on earth the better off should we be for that? We could prove nothing against him. There's the devilish cunning of it! If he were acting through a human agent we could get some evidence, but if we were to drag this great dog to the light of day it would not help us in putting a rope round the neck of its master." "Surely we have a case." "Not a shadow of one--only surmise and conjecture. We should be laughed out of court if we came with such a story and such evidence." "There is Sir Charles's death." "Found dead without a mark upon him. You and I know that he died of sheer fright, and we know also what frightened him, but how are we to get twelve stolid jurymen to know it? What signs are there of a hound? Where are the marks of its fangs? Of course we know that a hound does not bite a dead body and that Sir Charles was dead before ever the brute overtook him. But we have to prove all this, and we are not in a position to do it." "Well, then, tonight?" "We are not much better off tonight. Again, there was no direct connection between the hound and the man's death. We never saw the hound. We heard it, but we could not prove that it was running upon this man's trail. There is a complete absence of motive. No, my dear fellow; we must reconcile ourselves to the fact that we have no case at present, and that it is worth our while to run any risk in order to establish one." "And how do you propose to do so?" "I have great hopes of what Mrs. Laura Lyons may do for us when the position of affairs is made clear to her. And I have my own plan as well. Sufficient for tomorrow is the evil thereof; but I hope before the day is past to have the upper hand at last." I could draw nothing further from him, and he walked, lost in thought, as far as the Baskerville gates. "Are you coming up?" "Yes; I see no reason for further concealment. But one last word, Watson. Say nothing of the hound to Sir Henry. Let him think that Selden's death was as Stapleton would have us believe. He will have a better nerve for the ordeal which he will have to undergo tomorrow, when he is engaged, if I remember your report aright, to dine with these people." "And so am I." "Then you must excuse yourself and he must go alone. That will be easily arranged. And now, if we are too late for dinner, I think that we are both ready for our suppers." Sir Henry was more pleased than surprised to see Sherlock Holmes, for he had for some days been expecting that recent events would bring him down from London. He did raise his eyebrows, however, when he found that my friend had neither any luggage nor any explanations for its absence. Between us we soon supplied his wants, and then over a belated supper we explained to the baronet as much of our experience as it seemed desirable that he should know. But first I had the unpleasant duty of breaking the news to Barrymore and his wife. To him it may have been an unmitigated relief, but she wept bitterly in her apron. To all the world he was the man of violence, half animal and half demon; but to her he always remained the little wilful boy of her own girlhood, the child who had clung to her hand. Evil indeed is the man who has not one woman to mourn him. "I've been moping in the house all day since Watson went off in the morning," said the baronet. "I guess I should have some credit, for I have kept my promise. If I hadn't sworn not to go about alone I might have had a more lively evening, for I had a message from Stapleton asking me over there." "I have no doubt that you would have had a more lively evening," said Holmes drily. "By the way, I don't suppose you appreciate that we have been mourning over you as having broken your neck?" Sir Henry opened his eyes. "How was that?" "This poor wretch was dressed in your clothes. I fear your servant who gave them to him may get into trouble with the police." "That is unlikely. There was no mark on any of them, as far as I know." "That's lucky for him--in fact, it's lucky for all of you, since you are all on the wrong side of the law in this matter. I am not sure that as a conscientious detective my first duty is not to arrest the whole household. Watson's reports are most incriminating documents." "But how about the case?" asked the baronet. "Have you made anything out of the tangle? I don't know that Watson and I are much the wiser since we came down." "I think that I shall be in a position to make the situation rather more clear to you before long. It has been an exceedingly difficult and most complicated business. There are several points upon which we still want light--but it is coming all the same." "We've had one experience, as Watson has no doubt told you. We heard the hound on the moor, so I can swear that it is not all empty superstition. I had something to do with dogs when I was out West, and I know one when I hear one. If you can muzzle that one and put him on a chain I'll be ready to swear you are the greatest detective of all time." "I think I will muzzle him and chain him all right if you will give me your help." "Whatever you tell me to do I will do." "Very good; and I will ask you also to do it blindly, without always asking the reason." "Just as you like." "If you will do this I think the chances are that our little problem will soon be solved. I have no doubt--" He stopped suddenly and stared fixedly up over my head into the air. The lamp beat upon his face, and so intent was it and so still that it might have been that of a clear-cut classical statue, a personification of alertness and expectation. "What is it?" we both cried. I could see as he looked down that he was repressing some internal emotion. His features were still composed, but his eyes shone with amused exultation. "Excuse the admiration of a connoisseur," said he as he waved his hand towards the line of portraits which covered the opposite wall. "Watson won't allow that I know anything of art but that is mere jealousy because our views upon the subject differ. Now, these are a really very fine series of portraits." "Well, I'm glad to hear you say so," said Sir Henry, glancing with some surprise at my friend. "I don't pretend to know much about these things, and I'd be a better judge of a horse or a steer than of a picture. I didn't know that you found time for such things." "I know what is good when I see it, and I see it now. That's a Kneller, I'll swear, that lady in the blue silk over yonder, and the stout gentleman with the wig ought to be a Reynolds. They are all family portraits, I presume?" "Every one." "Do you know the names?" "Barrymore has been coaching me in them, and I think I can say my lessons fairly well." "Who is the gentleman with the telescope?" "That is Rear-Admiral Baskerville, who served under Rodney in the West Indies. The man with the blue coat and the roll of paper is Sir William Baskerville, who was Chairman of Committees of the House of Commons under Pitt." "And this Cavalier opposite to me--the one with the black velvet and the lace?" "Ah, you have a right to know about him. That is the cause of all the mischief, the wicked Hugo, who started the Hound of the Baskervilles. We're not likely to forget him." I gazed with interest and some surprise upon the portrait. "Dear me!" said Holmes, "he seems a quiet, meek-mannered man enough, but I dare say that there was a lurking devil in his eyes. I had pictured him as a more robust and ruffianly person." "There's no doubt about the authenticity, for the name and the date, 1647, are on the back of the canvas." Holmes said little more, but the picture of the old roysterer seemed to have a fascination for him, and his eyes were continually fixed upon it during supper. It was not until later, when Sir Henry had gone to his room, that I was able to follow the trend of his thoughts. He led me back into the banqueting-hall, his bedroom candle in his hand, and he held it up against the time-stained portrait on the wall. "Do you see anything there?" I looked at the broad plumed hat, the curling love-locks, the white lace collar, and the straight, severe face which was framed between them. It was not a brutal countenance, but it was prim, hard, and stern, with a firm-set, thin-lipped mouth, and a coldly intolerant eye. "Is it like anyone you know?" "There is something of Sir Henry about the jaw." "Just a suggestion, perhaps. But wait an instant!" He stood upon a chair, and, holding up the light in his left hand, he curved his right arm over the broad hat and round the long ringlets. "Good heavens!" I cried in amazement. The face of Stapleton had sprung out of the canvas. "Ha, you see it now. My eyes have been trained to examine faces and not their trimmings. It is the first quality of a criminal investigator that he should see through a disguise." "But this is marvellous. It might be his portrait." "Yes, it is an interesting instance of a throwback, which appears to be both physical and spiritual. A study of family portraits is enough to convert a man to the doctrine of reincarnation. The fellow is a Baskerville--that is evident." "With designs upon the succession." "Exactly. This chance of the picture has supplied us with one of our most obvious missing links. We have him, Watson, we have him, and I dare swear that before tomorrow night he will be fluttering in our net as helpless as one of his own butterflies. A pin, a cork, and a card, and we add him to the Baker Street collection!" He burst into one of his rare fits of laughter as he turned away from the picture. I have not heard him laugh often, and it has always boded ill to somebody. I was up betimes in the morning, but Holmes was afoot earlier still, for I saw him as I dressed, coming up the drive. "Yes, we should have a full day today," he remarked, and he rubbed his hands with the joy of action. "The nets are all in place, and the drag is about to begin. We'll know before the day is out whether we have caught our big, leanjawed pike, or whether he has got through the meshes." "Have you been on the moor already?" "I have sent a report from Grimpen to Princetown as to the death of Selden. I think I can promise that none of you will be troubled in the matter. And I have also communicated with my faithful Cartwright, who would certainly have pined away at the door of my hut, as a dog does at his master's grave, if I had not set his mind at rest about my safety." "What is the next move?" "To see Sir Henry. Ah, here he is!" "Good-morning, Holmes," said the baronet. "You look like a general who is planning a battle with his chief of the staff." "That is the exact situation. Watson was asking for orders." "And so do I." "Very good. You are engaged, as I understand, to dine with our friends the Stapletons tonight." "I hope that you will come also. They are very hospitable people, and I am sure that they would be very glad to see you." "I fear that Watson and I must go to London." "To London?" "Yes, I think that we should be more useful there at the present juncture." The baronet's face perceptibly lengthened. "I hoped that you were going to see me through this business. The Hall and the moor are not very pleasant places when one is alone." "My dear fellow, you must trust me implicitly and do exactly what I tell you. You can tell your friends that we should have been happy to have come with you, but that urgent business required us to be in town. We hope very soon to return to Devonshire. Will you remember to give them that message?" "If you insist upon it." "There is no alternative, I assure you." I saw by the baronet's clouded brow that he was deeply hurt by what he regarded as our desertion. "When do you desire to go?" he asked coldly. "Immediately after breakfast. We will drive in to Coombe Tracey, but Watson will leave his things as a pledge that he will come back to you. Watson, you will send a note to Stapleton to tell him that you regret that you cannot come." "I have a good mind to go to London with you," said the baronet. "Why should I stay here alone?" "Because it is your post of duty. Because you gave me your word that you would do as you were told, and I tell you to stay." "All right, then, I'll stay." "One more direction! I wish you to drive to Merripit House. Send back your trap, however, and let them know that you intend to walk home." "To walk across the moor?" "Yes." "But that is the very thing which you have so often cautioned me not to do." "This time you may do it with safety. If I had not every confidence in your nerve and courage I would not suggest it, but it is essential that you should do it." "Then I will do it." "And as you value your life do not go across the moor in any direction save along the straight path which leads from Merripit House to the Grimpen Road, and is your natural way home." "I will do just what you say." "Very good. I should be glad to get away as soon after breakfast as possible, so as to reach London in the afternoon." I was much astounded by this programme, though I remembered that Holmes had said to Stapleton on the night before that his visit would terminate next day. It had not crossed my mind however, that he would wish me to go with him, nor could I understand how we could both be absent at a moment which he himself declared to be critical. There was nothing for it, however, but implicit obedience; so we bade good-bye to our rueful friend, and a couple of hours afterwards we were at the station of Coombe Tracey and had dispatched the trap upon its return journey. A small boy was waiting upon the platform. "Any orders, sir?" "You will take this train to town, Cartwright. The moment you arrive you will send a wire to Sir Henry Baskerville, in my name, to say that if he finds the pocketbook which I have dropped he is to send it by registered post to Baker Street." "Yes, sir." "And ask at the station office if there is a message for me." The boy returned with a telegram, which Holmes handed to me. It ran: Wire received. Coming down with unsigned warrant. Arrive five-forty. Lestrade. "That is in answer to mine of this morning. He is the best of the professionals, I think, and we may need his assistance. Now, Watson, I think that we cannot employ our time better than by calling upon your acquaintance, Mrs. Laura Lyons." His plan of campaign was beginning to be evident. He would use the baronet in order to convince the Stapletons that we were really gone, while we should actually return at the instant when we were likely to be needed. That telegram from London, if mentioned by Sir Henry to the Stapletons, must remove the last suspicions from their minds. Already I seemed to see our nets drawing closer around that leanjawed pike. Mrs. Laura Lyons was in her office, and Sherlock Holmes opened his interview with a frankness and directness which considerably amazed her. "I am investigating the circumstances which attended the death of the late Sir Charles Baskerville," said he. "My friend here, Dr. Watson, has informed me of what you have communicated, and also of what you have withheld in connection with that matter." "What have I withheld?" she asked defiantly. "You have confessed that you asked Sir Charles to be at the gate at ten o'clock. We know that that was the place and hour of his death. You have withheld what the connection is between these events." "There is no connection." "In that case the coincidence must indeed be an extraordinary one. But I think that we shall succeed in establishing a connection, after all. I wish to be perfectly frank with you, Mrs. Lyons. We regard this case as one of murder, and the evidence may implicate not only your friend Mr. Stapleton but his wife as well." The lady sprang from her chair. "His wife!" she cried. "The fact is no longer a secret. The person who has passed for his sister is really his wife." Mrs. Lyons had resumed her seat. Her hands were grasping the arms of her chair, and I saw that the pink nails had turned white with the pressure of her grip. "His wife!" she said again. "His wife! He is not a married man." Sherlock Holmes shrugged his shoulders. "Prove it to me! Prove it to me! And if you can do so--!" The fierce flash of her eyes said more than any words. "I have come prepared to do so," said Holmes, drawing several papers from his pocket. "Here is a photograph of the couple taken in York four years ago. It is indorsed 'Mr. and Mrs. Vandeleur,' but you will have no difficulty in recognizing him, and her also, if you know her by sight. Here are three written descriptions by trustworthy witnesses of Mr. and Mrs. Vandeleur, who at that time kept St. Oliver's private school. Read them and see if you can doubt the identity of these people." She glanced at them, and then looked up at us with the set, rigid face of a desperate woman. "Mr. Holmes," she said, "this man had offered me marriage on condition that I could get a divorce from my husband. He has lied to me, the villain, in every conceivable way. Not one word of truth has he ever told me. And why--why? I imagined that all was for my own sake. But now I see that I was never anything but a tool in his hands. Why should I preserve faith with him who never kept any with me? Why should I try to shield him from the consequences of his own wicked acts? Ask me what you like, and there is nothing which I shall hold back. One thing I swear to you, and that is that when I wrote the letter I never dreamed of any harm to the old gentleman, who had been my kindest friend." "I entirely believe you, madam," said Sherlock Holmes. "The recital of these events must be very painful to you, and perhaps it will make it easier if I tell you what occurred, and you can check me if I make any material mistake. The sending of this letter was suggested to you by Stapleton?" "He dictated it." "I presume that the reason he gave was that you would receive help from Sir Charles for the legal expenses connected with your divorce?" "Exactly." "And then after you had sent the letter he dissuaded you from keeping the appointment?" "He told me that it would hurt his self-respect that any other man should find the money for such an object, and that though he was a poor man himself he would devote his last penny to removing the obstacles which divided us." "He appears to be a very consistent character. And then you heard nothing until you read the reports of the death in the paper?" "No." "And he made you swear to say nothing about your appointment with Sir Charles?" "He did. He said that the death was a very mysterious one, and that I should certainly be suspected if the facts came out. He frightened me into remaining silent." "Quite so. But you had your suspicions?" She hesitated and looked down. "I knew him," she said. "But if he had kept faith with me I should always have done so with him." "I think that on the whole you have had a fortunate escape," said Sherlock Holmes. "You have had him in your power and he knew it, and yet you are alive. You have been walking for some months very near to the edge of a precipice. We must wish you good-morning now, Mrs. Lyons, and it is probable that you will very shortly hear from us again." "Our case becomes rounded off, and difficulty after difficulty thins away in front of us," said Holmes as we stood waiting for the arrival of the express from town. "I shall soon be in the position of being able to put into a single connected narrative one of the most singular and sensational crimes of modern times. Students of criminology will remember the analogous incidents in Godno, in Little Russia, in the year '66, and of course there are the Anderson murders in North Carolina, but this case possesses some features which are entirely its own. Even now we have no clear case against this very wily man. But I shall be very much surprised if it is not clear enough before we go to bed this night." The London express came roaring into the station, and a small, wiry bulldog of a man had sprung from a first-class carriage. We all three shook hands, and I saw at once from the reverential way in which Lestrade gazed at my companion that he had learned a good deal since the days when they had first worked together. I could well remember the scorn which the theories of the reasoner used then to excite in the practical man. "Anything good?" he asked. "The biggest thing for years," said Holmes. "We have two hours before we need think of starting. I think we might employ it in getting some dinner and then, Lestrade, we will take the London fog out of your throat by giving you a breath of the pure night air of Dartmoor. Never been there? Ah, well, I don't suppose you will forget your first visit." Chapter 14. The Hound of the Baskervilles One of Sherlock Holmes's defects--if, indeed, one may call it a defect--was that he was exceedingly loath to communicate his full plans to any other person until the instant of their fulfilment. Partly it came no doubt from his own masterful nature, which loved to dominate and surprise those who were around him. Partly also from his professional caution, which urged him never to take any chances. The result, however, was very trying for those who were acting as his agents and assistants. I had often suffered under it, but never more so than during that long drive in the darkness. The great ordeal was in front of us; at last we were about to make our final effort, and yet Holmes had said nothing, and I could only surmise what his course of action would be. My nerves thrilled with anticipation when at last the cold wind upon our faces and the dark, void spaces on either side of the narrow road told me that we were back upon the moor once again. Every stride of the horses and every turn of the wheels was taking us nearer to our supreme adventure. Our conversation was hampered by the presence of the driver of the hired wagonette, so that we were forced to talk of trivial matters when our nerves were tense with emotion and anticipation. It was a relief to me, after that unnatural restraint, when we at last passed Frankland's house and knew that we were drawing near to the Hall and to the scene of action. We did not drive up to the door but got down near the gate of the avenue. The wagonette was paid off and ordered to return to Coombe Tracey forthwith, while we started to walk to Merripit House. "Are you armed, Lestrade?" The little detective smiled. "As long as I have my trousers I have a hip-pocket, and as long as I have my hip-pocket I have something in it." "Good! My friend and I are also ready for emergencies." "You're mighty close about this affair, Mr. Holmes. What's the game now?" "A waiting game." "My word, it does not seem a very cheerful place," said the detective with a shiver, glancing round him at the gloomy slopes of the hill and at the huge lake of fog which lay over the Grimpen Mire. "I see the lights of a house ahead of us." "That is Merripit House and the end of our journey. I must request you to walk on tiptoe and not to talk above a whisper." We moved cautiously along the track as if we were bound for the house, but Holmes halted us when we were about two hundred yards from it. "This will do," said he. "These rocks upon the right make an admirable screen." "We are to wait here?" "Yes, we shall make our little ambush here. Get into this hollow, Lestrade. You have been inside the house, have you not, Watson? Can you tell the position of the rooms? What are those latticed windows at this end?" "I think they are the kitchen windows." "And the one beyond, which shines so brightly?" "That is certainly the dining-room." "The blinds are up. You know the lie of the land best. Creep forward quietly and see what they are doing--but for heaven's sake don't let them know that they are watched!" I tiptoed down the path and stooped behind the low wall which surrounded the stunted orchard. Creeping in its shadow I reached a point whence I could look straight through the uncurtained window. There were only two men in the room, Sir Henry and Stapleton. They sat with their profiles towards me on either side of the round table. Both of them were smoking cigars, and coffee and wine were in front of them. Stapleton was talking with animation, but the baronet looked pale and distrait. Perhaps the thought of that lonely walk across the ill-omened moor was weighing heavily upon his mind. As I watched them Stapleton rose and left the room, while Sir Henry filled his glass again and leaned back in his chair, puffing at his cigar. I heard the creak of a door and the crisp sound of boots upon gravel. The steps passed along the path on the other side of the wall under which I crouched. Looking over, I saw the naturalist pause at the door of an out-house in the corner of the orchard. A key turned in a lock, and as he passed in there was a curious scuffling noise from within. He was only a minute or so inside, and then I heard the key turn once more and he passed me and reentered the house. I saw him rejoin his guest, and I crept quietly back to where my companions were waiting to tell them what I had seen. "You say, Watson, that the lady is not there?" Holmes asked when I had finished my report. "No." "Where can she be, then, since there is no light in any other room except the kitchen?" "I cannot think where she is." I have said that over the great Grimpen Mire there hung a dense, white fog. It was drifting slowly in our direction and banked itself up like a wall on that side of us, low but thick and well defined. The moon shone on it, and it looked like a great shimmering ice-field, with the heads of the distant tors as rocks borne upon its surface. Holmes's face was turned towards it, and he muttered impatiently as he watched its sluggish drift. "It's moving towards us, Watson." "Is that serious?" "Very serious, indeed--the one thing upon earth which could have disarranged my plans. He can't be very long, now. It is already ten o'clock. Our success and even his life may depend upon his coming out before the fog is over the path." The night was clear and fine above us. The stars shone cold and bright, while a half-moon bathed the whole scene in a soft, uncertain light. Before us lay the dark bulk of the house, its serrated roof and bristling chimneys hard outlined against the silver-spangled sky. Broad bars of golden light from the lower windows stretched across the orchard and the moor. One of them was suddenly shut off. The servants had left the kitchen. There only remained the lamp in the dining-room where the two men, the murderous host and the unconscious guest, still chatted over their cigars. Every minute that white woolly plain which covered one-half of the moor was drifting closer and closer to the house. Already the first thin wisps of it were curling across the golden square of the lighted window. The farther wall of the orchard was already invisible, and the trees were standing out of a swirl of white vapour. As we watched it the fog-wreaths came crawling round both corners of the house and rolled slowly into one dense bank on which the upper floor and the roof floated like a strange ship upon a shadowy sea. Holmes struck his hand passionately upon the rock in front of us and stamped his feet in his impatience. "If he isn't out in a quarter of an hour the path will be covered. In half an hour we won't be able to see our hands in front of us." "Shall we move farther back upon higher ground?" "Yes, I think it would be as well." So as the fog-bank flowed onward we fell back before it until we were half a mile from the house, and still that dense white sea, with the moon silvering its upper edge, swept slowly and inexorably on. "We are going too far," said Holmes. "We dare not take the chance of his being overtaken before he can reach us. At all costs we must hold our ground where we are." He dropped on his knees and clapped his ear to the ground. "Thank God, I think that I hear him coming." A sound of quick steps broke the silence of the moor. Crouching among the stones we stared intently at the silver-tipped bank in front of us. The steps grew louder, and through the fog, as through a curtain, there stepped the man whom we were awaiting. He looked round him in surprise as he emerged into the clear, starlit night. Then he came swiftly along the path, passed close to where we lay, and went on up the long slope behind us. As he walked he glanced continually over either shoulder, like a man who is ill at ease. "Hist!" cried Holmes, and I heard the sharp click of a cocking pistol. "Look out! It's coming!" There was a thin, crisp, continuous patter from somewhere in the heart of that crawling bank. The cloud was within fifty yards of where we lay, and we glared at it, all three, uncertain what horror was about to break from the heart of it. I was at Holmes's elbow, and I glanced for an instant at his face. It was pale and exultant, his eyes shining brightly in the moonlight. But suddenly they started forward in a rigid, fixed stare, and his lips parted in amazement. At the same instant Lestrade gave a yell of terror and threw himself face downward upon the ground. I sprang to my feet, my inert hand grasping my pistol, my mind paralyzed by the dreadful shape which had sprung out upon us from the shadows of the fog. A hound it was, an enormous coal-black hound, but not such a hound as mortal eyes have ever seen. Fire burst from its open mouth, its eyes glowed with a smouldering glare, its muzzle and hackles and dewlap were outlined in flickering flame. Never in the delirious dream of a disordered brain could anything more savage, more appalling, more hellish be conceived than that dark form and savage face which broke upon us out of the wall of fog. With long bounds the huge black creature was leaping down the track, following hard upon the footsteps of our friend. So paralyzed were we by the apparition that we allowed him to pass before we had recovered our nerve. Then Holmes and I both fired together, and the creature gave a hideous howl, which showed that one at least had hit him. He did not pause, however, but bounded onward. Far away on the path we saw Sir Henry looking back, his face white in the moonlight, his hands raised in horror, glaring helplessly at the frightful thing which was hunting him down. But that cry of pain from the hound had blown all our fears to the winds. If he was vulnerable he was mortal, and if we could wound him we could kill him. Never have I seen a man run as Holmes ran that night. I am reckoned fleet of foot, but he outpaced me as much as I outpaced the little professional. In front of us as we flew up the track we heard scream after scream from Sir Henry and the deep roar of the hound. I was in time to see the beast spring upon its victim, hurl him to the ground, and worry at his throat. But the next instant Holmes had emptied five barrels of his revolver into the creature's flank. With a last howl of agony and a vicious snap in the air, it rolled upon its back, four feet pawing furiously, and then fell limp upon its side. I stooped, panting, and pressed my pistol to the dreadful, shimmering head, but it was useless to press the trigger. The giant hound was dead. Sir Henry lay insensible where he had fallen. We tore away his collar, and Holmes breathed a prayer of gratitude when we saw that there was no sign of a wound and that the rescue had been in time. Already our friend's eyelids shivered and he made a feeble effort to move. Lestrade thrust his brandy-flask between the baronet's teeth, and two frightened eyes were looking up at us. "My God!" he whispered. "What was it? What, in heaven's name, was it?" "It's dead, whatever it is," said Holmes. "We've laid the family ghost once and forever." In mere size and strength it was a terrible creature which was lying stretched before us. It was not a pure bloodhound and it was not a pure mastiff; but it appeared to be a combination of the two--gaunt, savage, and as large as a small lioness. Even now in the stillness of death, the huge jaws seemed to be dripping with a bluish flame and the small, deep-set, cruel eyes were ringed with fire. I placed my hand upon the glowing muzzle, and as I held them up my own fingers smouldered and gleamed in the darkness. "Phosphorus," I said. "A cunning preparation of it," said Holmes, sniffing at the dead animal. "There is no smell which might have interfered with his power of scent. We owe you a deep apology, Sir Henry, for having exposed you to this fright. I was prepared for a hound, but not for such a creature as this. And the fog gave us little time to receive him." "You have saved my life." "Having first endangered it. Are you strong enough to stand?" "Give me another mouthful of that brandy and I shall be ready for anything. So! Now, if you will help me up. What do you propose to do?" "To leave you here. You are not fit for further adventures tonight. If you will wait, one or other of us will go back with you to the Hall." He tried to stagger to his feet; but he was still ghastly pale and trembling in every limb. We helped him to a rock, where he sat shivering with his face buried in his hands. "We must leave you now," said Holmes. "The rest of our work must be done, and every moment is of importance. We have our case, and now we only want our man. "It's a thousand to one against our finding him at the house," he continued as we retraced our steps swiftly down the path. "Those shots must have told him that the game was up." "We were some distance off, and this fog may have deadened them." "He followed the hound to call him off--of that you may be certain. No, no, he's gone by this time! But we'll search the house and make sure." The front door was open, so we rushed in and hurried from room to room to the amazement of a doddering old manservant, who met us in the passage. There was no light save in the dining-room, but Holmes caught up the lamp and left no corner of the house unexplored. No sign could we see of the man whom we were chasing. On the upper floor, however, one of the bedroom doors was locked. "There's someone in here," cried Lestrade. "I can hear a movement. Open this door!" A faint moaning and rustling came from within. Holmes struck the door just over the lock with the flat of his foot and it flew open. Pistol in hand, we all three rushed into the room. But there was no sign within it of that desperate and defiant villain whom we expected to see. Instead we were faced by an object so strange and so unexpected that we stood for a moment staring at it in amazement. The room had been fashioned into a small museum, and the walls were lined by a number of glass-topped cases full of that collection of butterflies and moths the formation of which had been the relaxation of this complex and dangerous man. In the centre of this room there was an upright beam, which had been placed at some period as a support for the old worm-eaten baulk of timber which spanned the roof. To this post a figure was tied, so swathed and muffled in the sheets which had been used to secure it that one could not for the moment tell whether it was that of a man or a woman. One towel passed round the throat and was secured at the back of the pillar. Another covered the lower part of the face, and over it two dark eyes--eyes full of grief and shame and a dreadful questioning--stared back at us. In a minute we had torn off the gag, unswathed the bonds, and Mrs. Stapleton sank upon the floor in front of us. As her beautiful head fell upon her chest I saw the clear red weal of a whiplash across her neck. "The brute!" cried Holmes. "Here, Lestrade, your brandy-bottle! Put her in the chair! She has fainted from ill-usage and exhaustion." She opened her eyes again. "Is he safe?" she asked. "Has he escaped?" "He cannot escape us, madam." "No, no, I did not mean my husband. Sir Henry? Is he safe?" "Yes." "And the hound?" "It is dead." She gave a long sigh of satisfaction. "Thank God! Thank God! Oh, this villain! See how he has treated me!" She shot her arms out from her sleeves, and we saw with horror that they were all mottled with bruises. "But this is nothing--nothing! It is my mind and soul that he has tortured and defiled. I could endure it all, ill-usage, solitude, a life of deception, everything, as long as I could still cling to the hope that I had his love, but now I know that in this also I have been his dupe and his tool." She broke into passionate sobbing as she spoke. "You bear him no good will, madam," said Holmes. "Tell us then where we shall find him. If you have ever aided him in evil, help us now and so atone." "There is but one place where he can have fled," she answered. "There is an old tin mine on an island in the heart of the mire. It was there that he kept his hound and there also he had made preparations so that he might have a refuge. That is where he would fly." The fog-bank lay like white wool against the window. Holmes held the lamp towards it. "See," said he. "No one could find his way into the Grimpen Mire tonight." She laughed and clapped her hands. Her eyes and teeth gleamed with fierce merriment. "He may find his way in, but never out," she cried. "How can he see the guiding wands tonight? We planted them together, he and I, to mark the pathway through the mire. Oh, if I could only have plucked them out today. Then indeed you would have had him at your mercy!" It was evident to us that all pursuit was in vain until the fog had lifted. Meanwhile we left Lestrade in possession of the house while Holmes and I went back with the baronet to Baskerville Hall. The story of the Stapletons could no longer be withheld from him, but he took the blow bravely when he learned the truth about the woman whom he had loved. But the shock of the night's adventures had shattered his nerves, and before morning he lay delirious in a high fever under the care of Dr. Mortimer. The two of them were destined to travel together round the world before Sir Henry had become once more the hale, hearty man that he had been before he became master of that ill-omened estate. And now I come rapidly to the conclusion of this singular narrative, in which I have tried to make the reader share those dark fears and vague surmises which clouded our lives so long and ended in so tragic a manner. On the morning after the death of the hound the fog had lifted and we were guided by Mrs. Stapleton to the point where they had found a pathway through the bog. It helped us to realize the horror of this woman's life when we saw the eagerness and joy with which she laid us on her husband's track. We left her standing upon the thin peninsula of firm, peaty soil which tapered out into the widespread bog. From the end of it a small wand planted here and there showed where the path zigzagged from tuft to tuft of rushes among those green-scummed pits and foul quagmires which barred the way to the stranger. Rank reeds and lush, slimy water-plants sent an odour of decay and a heavy miasmatic vapour onto our faces, while a false step plunged us more than once thigh-deep into the dark, quivering mire, which shook for yards in soft undulations around our feet. Its tenacious grip plucked at our heels as we walked, and when we sank into it it was as if some malignant hand was tugging us down into those obscene depths, so grim and purposeful was the clutch in which it held us. Once only we saw a trace that someone had passed that perilous way before us. From amid a tuft of cotton grass which bore it up out of the slime some dark thing was projecting. Holmes sank to his waist as he stepped from the path to seize it, and had we not been there to drag him out he could never have set his foot upon firm land again. He held an old black boot in the air. "Meyers, Toronto," was printed on the leather inside. "It is worth a mud bath," said he. "It is our friend Sir Henry's missing boot." "Thrown there by Stapleton in his flight." "Exactly. He retained it in his hand after using it to set the hound upon the track. He fled when he knew the game was up, still clutching it. And he hurled it away at this point of his flight. We know at least that he came so far in safety." But more than that we were never destined to know, though there was much which we might surmise. There was no chance of finding footsteps in the mire, for the rising mud oozed swiftly in upon them, but as we at last reached firmer ground beyond the morass we all looked eagerly for them. But no slightest sign of them ever met our eyes. If the earth told a true story, then Stapleton never reached that island of refuge towards which he struggled through the fog upon that last night. Somewhere in the heart of the great Grimpen Mire, down in the foul slime of the huge morass which had sucked him in, this cold and cruel-hearted man is forever buried. Many traces we found of him in the bog-girt island where he had hid his savage ally. A huge driving-wheel and a shaft half-filled with rubbish showed the position of an abandoned mine. Beside it were the crumbling remains of the cottages of the miners, driven away no doubt by the foul reek of the surrounding swamp. In one of these a staple and chain with a quantity of gnawed bones showed where the animal had been confined. A skeleton with a tangle of brown hair adhering to it lay among the debris. "A dog!" said Holmes. "By Jove, a curly-haired spaniel. Poor Mortimer will never see his pet again. Well, I do not know that this place contains any secret which we have not already fathomed. He could hide his hound, but he could not hush its voice, and hence came those cries which even in daylight were not pleasant to hear. On an emergency he could keep the hound in the out-house at Merripit, but it was always a risk, and it was only on the supreme day, which he regarded as the end of all his efforts, that he dared do it. This paste in the tin is no doubt the luminous mixture with which the creature was daubed. It was suggested, of course, by the story of the family hell-hound, and by the desire to frighten old Sir Charles to death. No wonder the poor devil of a convict ran and screamed, even as our friend did, and as we ourselves might have done, when he saw such a creature bounding through the darkness of the moor upon his track. It was a cunning device, for, apart from the chance of driving your victim to his death, what peasant would venture to inquire too closely into such a creature should he get sight of it, as many have done, upon the moor? I said it in London, Watson, and I say it again now, that never yet have we helped to hunt down a more dangerous man than he who is lying yonder"--he swept his long arm towards the huge mottled expanse of green-splotched bog which stretched away until it merged into the russet slopes of the moor. Chapter 15. A Retrospection It was the end of November, and Holmes and I sat, upon a raw and foggy night, on either side of a blazing fire in our sitting-room in Baker Street. Since the tragic upshot of our visit to Devonshire he had been engaged in two affairs of the utmost importance, in the first of which he had exposed the atrocious conduct of Colonel Upwood in connection with the famous card scandal of the Nonpareil Club, while in the second he had defended the unfortunate Mme. Montpensier from the charge of murder which hung over her in connection with the death of her step-daughter, Mlle. Carere, the young lady who, as it will be remembered, was found six months later alive and married in New York. My friend was in excellent spirits over the success which had attended a succession of difficult and important cases, so that I was able to induce him to discuss the details of the Baskerville mystery. I had waited patiently for the opportunity for I was aware that he would never permit cases to overlap, and that his clear and logical mind would not be drawn from its present work to dwell upon memories of the past. Sir Henry and Dr. Mortimer were, however, in London, on their way to that long voyage which had been recommended for the restoration of his shattered nerves. They had called upon us that very afternoon, so that it was natural that the subject should come up for discussion. "The whole course of events," said Holmes, "from the point of view of the man who called himself Stapleton was simple and direct, although to us, who had no means in the beginning of knowing the motives of his actions and could only learn part of the facts, it all appeared exceedingly complex. I have had the advantage of two conversations with Mrs. Stapleton, and the case has now been so entirely cleared up that I am not aware that there is anything which has remained a secret to us. You will find a few notes upon the matter under the heading B in my indexed list of cases." "Perhaps you would kindly give me a sketch of the course of events from memory." "Certainly, though I cannot guarantee that I carry all the facts in my mind. Intense mental concentration has a curious way of blotting out what has passed. The barrister who has his case at his fingers' ends and is able to argue with an expert upon his own subject finds that a week or two of the courts will drive it all out of his head once more. So each of my cases displaces the last, and Mlle. Carere has blurred my recollection of Baskerville Hall. Tomorrow some other little problem may be submitted to my notice which will in turn dispossess the fair French lady and the infamous Upwood. So far as the case of the hound goes, however, I will give you the course of events as nearly as I can, and you will suggest anything which I may have forgotten. "My inquiries show beyond all question that the family portrait did not lie, and that this fellow was indeed a Baskerville. He was a son of that Rodger Baskerville, the younger brother of Sir Charles, who fled with a sinister reputation to South America, where he was said to have died unmarried. He did, as a matter of fact, marry, and had one child, this fellow, whose real name is the same as his father's. He married Beryl Garcia, one of the beauties of Costa Rica, and, having purloined a considerable sum of public money, he changed his name to Vandeleur and fled to England, where he established a school in the east of Yorkshire. His reason for attempting this special line of business was that he had struck up an acquaintance with a consumptive tutor upon the voyage home, and that he had used this man's ability to make the undertaking a success. Fraser, the tutor, died however, and the school which had begun well sank from disrepute into infamy. The Vandeleurs found it convenient to change their name to Stapleton, and he brought the remains of his fortune, his schemes for the future, and his taste for entomology to the south of England. I learned at the British Museum that he was a recognized authority upon the subject, and that the name of Vandeleur has been permanently attached to a certain moth which he had, in his Yorkshire days, been the first to describe. "We now come to that portion of his life which has proved to be of such intense interest to us. The fellow had evidently made inquiry and found that only two lives intervened between him and a valuable estate. When he went to Devonshire his plans were, I believe, exceedingly hazy, but that he meant mischief from the first is evident from the way in which he took his wife with him in the character of his sister. The idea of using her as a decoy was clearly already in his mind, though he may not have been certain how the details of his plot were to be arranged. He meant in the end to have the estate, and he was ready to use any tool or run any risk for that end. His first act was to establish himself as near to his ancestral home as he could, and his second was to cultivate a friendship with Sir Charles Baskerville and with the neighbours. "The baronet himself told him about the family hound, and so prepared the way for his own death. Stapleton, as I will continue to call him, knew that the old man's heart was weak and that a shock would kill him. So much he had learned from Dr. Mortimer. He had heard also that Sir Charles was superstitious and had taken this grim legend very seriously. His ingenious mind instantly suggested a way by which the baronet could be done to death, and yet it would be hardly possible to bring home the guilt to the real murderer. "Having conceived the idea he proceeded to carry it out with considerable finesse. An ordinary schemer would have been content to work with a savage hound. The use of artificial means to make the creature diabolical was a flash of genius upon his part. The dog he bought in London from Ross and Mangles, the dealers in Fulham Road. It was the strongest and most savage in their possession. He brought it down by the North Devon line and walked a great distance over the moor so as to get it home without exciting any remarks. He had already on his insect hunts learned to penetrate the Grimpen Mire, and so had found a safe hiding-place for the creature. Here he kennelled it and waited his chance. "But it was some time coming. The old gentleman could not be decoyed outside of his grounds at night. Several times Stapleton lurked about with his hound, but without avail. It was during these fruitless quests that he, or rather his ally, was seen by peasants, and that the legend of the demon dog received a new confirmation. He had hoped that his wife might lure Sir Charles to his ruin, but here she proved unexpectedly independent. She would not endeavour to entangle the old gentleman in a sentimental attachment which might deliver him over to his enemy. Threats and even, I am sorry to say, blows refused to move her. She would have nothing to do with it, and for a time Stapleton was at a deadlock. "He found a way out of his difficulties through the chance that Sir Charles, who had conceived a friendship for him, made him the minister of his charity in the case of this unfortunate woman, Mrs. Laura Lyons. By representing himself as a single man he acquired complete influence over her, and he gave her to understand that in the event of her obtaining a divorce from her husband he would marry her. His plans were suddenly brought to a head by his knowledge that Sir Charles was about to leave the Hall on the advice of Dr. Mortimer, with whose opinion he himself pretended to coincide. He must act at once, or his victim might get beyond his power. He therefore put pressure upon Mrs. Lyons to write this letter, imploring the old man to give her an interview on the evening before his departure for London. He then, by a specious argument, prevented her from going, and so had the chance for which he had waited. "Driving back in the evening from Coombe Tracey he was in time to get his hound, to treat it with his infernal paint, and to bring the beast round to the gate at which he had reason to expect that he would find the old gentleman waiting. The dog, incited by its master, sprang over the wicket-gate and pursued the unfortunate baronet, who fled screaming down the yew alley. In that gloomy tunnel it must indeed have been a dreadful sight to see that huge black creature, with its flaming jaws and blazing eyes, bounding after its victim. He fell dead at the end of the alley from heart disease and terror. The hound had kept upon the grassy border while the baronet had run down the path, so that no track but the man's was visible. On seeing him lying still the creature had probably approached to sniff at him, but finding him dead had turned away again. It was then that it left the print which was actually observed by Dr. Mortimer. The hound was called off and hurried away to its lair in the Grimpen Mire, and a mystery was left which puzzled the authorities, alarmed the countryside, and finally brought the case within the scope of our observation. "So much for the death of Sir Charles Baskerville. You perceive the devilish cunning of it, for really it would be almost impossible to make a case against the real murderer. His only accomplice was one who could never give him away, and the grotesque, inconceivable nature of the device only served to make it more effective. Both of the women concerned in the case, Mrs. Stapleton and Mrs. Laura Lyons, were left with a strong suspicion against Stapleton. Mrs. Stapleton knew that he had designs upon the old man, and also of the existence of the hound. Mrs. Lyons knew neither of these things, but had been impressed by the death occurring at the time of an uncancelled appointment which was only known to him. However, both of them were under his influence, and he had nothing to fear from them. The first half of his task was successfully accomplished but the more difficult still remained. "It is possible that Stapleton did not know of the existence of an heir in Canada. In any case he would very soon learn it from his friend Dr. Mortimer, and he was told by the latter all details about the arrival of Henry Baskerville. Stapleton's first idea was that this young stranger from Canada might possibly be done to death in London without coming down to Devonshire at all. He distrusted his wife ever since she had refused to help him in laying a trap for the old man, and he dared not leave her long out of his sight for fear he should lose his influence over her. It was for this reason that he took her to London with him. They lodged, I find, at the Mexborough Private Hotel, in Craven Street, which was actually one of those called upon by my agent in search of evidence. Here he kept his wife imprisoned in her room while he, disguised in a beard, followed Dr. Mortimer to Baker Street and afterwards to the station and to the Northumberland Hotel. His wife had some inkling of his plans; but she had such a fear of her husband--a fear founded upon brutal ill-treatment--that she dare not write to warn the man whom she knew to be in danger. If the letter should fall into Stapleton's hands her own life would not be safe. Eventually, as we know, she adopted the expedient of cutting out the words which would form the message, and addressing the letter in a disguised hand. It reached the baronet, and gave him the first warning of his danger. "It was very essential for Stapleton to get some article of Sir Henry's attire so that, in case he was driven to use the dog, he might always have the means of setting him upon his track. With characteristic promptness and audacity he set about this at once, and we cannot doubt that the boots or chamber-maid of the hotel was well bribed to help him in his design. By chance, however, the first boot which was procured for him was a new one and, therefore, useless for his purpose. He then had it returned and obtained another--a most instructive incident, since it proved conclusively to my mind that we were dealing with a real hound, as no other supposition could explain this anxiety to obtain an old boot and this indifference to a new one. The more outre and grotesque an incident is the more carefully it deserves to be examined, and the very point which appears to complicate a case is, when duly considered and scientifically handled, the one which is most likely to elucidate it. "Then we had the visit from our friends next morning, shadowed always by Stapleton in the cab. From his knowledge of our rooms and of my appearance, as well as from his general conduct, I am inclined to think that Stapleton's career of crime has been by no means limited to this single Baskerville affair. It is suggestive that during the last three years there have been four considerable burglaries in the west country, for none of which was any criminal ever arrested. The last of these, at Folkestone Court, in May, was remarkable for the cold-blooded pistolling of the page, who surprised the masked and solitary burglar. I cannot doubt that Stapleton recruited his waning resources in this fashion, and that for years he has been a desperate and dangerous man. "We had an example of his readiness of resource that morning when he got away from us so successfully, and also of his audacity in sending back my own name to me through the cabman. From that moment he understood that I had taken over the case in London, and that therefore there was no chance for him there. He returned to Dartmoor and awaited the arrival of the baronet." "One moment!" said I. "You have, no doubt, described the sequence of events correctly, but there is one point which you have left unexplained. What became of the hound when its master was in London?" "I have given some attention to this matter and it is undoubtedly of importance. There can be no question that Stapleton had a confidant, though it is unlikely that he ever placed himself in his power by sharing all his plans with him. There was an old manservant at Merripit House, whose name was Anthony. His connection with the Stapletons can be traced for several years, as far back as the school-mastering days, so that he must have been aware that his master and mistress were really husband and wife. This man has disappeared and has escaped from the country. It is suggestive that Anthony is not a common name in England, while Antonio is so in all Spanish or Spanish-American countries. The man, like Mrs. Stapleton herself, spoke good English, but with a curious lisping accent. I have myself seen this old man cross the Grimpen Mire by the path which Stapleton had marked out. It is very probable, therefore, that in the absence of his master it was he who cared for the hound, though he may never have known the purpose for which the beast was used. "The Stapletons then went down to Devonshire, whither they were soon followed by Sir Henry and you. One word now as to how I stood myself at that time. It may possibly recur to your memory that when I examined the paper upon which the printed words were fastened I made a close inspection for the water-mark. In doing so I held it within a few inches of my eyes, and was conscious of a faint smell of the scent known as white jessamine. There are seventy-five perfumes, which it is very necessary that a criminal expert should be able to distinguish from each other, and cases have more than once within my own experience depended upon their prompt recognition. The scent suggested the presence of a lady, and already my thoughts began to turn towards the Stapletons. Thus I had made certain of the hound, and had guessed at the criminal before ever we went to the west country. "It was my game to watch Stapleton. It was evident, however, that I could not do this if I were with you, since he would be keenly on his guard. I deceived everybody, therefore, yourself included, and I came down secretly when I was supposed to be in London. My hardships were not so great as you imagined, though such trifling details must never interfere with the investigation of a case. I stayed for the most part at Coombe Tracey, and only used the hut upon the moor when it was necessary to be near the scene of action. Cartwright had come down with me, and in his disguise as a country boy he was of great assistance to me. I was dependent upon him for food and clean linen. When I was watching Stapleton, Cartwright was frequently watching you, so that I was able to keep my hand upon all the strings. "I have already told you that your reports reached me rapidly, being forwarded instantly from Baker Street to Coombe Tracey. They were of great service to me, and especially that one incidentally truthful piece of biography of Stapleton's. I was able to establish the identity of the man and the woman and knew at last exactly how I stood. The case had been considerably complicated through the incident of the escaped convict and the relations between him and the Barrymores. This also you cleared up in a very effective way, though I had already come to the same conclusions from my own observations. "By the time that you discovered me upon the moor I had a complete knowledge of the whole business, but I had not a case which could go to a jury. Even Stapleton's attempt upon Sir Henry that night which ended in the death of the unfortunate convict did not help us much in proving murder against our man. There seemed to be no alternative but to catch him red-handed, and to do so we had to use Sir Henry, alone and apparently unprotected, as a bait. We did so, and at the cost of a severe shock to our client we succeeded in completing our case and driving Stapleton to his destruction. That Sir Henry should have been exposed to this is, I must confess, a reproach to my management of the case, but we had no means of foreseeing the terrible and paralyzing spectacle which the beast presented, nor could we predict the fog which enabled him to burst upon us at such short notice. We succeeded in our object at a cost which both the specialist and Dr. Mortimer assure me will be a temporary one. A long journey may enable our friend to recover not only from his shattered nerves but also from his wounded feelings. His love for the lady was deep and sincere, and to him the saddest part of all this black business was that he should have been deceived by her. "It only remains to indicate the part which she had played throughout. There can be no doubt that Stapleton exercised an influence over her which may have been love or may have been fear, or very possibly both, since they are by no means incompatible emotions. It was, at least, absolutely effective. At his command she consented to pass as his sister, though he found the limits of his power over her when he endeavoured to make her the direct accessory to murder. She was ready to warn Sir Henry so far as she could without implicating her husband, and again and again she tried to do so. Stapleton himself seems to have been capable of jealousy, and when he saw the baronet paying court to the lady, even though it was part of his own plan, still he could not help interrupting with a passionate outburst which revealed the fiery soul which his self-contained manner so cleverly concealed. By encouraging the intimacy he made it certain that Sir Henry would frequently come to Merripit House and that he would sooner or later get the opportunity which he desired. On the day of the crisis, however, his wife turned suddenly against him. She had learned something of the death of the convict, and she knew that the hound was being kept in the outhouse on the evening that Sir Henry was coming to dinner. She taxed her husband with his intended crime, and a furious scene followed in which he showed her for the first time that she had a rival in his love. Her fidelity turned in an instant to bitter hatred, and he saw that she would betray him. He tied her up, therefore, that she might have no chance of warning Sir Henry, and he hoped, no doubt, that when the whole countryside put down the baronet's death to the curse of his family, as they certainly would do, he could win his wife back to accept an accomplished fact and to keep silent upon what she knew. In this I fancy that in any case he made a miscalculation, and that, if we had not been there, his doom would none the less have been sealed. A woman of Spanish blood does not condone such an injury so lightly. And now, my dear Watson, without referring to my notes, I cannot give you a more detailed account of this curious case. I do not know that anything essential has been left unexplained." "He could not hope to frighten Sir Henry to death as he had done the old uncle with his bogie hound." "The beast was savage and half-starved. If its appearance did not frighten its victim to death, at least it would paralyze the resistance which might be offered." "No doubt. There only remains one difficulty. If Stapleton came into the succession, how could he explain the fact that he, the heir, had been living unannounced under another name so close to the property? How could he claim it without causing suspicion and inquiry?" "It is a formidable difficulty, and I fear that you ask too much when you expect me to solve it. The past and the present are within the field of my inquiry, but what a man may do in the future is a hard question to answer. Mrs. Stapleton has heard her husband discuss the problem on several occasions. There were three possible courses. He might claim the property from South America, establish his identity before the British authorities there and so obtain the fortune without ever coming to England at all, or he might adopt an elaborate disguise during the short time that he need be in London; or, again, he might furnish an accomplice with the proofs and papers, putting him in as heir, and retaining a claim upon some proportion of his income. We cannot doubt from what we know of him that he would have found some way out of the difficulty. And now, my dear Watson, we have had some weeks of severe work, and for one evening, I think, we may turn our thoughts into more pleasant channels. I have a box for 'Les Huguenots.' Have you heard the De Reszkes? Might I trouble you then to be ready in half an hour, and we can stop at Marcini's for a little dinner on the way?" End of Project Gutenberg's The Hound of the Baskervilles, by A. 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{ "task_name": "narrativeqa" }
// Generated by the protocol buffer compiler. DO NOT EDIT! // source: google/cloud/vision/v1p4beta1/product_search_service.proto package com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1; /** * * * <pre> * Request message for the `DeleteProduct` method. * </pre> * * Protobuf type {@code google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest} */ public final class DeleteProductRequest extends com.google.protobuf.GeneratedMessageV3 implements // @@protoc_insertion_point(message_implements:google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest) DeleteProductRequestOrBuilder { private static final long serialVersionUID = 0L; // Use DeleteProductRequest.newBuilder() to construct. private DeleteProductRequest(com.google.protobuf.GeneratedMessageV3.Builder<?> builder) { super(builder); } private DeleteProductRequest() { name_ = ""; } @java.lang.Override public final com.google.protobuf.UnknownFieldSet getUnknownFields() { return this.unknownFields; } private DeleteProductRequest( com.google.protobuf.CodedInputStream input, com.google.protobuf.ExtensionRegistryLite extensionRegistry) throws com.google.protobuf.InvalidProtocolBufferException { this(); if (extensionRegistry == null) { throw new java.lang.NullPointerException(); } int mutable_bitField0_ = 0; com.google.protobuf.UnknownFieldSet.Builder unknownFields = com.google.protobuf.UnknownFieldSet.newBuilder(); try { boolean done = false; while (!done) { int tag = input.readTag(); switch (tag) { case 0: done = true; break; case 10: { java.lang.String s = input.readStringRequireUtf8(); name_ = s; break; } default: { if (!parseUnknownFieldProto3(input, unknownFields, extensionRegistry, tag)) { done = true; } break; } } } } catch (com.google.protobuf.InvalidProtocolBufferException e) { throw e.setUnfinishedMessage(this); } catch (java.io.IOException e) { throw new com.google.protobuf.InvalidProtocolBufferException(e).setUnfinishedMessage(this); } finally { this.unknownFields = unknownFields.build(); makeExtensionsImmutable(); } } public static final com.google.protobuf.Descriptors.Descriptor getDescriptor() { return com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.ProductSearchServiceProto .internal_static_google_cloud_vision_v1p4beta1_DeleteProductRequest_descriptor; } @java.lang.Override protected com.google.protobuf.GeneratedMessageV3.FieldAccessorTable internalGetFieldAccessorTable() { return com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.ProductSearchServiceProto .internal_static_google_cloud_vision_v1p4beta1_DeleteProductRequest_fieldAccessorTable .ensureFieldAccessorsInitialized( com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest.class, com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest.Builder.class); } public static final int NAME_FIELD_NUMBER = 1; private volatile java.lang.Object name_; /** * * * <pre> * Resource name of product to delete. * Format is: * `projects/PROJECT_ID/locations/LOC_ID/products/PRODUCT_ID` * </pre> * * <code>string name = 1;</code> */ public java.lang.String getName() { java.lang.Object ref = name_; if (ref instanceof java.lang.String) { return (java.lang.String) ref; } else { com.google.protobuf.ByteString bs = (com.google.protobuf.ByteString) ref; java.lang.String s = bs.toStringUtf8(); name_ = s; return s; } } /** * * * <pre> * Resource name of product to delete. * Format is: * `projects/PROJECT_ID/locations/LOC_ID/products/PRODUCT_ID` * </pre> * * <code>string name = 1;</code> */ public com.google.protobuf.ByteString getNameBytes() { java.lang.Object ref = name_; if (ref instanceof java.lang.String) { com.google.protobuf.ByteString b = com.google.protobuf.ByteString.copyFromUtf8((java.lang.String) ref); name_ = b; return b; } else { return (com.google.protobuf.ByteString) ref; } } private byte memoizedIsInitialized = -1; @java.lang.Override public final boolean isInitialized() { byte isInitialized = memoizedIsInitialized; if (isInitialized == 1) return true; if (isInitialized == 0) return false; memoizedIsInitialized = 1; return true; } @java.lang.Override public void writeTo(com.google.protobuf.CodedOutputStream output) throws java.io.IOException { if (!getNameBytes().isEmpty()) { com.google.protobuf.GeneratedMessageV3.writeString(output, 1, name_); } unknownFields.writeTo(output); } @java.lang.Override public int getSerializedSize() { int size = memoizedSize; if (size != -1) return size; size = 0; if (!getNameBytes().isEmpty()) { size += com.google.protobuf.GeneratedMessageV3.computeStringSize(1, name_); } size += unknownFields.getSerializedSize(); memoizedSize = size; return size; } @java.lang.Override public boolean equals(final java.lang.Object obj) { if (obj == this) { return true; } if (!(obj instanceof com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest)) { return super.equals(obj); } com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest other = (com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest) obj; boolean result = true; result = result && getName().equals(other.getName()); result = result && unknownFields.equals(other.unknownFields); return result; } @java.lang.Override public int hashCode() { if (memoizedHashCode != 0) { return memoizedHashCode; } int hash = 41; hash = (19 * hash) + getDescriptor().hashCode(); hash = (37 * hash) + NAME_FIELD_NUMBER; hash = (53 * hash) + getName().hashCode(); hash = (29 * hash) + unknownFields.hashCode(); memoizedHashCode = hash; return hash; } public static com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest parseFrom( java.nio.ByteBuffer data) throws com.google.protobuf.InvalidProtocolBufferException { return PARSER.parseFrom(data); } public static com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest parseFrom( java.nio.ByteBuffer data, com.google.protobuf.ExtensionRegistryLite extensionRegistry) throws com.google.protobuf.InvalidProtocolBufferException { return PARSER.parseFrom(data, extensionRegistry); } public static com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest parseFrom( com.google.protobuf.ByteString data) throws com.google.protobuf.InvalidProtocolBufferException { return PARSER.parseFrom(data); } public static com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest parseFrom( com.google.protobuf.ByteString data, com.google.protobuf.ExtensionRegistryLite extensionRegistry) throws com.google.protobuf.InvalidProtocolBufferException { return PARSER.parseFrom(data, extensionRegistry); } public static com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest parseFrom(byte[] data) throws com.google.protobuf.InvalidProtocolBufferException { return PARSER.parseFrom(data); } public static com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest parseFrom( byte[] data, com.google.protobuf.ExtensionRegistryLite extensionRegistry) throws com.google.protobuf.InvalidProtocolBufferException { return PARSER.parseFrom(data, extensionRegistry); } public static com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest parseFrom( java.io.InputStream input) throws java.io.IOException { return com.google.protobuf.GeneratedMessageV3.parseWithIOException(PARSER, input); } public static com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest parseFrom( java.io.InputStream input, com.google.protobuf.ExtensionRegistryLite extensionRegistry) throws java.io.IOException { return com.google.protobuf.GeneratedMessageV3.parseWithIOException( PARSER, input, extensionRegistry); } public static com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest parseDelimitedFrom( java.io.InputStream input) throws java.io.IOException { return com.google.protobuf.GeneratedMessageV3.parseDelimitedWithIOException(PARSER, input); } public static com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest parseDelimitedFrom( java.io.InputStream input, com.google.protobuf.ExtensionRegistryLite extensionRegistry) throws java.io.IOException { return com.google.protobuf.GeneratedMessageV3.parseDelimitedWithIOException( PARSER, input, extensionRegistry); } public static com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest parseFrom( com.google.protobuf.CodedInputStream input) throws java.io.IOException { return com.google.protobuf.GeneratedMessageV3.parseWithIOException(PARSER, input); } public static com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest parseFrom( com.google.protobuf.CodedInputStream input, com.google.protobuf.ExtensionRegistryLite extensionRegistry) throws java.io.IOException { return com.google.protobuf.GeneratedMessageV3.parseWithIOException( PARSER, input, extensionRegistry); } @java.lang.Override public Builder newBuilderForType() { return newBuilder(); } public static Builder newBuilder() { return DEFAULT_INSTANCE.toBuilder(); } public static Builder newBuilder( com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest prototype) { return DEFAULT_INSTANCE.toBuilder().mergeFrom(prototype); } @java.lang.Override public Builder toBuilder() { return this == DEFAULT_INSTANCE ? new Builder() : new Builder().mergeFrom(this); } @java.lang.Override protected Builder newBuilderForType(com.google.protobuf.GeneratedMessageV3.BuilderParent parent) { Builder builder = new Builder(parent); return builder; } /** * * * <pre> * Request message for the `DeleteProduct` method. * </pre> * * Protobuf type {@code google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest} */ public static final class Builder extends com.google.protobuf.GeneratedMessageV3.Builder<Builder> implements // @@protoc_insertion_point(builder_implements:google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest) com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequestOrBuilder { public static final com.google.protobuf.Descriptors.Descriptor getDescriptor() { return com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.ProductSearchServiceProto .internal_static_google_cloud_vision_v1p4beta1_DeleteProductRequest_descriptor; } @java.lang.Override protected com.google.protobuf.GeneratedMessageV3.FieldAccessorTable internalGetFieldAccessorTable() { return com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.ProductSearchServiceProto .internal_static_google_cloud_vision_v1p4beta1_DeleteProductRequest_fieldAccessorTable .ensureFieldAccessorsInitialized( com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest.class, com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest.Builder.class); } // Construct using com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest.newBuilder() private Builder() { maybeForceBuilderInitialization(); } private Builder(com.google.protobuf.GeneratedMessageV3.BuilderParent parent) { super(parent); maybeForceBuilderInitialization(); } private void maybeForceBuilderInitialization() { if (com.google.protobuf.GeneratedMessageV3.alwaysUseFieldBuilders) {} } @java.lang.Override public Builder clear() { super.clear(); name_ = ""; return this; } @java.lang.Override public com.google.protobuf.Descriptors.Descriptor getDescriptorForType() { return com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.ProductSearchServiceProto .internal_static_google_cloud_vision_v1p4beta1_DeleteProductRequest_descriptor; } @java.lang.Override public com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest getDefaultInstanceForType() { return com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest.getDefaultInstance(); } @java.lang.Override public com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest build() { com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest result = buildPartial(); if (!result.isInitialized()) { throw newUninitializedMessageException(result); } return result; } @java.lang.Override public com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest buildPartial() { com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest result = new com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest(this); result.name_ = name_; onBuilt(); return result; } @java.lang.Override public Builder clone() { return (Builder) super.clone(); } @java.lang.Override public Builder setField( com.google.protobuf.Descriptors.FieldDescriptor field, java.lang.Object value) { return (Builder) super.setField(field, value); } @java.lang.Override public Builder clearField(com.google.protobuf.Descriptors.FieldDescriptor field) { return (Builder) super.clearField(field); } @java.lang.Override public Builder clearOneof(com.google.protobuf.Descriptors.OneofDescriptor oneof) { return (Builder) super.clearOneof(oneof); } @java.lang.Override public Builder setRepeatedField( com.google.protobuf.Descriptors.FieldDescriptor field, int index, java.lang.Object value) { return (Builder) super.setRepeatedField(field, index, value); } @java.lang.Override public Builder addRepeatedField( com.google.protobuf.Descriptors.FieldDescriptor field, java.lang.Object value) { return (Builder) super.addRepeatedField(field, value); } @java.lang.Override public Builder mergeFrom(com.google.protobuf.Message other) { if (other instanceof com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest) { return mergeFrom((com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest) other); } else { super.mergeFrom(other); return this; } } public Builder mergeFrom(com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest other) { if (other == com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest.getDefaultInstance()) return this; if (!other.getName().isEmpty()) { name_ = other.name_; onChanged(); } this.mergeUnknownFields(other.unknownFields); onChanged(); return this; } @java.lang.Override public final boolean isInitialized() { return true; } @java.lang.Override public Builder mergeFrom( com.google.protobuf.CodedInputStream input, com.google.protobuf.ExtensionRegistryLite extensionRegistry) throws java.io.IOException { com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest parsedMessage = null; try { parsedMessage = PARSER.parsePartialFrom(input, extensionRegistry); } catch (com.google.protobuf.InvalidProtocolBufferException e) { parsedMessage = (com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest) e.getUnfinishedMessage(); throw e.unwrapIOException(); } finally { if (parsedMessage != null) { mergeFrom(parsedMessage); } } return this; } private java.lang.Object name_ = ""; /** * * * <pre> * Resource name of product to delete. * Format is: * `projects/PROJECT_ID/locations/LOC_ID/products/PRODUCT_ID` * </pre> * * <code>string name = 1;</code> */ public java.lang.String getName() { java.lang.Object ref = name_; if (!(ref instanceof java.lang.String)) { com.google.protobuf.ByteString bs = (com.google.protobuf.ByteString) ref; java.lang.String s = bs.toStringUtf8(); name_ = s; return s; } else { return (java.lang.String) ref; } } /** * * * <pre> * Resource name of product to delete. * Format is: * `projects/PROJECT_ID/locations/LOC_ID/products/PRODUCT_ID` * </pre> * * <code>string name = 1;</code> */ public com.google.protobuf.ByteString getNameBytes() { java.lang.Object ref = name_; if (ref instanceof String) { com.google.protobuf.ByteString b = com.google.protobuf.ByteString.copyFromUtf8((java.lang.String) ref); name_ = b; return b; } else { return (com.google.protobuf.ByteString) ref; } } /** * * * <pre> * Resource name of product to delete. * Format is: * `projects/PROJECT_ID/locations/LOC_ID/products/PRODUCT_ID` * </pre> * * <code>string name = 1;</code> */ public Builder setName(java.lang.String value) { if (value == null) { throw new NullPointerException(); } name_ = value; onChanged(); return this; } /** * * * <pre> * Resource name of product to delete. * Format is: * `projects/PROJECT_ID/locations/LOC_ID/products/PRODUCT_ID` * </pre> * * <code>string name = 1;</code> */ public Builder clearName() { name_ = getDefaultInstance().getName(); onChanged(); return this; } /** * * * <pre> * Resource name of product to delete. * Format is: * `projects/PROJECT_ID/locations/LOC_ID/products/PRODUCT_ID` * </pre> * * <code>string name = 1;</code> */ public Builder setNameBytes(com.google.protobuf.ByteString value) { if (value == null) { throw new NullPointerException(); } checkByteStringIsUtf8(value); name_ = value; onChanged(); return this; } @java.lang.Override public final Builder setUnknownFields(final com.google.protobuf.UnknownFieldSet unknownFields) { return super.setUnknownFieldsProto3(unknownFields); } @java.lang.Override public final Builder mergeUnknownFields( final com.google.protobuf.UnknownFieldSet unknownFields) { return super.mergeUnknownFields(unknownFields); } // @@protoc_insertion_point(builder_scope:google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest) } // @@protoc_insertion_point(class_scope:google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest) private static final com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest DEFAULT_INSTANCE; static { DEFAULT_INSTANCE = new com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest(); } public static com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest getDefaultInstance() { return DEFAULT_INSTANCE; } private static final com.google.protobuf.Parser<DeleteProductRequest> PARSER = new com.google.protobuf.AbstractParser<DeleteProductRequest>() { @java.lang.Override public DeleteProductRequest parsePartialFrom( com.google.protobuf.CodedInputStream input, com.google.protobuf.ExtensionRegistryLite extensionRegistry) throws com.google.protobuf.InvalidProtocolBufferException { return new DeleteProductRequest(input, extensionRegistry); } }; public static com.google.protobuf.Parser<DeleteProductRequest> parser() { return PARSER; } @java.lang.Override public com.google.protobuf.Parser<DeleteProductRequest> getParserForType() { return PARSER; } @java.lang.Override public com.google.cloud.vision.v1p4beta1.DeleteProductRequest getDefaultInstanceForType() { return DEFAULT_INSTANCE; } }
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Passage 1: Terence Robinson Terence D. Robinson( date of birth and death unknown) was a male wrestler who competed for England. Passage 2: Elsa De Giorgi Elsa De Giorgi( 26 December 1914 – 12 September 1997) was an Italian film actress. She appeared in twenty seven films, including" Captain Fracasse"( 1940). Passage 3: Ian Barry (director) Ian Barry is an Australian director of film and TV. Passage 4: Captain Fracasse (1961 film) Captain Fracasse( French :Le Capitaine Fracasse) is a French adventure film from 1961, directed by Pierre Gaspard- Huit, written by Pierre Gaspard- Huit and Pierre Gaspard- Huit, starring Jean Marais and Louis de Funès. The film is also known under the titles:" Capitan Fracassa"( Italy)," Captain Fracasse"( English title)," Fracasse, der freche Kavalier"( West Germany). the scenario was based on the 1863 novel" Captain Fracasse" by Théophile Gautier. Passage 5: Captain Fracasse (1940 film) Captain Fracasse (Italian: Capitan Fracassa) is a 1940 Italian historical adventure film directed by Duilio Coletti and starring Elsa De Giorgi, Giorgio Costantini and Osvaldo Valenti. It was made at the Cinecittà studios in Rome. The film is based on the 1863 novel of the same name by Théophile Gautier. Another adaptation "Captain Fracasse" was made three years later as a co-production between France and Italy. Passage 6: Theodred II (Bishop of Elmham) Theodred II was a medieval Bishop of Elmham. The date of Theodred's consecration unknown, but the date of his death was sometime between 995 and 997. Passage 7: Etan Boritzer Etan Boritzer( born 1950) is an American writer of children ’s literature who is best known for his book" What is God?" first published in 1989. His best selling" What is?" illustrated children's book series on character education and difficult subjects for children is a popular teaching guide for parents, teachers and child- life professionals. Boritzer gained national critical acclaim after" What is God?" was published in 1989 although the book has caused controversy from religious fundamentalists for its universalist views. The other current books in the" What is?" series include What is Love?, What is Death?, What is Beautiful?, What is Funny?, What is Right?, What is Peace?, What is Money?, What is Dreaming?, What is a Friend?, What is True?, What is a Family?, What is a Feeling?" The series is now also translated into 15 languages. Boritzer was first published in 1963 at the age of 13 when he wrote an essay in his English class at Wade Junior High School in the Bronx, New York on the assassination of John F. Kennedy. His essay was included in a special anthology by New York City public school children compiled and published by the New York City Department of Education. Boritzer now lives in Venice, California and maintains his publishing office there also. He has helped numerous other authors to get published through" How to Get Your Book Published!" programs. Boritzer is also a yoga teacher who teaches regular classes locally and guest- teaches nationally. He is also recognized nationally as an erudite speaker on" The Teachings of the Buddha." Passage 8: Brian Saunders (weightlifter) Brian Saunders( date of birth and death unknown) was a male weightlifter who competed for England. Passage 9: Captain Fracasse (1919 film) Captain Fracasse( Italian:Capitan Fracassa) is a 1919 Italian silent historical film directed by Mario Caserini. It is based on the 1863 novel of the same name by Théophile Gautier. Passage 10: Duilio Coletti Duilio Coletti (28 December 1906 – 22 May 1999) was an Italian film director and screenwriter. He directed 29 films between 1934 and 1977. Question: What is the date of birth of the director of film Captain Fracasse (1940 Film)? Answer: 28 December 1906
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Passage 1: American Tragedy (album) American Tragedy is the second studio album by American rap rock band Hollywood Undead. Production for the album began following the induction of Daniel Murillo into the band in early 2010 and lasted until December. Don Gilmore and Ben Grosse, who helped produce the band's debut album, "Swan Songs" (2008), also returned to produce the album along with several other producers including Kevin Rudolf, Sam Hollander, Dave Katz, Griffin Boice, Jeff Halavacs, and Jacob Kasher. The album is musically heavier and features darker lyrical content than the band's previous effort. Originally set to release in March, "American Tragedy" was released on April 5, 2011 in the United States and was released on various other dates that month in other countries. A remix of the album, "American Tragedy Redux", was released on November 21, 2011. Passage 2: Highwayman (song) "Highwayman" is a song written by American singer-songwriter Jimmy Webb, about a soul with incarnations in four different places in time and history: as a highwayman, a sailor, a construction worker on the Hoover Dam, and finally as a captain of a starship. The song was influenced by the real-life hanged highwayman Jonathan Wild. The dam builder verse alludes to the deaths of over one hundred men during the construction of Hoover Dam near Boulder City, Nevada. Webb first recorded the song on his album "El Mirage", released in May 1977. The following year, Glen Campbell recorded his version, which was released on his 1979 album "Highwayman". In 1985, the song became the inspiration for the naming of the supergroup The Highwaymen, which featured Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, and Kris Kristofferson. Their first album, "Highwayman", became a number one platinum-selling album, and their version of the song went to number one on the Hot Country Songs "Billboard" chart in a twenty-week run. Their version earned Webb a Grammy Award for Best Country Song in 1986. The song has since been recorded by other artists. Webb himself included a different version on his 1996 album "Ten Easy Pieces", a live version on his 2007 album "Live and at Large", and a duet version with Mark Knopfler on 2010 album "Just Across the River". Passage 3: Songs of Praise (The Adicts album) Songs of Praise is the debut studio album by punk band the Adicts. It was originally released in 1981 on Dwed Wecords and was rereleased a year later by Fall Out Records. When the album was reissued on CD by Cleopatra Records in 1993, it included two bonus tracks which came from the "Bar Room Bop" EP. In 2008, the album was rerecorded by the band and released as the 25th Anniversary Edition. Passage 4: Waymore's Blues (Part II) Waymore's Blues (Part II) is an album by Waylon Jennings, released on RCA Nashville in 1994. It was recorded and released at a time in Jennings' career when he wasn't signed to any major label; "Waymore's Blues (Part II)" was a one-off return to RCA for the singer following short stints at MCA Records and Epic Records. It was produced by Don Was, who would lend his distinctive style of production to The Highwaymen's "The Road Goes on Forever" a year later. "You Don't Mess Around with Me" was used in the soundtrack to the movie "Maverick", which also featured Jennings on "Amazing Grace". "Waymore's Blues (Part II)", whose title is a reference to an earlier, popular Jennings composition, reached #63 on the country charts, with no charting singles. The song "Wild Ones" was done as a music video in 1994. Passage 5: Tragedies (album) Tragedies is the first full-length album by the Norwegian funeral doom/death metal band Funeral. Track one of the album, Taarene is sung in Norwegian, while the other four tracks are sung in English. The album contains three original tracks and two from the Beyond All Sunsets demo. It was originally released through Arctic Serenades, then rereleased through Firebox Records, along with the Tristesse demo and three bonus tracks. In 1994, shortly before the release of this album, Funeral recruited a female vocalist named Toril Snyen. Funeral was one of the first doom metal bands to do so. Late in 1995, Funeral would part ways with Toril Snyen. Tragedies was one of the albums that helped form the subgenre of funeral doom. Passage 6: The Road Goes On Forever (The Highwaymen album) The Road Goes on Forever is the third and final studio album released by American country supergroup The Highwaymen. It was first released on April 4, 1995 on Liberty Records, then on November 8, 2005 the album was re-released on Capitol Nashville/EMI with bonus tracks and, in some versions, an extra DVD for the album's 10th anniversary. The DVD includes a music video for "It Is What It Is", as well as a short documentary entitled "Live Forever - In the Studio with the Highwaymen". Passage 7: Sonu Nigam discography Bollywood playback singer Sonu Nigam has recorded numerous albums and songs. Below are his mainstream Hindi releases. He has also released several devotional Hindu albums including "Tere Dar Se Muradein Paeinge" (1999), "Sanskar" (2004), "Maa Ka Dil" (2006), "Pyari Maa" (2008) and "Maha Ganesha" (2008). He released some Muslim devotional albums including "Mohammad Ke Dar Par Chala Ja Sawali" (1993, re-released 2007) and "Ramzan Ki Azmat" (originally sung by Mohammad Rafi and others) . He sang for several Ambedkarite and Buddhist albums including "Jivala Jivacha Dan", "Buddha Hi Buddha hai" (2010) and "Siddhartha-The Lotus Blossom" (2013). He has some Punjabi albums to his name, including "Kurie Mili Hai Kamaal" (2003), rereleased as "Pyar" in 2007, in which year he also released "Colours of Love". He covered the songs of famous Ghazal singer Pankaj Udhas in an album entitled "Best of Pankaj Udas". He guested on Sapna Mukherjee's album "Mere Piya" and sang the title song on the "Kajra Nite" remix album of 2006 along with Alisha Chinai- as well as featuring in the song's video alongside Diya Mirza. Passage 8: Cendres de lune Cendres de lune is the debut album by the French singer/songwriter Mylène Farmer, released on April 1, 1986. The album was precedeed by the hit single "Libertine", and the album was rereleased in 1987 preceded by the song "Tristana". This album, which was Farmer's sole one written and composed by Laurent Boutonnat, achieved moderate success in France when compared with her later albums but it helped to launch her career. Passage 9: She Hangs Brightly She Hangs Brightly is the debut studio album by American dream pop band Mazzy Star. It was released in 1990 on Rough Trade Records, following the demise of David Roback's previous band Opal. The album was rereleased by Capitol later that same year. The first track "Halah" was released as a single and reached #19 on the Billboard Alternative Songs chart. It showcases the band's trademark effect with haunting guitar work and lyrics, and Hope Sandoval's detached vocals. David Roback's Robby Krieger-inspired psychedelic blues slide guitar style can be heard on the song "Free". "Ghost Highway" is another psychedelic rock track, with a fast rhythm. This song dates from the band's days as Opal and was initially slated to be the title track of Opal's second album. While not a commercial success, this album did establish Mazzy Star as a unique band with a unique sound. Passage 10: I'm a Lady: The Old, New &amp; Best of Mary Wells The Old, The New & The Best of Mary Wells is a 1983 album released by Motown singer Mary Wells on the independent label Allegiance Records. Tapping in on her stature as a sixties legend, Wells decided to re-record several of her classic Motown songs, adding in a new wavish sound. The album was produced by Wayne Henderson who would go on to produce Rebbie Jackson's 1984 album "Centipede". Only one single was released in the UK, the rerecording of "My Guy", as an extended 12" version that failed to chart. The album was rereleased on CD in 1987 featuring 5 unreleased tracks recorded during the same sessions. Question: What year was the album that Don Was helped the Highwaymen produce rereleased? Answer: 2005
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Passage 1: You've Changed (Sia song) "You've Changed" is the lead single released from Sia Furler's 2010 album " We Are BornYou've Changed" was originally co-written and released in 2008 by American DJ/producer Lauren Flax, which was then re-recorded for Sia's 2010 album, "We Are Born". The single was announced through a Twitter update that Sia posted. The song was given away for free and was released on 28 December 2009. On 31 January 2010 the song peaked at number 31 on the Australian ARIA Singles Chart, becoming Sia's highest charting single on that chart until her 2014 hit Chandelier. The song was placed 72 on the Triple J Hottest 100 countdown in 2009. In the United States, the original Lauren Flax version reached number 47 on the "Billboard" Hot Dance Club Songs chart in April 2010. It was also one of the songs used in the Season 1 finale of "The Vampire Diaries". Passage 2: Carl T. Fischer Carl T. Fischer( 1912–1954) was a Native American jazz pianist and composer. He worked with Frankie Laine, and composed Laine's 1945 hit song" We'll Be Together Again", and" You've Changed" with lyrics by Bill Carey. Passage 3: Bernie Bonvoisin Bernard Bonvoisin, known as Bernie Bonvoisin( born 9 July 1956 in Nanterre, Hauts- de- Seine), is a French hard rock singer and film director. He is best known for having been the singer of Trust. He was one of the best friends of Bon Scott the singer of AC/ DC and together they recorded the song" Ride On" which was one of the last songs by Bon Scott. Passage 4: You've Changed " You've Changed" is a popular song written by Bill Carey with music by Carl Fischer in 1942. The melody features descending chromaticism. Passage 5: O Valencia! " O Valencia!" is the fifth single by the indie rock band The Decemberists, and the first released from their fourth studio album," The Crane Wife". The music was written by The Decemberists and the lyrics by Colin Meloy. It tells a story of two star- crossed lovers. The singer falls in love with a person who belongs to an opposing gang. At the end of the song, the singer's lover jumps in to defend the singer, who is confronting his lover's brother( the singer's" sworn enemy") and is killed by the bullet intended for the singer. Passage 6: Astrid North Astrid North( Astrid Karina North Radmann; 24 August 1973, Berlin – 25 June 2019, Berlin) was a German soul singer and songwriter. She was the singer of the German band, with whom she released five Albums. As guest singer of the band she published three albums. Passage 7: Billy Milano Billy Milano is a Bronx- born heavy metal musician now based in Austin, Texas. He is the singer and- occasionally- guitarist and bassist of crossover thrash band M.O.D., and he was also the singer of its predecessor, Stormtroopers of Death. He was also the singer of United Forces, which also featured his Stormtroopers of Death bandmate Dan Lilker. Passage 8: Sia (musician) Sia Kate Isobelle Furler (born 18 December 1975) is an Australian singer, songwriter, voice actress and music video director. She started her career as a singer in the acid jazz band Crisp in the mid-1990s in Adelaide. In 1997, when Crisp disbanded, she released her debut studio album titled "OnlySee" in Australia. She moved to London, England, and provided lead vocals for the British duo Zero 7. In 2000, Sia released her second studio album, "Healing Is Difficult", on the Columbia label the following year, and her third studio album, "Colour the Small One", in 2004, but all of these struggled to connect with a mainstream audience. Sia relocated to New York City in 2005 and toured in the United States. Her fourth and fifth studio albums, "Some People Have Real Problems" and "We Are Born", were released in 2008 and 2010, respectively. Each was certified gold by the Australian Recording Industry Association and attracted wider notice than her earlier albums. Uncomfortable with her growing fame, Sia took a hiatus from performing, during which she focused on songwriting for other artists, producing successful collaborations "Titanium" (with David Guetta), "Diamonds" (with Rihanna) and "Wild Ones" (with Flo Rida). In 2014, Sia finally broke through as a solo recording artist when her sixth studio album, "1000 Forms of Fear", debuted at No 1 in the U.S. "Billboard" 200 and generated the top-ten single "Chandelier" and a trilogy of music videos starring child dancer Maddie Ziegler. In 2016, she released her seventh studio album " This Is Acting", which spawned her first "Billboard" Hot 100 number one single, "Cheap Thrills". The same year, Sia gave her Nostalgic for the Present Tour, which incorporated dancing by Ziegler and others and other performance art elements. Sia wears a wig that obscures her face to protect her privacy. Among the accolades received by Sia are ARIA Awards and an MTV Video Music Award. Her eighth studio album, first Christmas album, and debut album with Atlantic Records was released in 2017. It was titled "Everyday Is Christmas" and was preceded by the single "Santa's Coming for Us". The album was reissued in 2018 with three bonus tracks. Passage 9: Lauren Flax Lauren Flax is a DJ, songwriter and producer. Lauren currently is a member of the Brooklyn- based band CREEP with Lauren Dillard. Lauren was also the Fischerspooner tour DJ from 2008- 2011. DJs Are Not Rockstars, an indie dance label run by Mark Davenport and Alexander Technique released her first single" You've Changed" featuring vocals by Sia of Zero7 fame. In 2010, Sia re-recorded" You've Changed" and released it as her first single from the album," We Are Born". CREEP self- released their debut record," echoes" on CREEP INTL on 11/12/13. Echoes features 14 different singers such as Sia, Andrew Wyatt of Miike Snow, Tricky, Lou Rhodes of Lamb, Alejandra De La Deheza of School of Seven Bells, Dark Sister, Holly Miranda, Alpines, Planningtorock, Nina Sky and Romy x x. Passage 10: Elwood Edwards Elwood Edwards( born November 6, 1949) is an American voice over actor. He is best known as the voice of the Internet service provider America Online, which he first recorded in 1989. His greetings include" Welcome, You've got mail, You've got pictures, You've got voicemail, File's done." and" Goodbye.", all recorded in his own living room on a cassette deck. In 1989, Edwards's wife overheard online service Q- Link CEO Steve Case describe how he wanted to add a voice to its user interface. In October, Edwards's voice premiered on AOL's new program. The voice is only heard in the American version of the software. In the UK version, a female voice( British actress Joanna Lumley) is heard replacing" Welcome." with" Welcome to AOL." and" You've got mail." with" You have e-mail." Also" File's done." is replaced with" Your files have been transferred." His voice has also appeared in an episode of" The Simpsons"( where he provided the voice of a virtual doctor, saying" You've got leprosy"), and in advertising for the movie" You've Got Mail." He started in radio while in high school. After high school he continued into television, working as a live booth announcer. Despite some on- air work, doing a car commercial, reporting news or sports and even a short stint as a weatherman( once proclaiming to New Bern, North Carolina that" You've got hail."), Edwards focused mainly on off- camera work. Semi-retired, he used to sell personalized. wav files through his website. On the March 4, 2015 episode of" The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon", Edwards appeared on screen to read humorous phrases. As of November 2016, Edwards was seen on Instagram and YouTube working as an Uber driver. On Sept. 16, 2019, Edwards and his AOL story were featured on the podcast" Twenty Thousand Hertz" in an episode entitled" You've Got Mail." Question: What is the place of birth of the performer of song You'Ve Changed (Sia Song)? Answer: Adelaide
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Passage 1: Errol Sitahal Errol Sitahal is an Indo-Trinidadian actor, residing in Canada, who has acted in several Hollywood films. In 1995, he played a character named Ram, the Indian manservant, in the film, "A Little Princess". The same year he also appeared with Chris Farley and David Spade in a scene from the movie "Tommy Boy", where he played the third ""Yes"" executive. In 2004, he played the stern Dr. Patel, father to Kumar (Kal Penn) and Kumar's older brother Saikat (Shaun Majumder), in "Harold & Kumar Go to White Castle". Passage 2: Harold &amp; Kumar Harold & Kumar is the name for a series of American stoner comedy films starring John Cho (Harold) and Kal Penn (Kumar). The first film, "Harold & Kumar Go to White Castle", was released on July 30, 2004, by New Line Cinema and spawned a sequel titled "Harold & Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay", released four years later. "A Very Harold & Kumar 3D Christmas", the third installment of the series, opened nationwide in the U.S. on November 4, 2011. Passage 3: Harold &amp; Kumar Go to White Castle Harold & Kumar Go to White Castle (alternatively known as Harold & Kumar Get the Munchies) is a 2004 American stoner comedy film and the first installment of the "Harold & Kumar" series. The film was written by Jon Hurwitz and Hayden Schlossberg, and directed by Danny Leiner. Passage 4: Half Baked Half Baked is a 1998 American stoner comedy film starring Dave Chappelle, Jim Breuer, Harland Williams and Guillermo Díaz. The film was directed by Tamra Davis, co-written by Chappelle and Neal Brennan (Brennan was later writer and co-creator of Chappelle's Comedy Central show "Chappelle's Show") and produced by Robert Simonds. Passage 5: Outside Providence (film) Outside Providence is a 1999 American stoner comedy film adaptation of Peter Farrelly's 1988 novel of the same name. The film was directed by Michael Corrente, and it was written by Corrente and the brothers Peter and Bobby Farrelly. Centring on Timothy "Dildo/Dunph" Dunphy, the film is about his life of mischief, his "incentive" to attend the Cornwall Academy preparatory boarding school, and his realization that the haze in which he has lived has to give way to something that will stay with him forever. The book is based on Peter Farrelly's experience at Kent School, a prep school in Kent, Connecticut. Passage 6: Friday After Next Friday After Next is a 2002 American stoner comedy film directed by Marcus Raboy and starring Ice Cube (who also wrote the film) and Mike Epps. It is the third installment in the "Friday" series. The film was theatrically released on November 22, 2002 to minor box office success but generally negative reviews. Passage 7: A Little Princess (1995 film) A Little Princess is a 1995 American family drama film directed by Alfonso Cuarón and starring Eleanor Bron, Liam Cunningham (in a dual role), and introducing Liesel Matthews as Sara Crewe with supporting roles done by Vanessa Lee Chester, Rusty Schwimmer, Arthur Malet, and Errol Sitahal. Set during World War I, it focuses on a young girl who is relegated to a life of servitude in a New York City boarding school by the headmistress after receiving news that her father was killed in combat. Loosely based upon the novel "A Little Princess" by Frances Hodgson Burnett, this adaptation was heavily influenced by the 1939 cinematic version and takes creative liberties with the original story. Passage 8: Harold &amp; Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay Harold & Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay is a 2008 American stoner comedy film, and the second installment of the "Harold & Kumar" series. The film was written and directed by Jon Hurwitz and Hayden Schlossberg. Passage 9: Up in Smoke Up in Smoke is a 1978 American stoner comedy film directed by Lou Adler and Cheech & Chong's first feature-length film. It stars Cheech Marin, Tommy Chong, Edie Adams, Strother Martin, Stacy Keach, and Tom Skerritt. Passage 10: Next Friday Next Friday is a 2000 American stoner comedy film and the sequel to the 1995 film "Friday". This is the first film to be produced by producer Ice Cube's film production company Cubevision. It was directed by Steve Carr and stars Ice Cube, Mike Epps, Don "D.C." Curry, John Witherspoon, and Tommy "Tiny" Lister Jr. The film was theatrically released on January 12, 2000, grossing $57.3 million domestically and $59.8 worldwide. As of 2017, it is the most successful film in the franchise. Question: Indo-Trinidadian actor, residing in Canada, Errol Sitahal, starred in 2004 American stoner comedy film, directed by who? Answer: Danny Leiner
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Document: Sign in using you account with: {* loginWidget *} Sign in using your wsbtv profile Welcome back. Please sign in Why are we asking this? By submitting your registration information, you agree to our Terms of Service and Privacy Policy . Already have an account? We have sent a confirmation email to {* data_emailAddress *}. Please check your email and click on the link to activate your account. Thank you for registering! Thank you for registering! We look forward to seeing you on [website] frequently. Visit us and sign in to update your profile, receive the latest news and keep up to date with mobile alerts. Click here to return to the page you were visiting. ||||| A DeKalb County law enforcement officer talks to a person inside a guest room at the United Inn and Suites Hotel Saturday, May 12, 2018, in Decatur, Ga. Officers were called out to investigate a dead... (Associated Press) A DeKalb County law enforcement officer talks to a person inside a guest room at the United Inn and Suites Hotel Saturday, May 12, 2018, in Decatur, Ga. Officers were called out to investigate a dead body found inside a room that had a strong chemical smell which began to make the officers sick resulting... (Associated Press) DECATUR, Ga. (AP) — Police outside Atlanta said three officers will recover after being sickened by chemicals Saturday in a motel room where a body was found. Dekalb County Police spokeswoman Shiera Campbell says the three hospitalized officers are conscious and alert. She also told the Atlanta Journal Constitution that the guest's death at the extended-stay motel is not being treated as a homicide. Police think the chemical killed the man, but they don't know yet what chemical it is, or whether the man was exposed accidentally or on purpose. Fire Capt. Eric Jackson said samples of a substance were recovered by a hazardous materials crew. An autopsy will be performed by the medical examiner. "Something in there made the officers sick," Jackson said. "We have no idea what, none whatsoever." Summary: – The FBI has identified the chemicals that made three Atlanta-area cops sick in a motel room where a body was found Saturday. Per WSB-TV, the police officers were sickened by a combination of household cleaning agents, though they were not specified. The DeKalb County police said Sunday that the officers were released after being treated at a hospital overnight. Police spokeswoman Shiera Campbell also said the guest's death at the extended-stay motel is not being treated as a homicide, the AP reports. Police think the chemical combination killed the man, but they don't know yet whether he was exposed accidentally or on purpose. The officers reported feeling dizzy and nauseous after contact with the agent. Fire Capt. Eric Jackson said samples of a substance were recovered by a hazardous materials crew. The motel has since resumed normal operation. An autopsy will be performed by the medical examiner. His identity has not been made public. However, police say he was 48 years old.
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Passage 1: Doc Hammer Eric A. "Doc" Hammer is an American musician, actor, film and television writer, voice actor, and painter. He performed in the gothic rock bands Requiem in White from 1985 to 1995 and Mors Syphilitica from 1995 to 2002, both with his then-wife Lisa Hammer. His film credits include a number of Lisa's projects—released through their own production company Blessed Elysium—in which he participated as a writer, actor, composer, designer, and visual effects artist. He also composed the music for the 1997 film "A, B, C... Manhattan". He and Christopher McCulloch are the co-creators, writers, and editors of the animated television series "The Venture Bros." (2004–present), in which Hammer voices several recurring characters including Billy Quizboy, Henchman 21, Doctor Girlfriend, and Dermott Fictel. The show is produced through Hammer and McCulloch's company Astro-Base Go. Hammer is also the singer, guitarist, and songwriter of the band Weep, which formed in 2008. Passage 2: Neoclassical new-age music Within the broad movement of new-age music, neoclassical new-age music is influenced by and sometimes also based upon early, baroque or classical music, especially in terms of melody and composition. The artist may offer a modern arrangement of a work by an established composer or combine elements from classical styles with modern elements to produce original compositions. Many artists within this subgenre are classically trained musicians. Although there is a wide variety of individual styles, neoclassical new-age music is generally melodic, harmonic, and instrumental, using both traditional musical instruments as well as electronic instruments. Similar neoclassical elements can often be found within other genres besides new-age music, including electronic music, minimalist music, post-rock music and neoclassical dark wave music. Passage 3: Black Tape for a Blue Girl Black Tape for a Blue Girl (often stylized as black tape for a blue girl) is an American dark wave band formed in 1986 by Projekt Records' founder Sam Rosenthal. Their music takes on elements of dark wave, ethereal, ambient, neoclassical, and dark cabaret music. Director David Lynch is one of their more well-known fans. Their 11th album, "These Fleeting Moments", was released on August 12, 2016. on Metropolis Records. Passage 4: Medieval folk rock Medieval folk rock, medieval rock or medieval folk is a musical subgenre that emerged in the early 1970s in England and Germany which combined elements of early music with rock music. It grew out of the British folk rock and progressive folk movements of the later 1960s. Despite the name, the term was used indiscriminately to categorise performers who incorporated elements of medieval, renaissance and baroque music into their work and sometimes to describe groups who used few, or no, electric instruments. This subgenre reached its height towards the middle of the 1970s when it achieved some mainstream success in Britain, but within a few years most groups had either disbanded, or were absorbed into the wider movements of progressive folk and progressive rock. Nevertheless, the genre had a considerable impact within progressive rock where early music and medievalism in general, was a major influence and through that in the development of heavy metal. More recently medieval folk rock has revived in popularity along with other forms of medieval inspired music such as Dark Wave orientated neo-Medieval music and medieval metal. Passage 5: Dark wave Dark wave (or darkwave) emerged as a dark form of new wave and post-punk music combining elements of gothic rock and synth-pop. The label began to appear in the late 1970s in German music media, coinciding with the popularity of new wave and post-punk. Building on those basic principles, dark wave is used to describe dark, introspective lyrics and an undertone of sorrow for some bands. In the 1980s, a subculture developed primarily in Europe alongside dark wave music, whose members were called "wavers" or "dark wavers". Passage 6: Synthwave (1980s genre) Synthwave (or electro-wave) is an electronic, synthesizer-based variant of new wave and dark wave music in contrast to the more guitar-oriented variants of these genres (see cold wave and gothic rock). Passage 7: Lisa Hammer Lisa Hammer (née Houle; born April 4, 1967 in Salem, Massachusetts, U.S.) is an American filmmaker, actress, composer and singer and is the sister of director James Merendino ("SLC Punk!"). She graduated from Emerson College, with a BS in Film. She founded the Blessed Elysium Motion Picture Company, which produces German Expressionist films. Such works include "Pus$bucket" and "Crawley", a collaboration with Ben Edlund and Doc Hammer, her ex-husband. She has also contributed to "Joanie4Jackie", a film anthology project run by Miranda July, which featured Hammer's film "Empire of Ache" starring Dame Darcy. Passage 8: Mors Syphilitica Mors Syphilitica was a gothic rock/ethereal band formed in 1995 in New York City by Lisa Hammer ("née" Houle) and Eric Hammer after the breakup of their prior band Requiem in White. Their music combined often-surreal lyrics with unusual instruments such as mandolin and banjo, as well more conventional instruments like guitar. Lisa Hammer's operatic vocals gave Mors Syphilitica's music a distinctive powerful, sweeping quality. On record, all of the instruments were played by Eric Hammer; in concert, they were accompanied by live drummers and bass players. Passage 9: Neoclassical dark wave Neoclassical dark wave refers to a subgenre of dark wave music that is characterized by an ethereal atmosphere and angelic female voices but also adds strong influences from classical music. Neoclassical dark wave is distinct from the art music form known as neoclassical music, a style of classical music dating from the early twentieth century. In the context of popular music, the term 'neoclassical' is frequently used to refer to music influenced by classical (including elements from the baroque, classical, romantic, impressionistic music). Passage 10: Ethereal wave Ethereal wave, also called ethereal darkwave, ethereal goth or simply ethereal, is a subgenre of dark wave music and is variously described as "gothic", "romantic", and "otherworldly". Developed in the early 1980s in the UK as an outgrowth of gothic rock, ethereal was mainly represented by 4AD bands such as Cocteau Twins and early guitar-driven Dead Can Dance. Question: Which subgenre of dark wave music was performed by the and formed by Lisa Hammer ("née" Houle) and Eric Hammer? Answer: ethereal
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Document: Summarize the whole meeting. Project Manager: {vocalsound} Uh welcome back after lunch, I hope uh you had a good lunch together. For uh this meeting the main agenda okay uh to discuss about the conceptual design meeting. Okay and the agenda will be the opening and uh {disfmarker} that's uh {disfmarker} the product manager or secretary that's me and uh the presentations from the Christine and uh Agnes and from Mister Ed. And finally in this meeting we have to decide Marketing: {vocalsound} Project Manager: and we are to take a decision on the remote control concept and uh the functional design So we have forty minutes, I think it's uh little bit uh low, but I I hope we can finish it up {vocalsound} so I'll handle to the the functional team, to the Christine, okay, to discuss about uh the components concept. Industrial Designer: Okay. So uh, if you could open the PowerPoint presentation. Marketing: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: I'm number two. Project Manager: You're number two.'Kay Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} Components design, there we go. Marketing: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: So uh can we put it in slide show mode? Yeah. Project Manager: The next one. Industrial Designer: Right here, is that little {disfmarker} that one, yes please. Marketing: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: Thank you. Project Manager: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: I'll take the mouse. {vocalsound} So uh Project Manager: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: we were looking he specifically at the components uh {disfmarker} the following components, uh the case, the power supply, uh the means of communications with the television set. In instance we had talked about using some sort of speech recognition, Project Manager: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: you have to have microphone {disfmarker} well no you don't actually I haven't {disfmarker} have to have microphone in the device, but um maybe you do have it a a way {disfmarker} Marketing: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: it has to it has to hear the speaker User Interface: Mm-hmm. Industrial Designer: and um, so it could be in the television set, could be in the device, but somewhere you have to put the microphone, um and a w a way of making beeps or sounds so you can find it when it's gets lost. Um so the other w thing that we {disfmarker} So. Our method for going about this is we've looked at uh the histo hi historical record, what's worked, what hasn't and then we also um {disfmarker} we wanted to evaluate some new materials Marketing: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: and we contacted manufacturing for their input because, course, we m might {vocalsound} come up and choose the material that then manufacturing didn't have the technologies or capabilities to offer us, so uh this is the approach that we took during our um {disfmarker} our research. Marketing: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: So um for the case, um we told we were making a specifica specific assumption that it would be curved in design. Marketing: {vocalsound} {vocalsound} {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: Course, you know, I wanted it to be expandable and shrinkable, but um that uh doesn't seem to b be one of the choic non-option we can uh {disfmarker} we can really seriously explore, User Interface: {vocalsound} {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} so then we were thinking about um rubber, but um unfortunately that's been eliminated because of the heat uh factor User Interface: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: and th um there might be some {vocalsound} problems with the m uh how it's {disfmarker} {vocalsound} uh goes with the board. {vocalsound} Uh and uh then th plastic also has this problem of melting and it's brittle {disfmarker} it gets brittle after a while, User Interface: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: so um we still had titanium and and wood available, but um unfortunately uh uh titanium's also been eliminated uh, User Interface: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: the m people in manufacturing said that you couldn't make d curved cases out of titanium, although how {vocalsound} Apple did it with th PowerBook I'm not su quite sure but uh nevertheless um they've eliminated all of our options except wood. User Interface: {vocalsound} At least it's environmentally friendly. {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} So, {vocalsound} this is our finding. Marketing: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: And a as she said, it's an environmentally friendly uh material, so we're {disfmarker} we're {vocalsound} currently uh proposing, Marketing: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: uh we'll get to all my personal preferences in just a second. Marketing: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: So then there's this other matter of the chips and um well we could use a simple design on the board, User Interface: {vocalsound} Project Manager: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: {disfmarker} uh these simple chips, but that's only works for the bu you don't get very much um intelligence with this simple one. And um then there was the regular which {vocalsound} I regret that I've forgotten exactly why I'm eliminating that one. Uh the other option was this advanced chip on print, {vocalsound} and uh we liked th we we found that it it includes this infrared sender, Marketing: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: which w'member the beam was {disfmarker} that was an important component of finding the right chip. Marketing: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: And uh manufacturing has told us that they've um uh recently developed a uh a sensor and a speaker that would uh be integrated into this advanced chip on print, so uh we we uh now jumping right to our personal preferences um I I'd really think we should, you know, use some of uh some really exotic woods, like um, User Interface: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: you know uh, well you guys come from tropical countries so you can kinda think of some trees and some nice woods. I think that people will might really want to design their own cases, you see, they could do sort of a {disfmarker} this um three-dimensional design on the internet, and then they could submit their orders, kinda like you submit a custom car order, you know, and you can choose the colour and the size of the wheels and the colours of the leather and things like that, and then I uh think we should go with the solar cells as well as the um microphone and speaker on the advanced chip. So this is the findings of our research Marketing: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: and my recommendations um for the new remote control w um would be to have um have it be made out of wood. Do you have any problems with that? Project Manager: {vocalsound} Can you go back uh one slide? Industrial Designer: I'm not sure, how do I {disfmarker} Oh, I know, let's see. User Interface: Thank you. Yeah. Industrial Designer: Let's go back up here. Project Manager: Yes, uh {gap} question, uh, what's mean exactly, advanced chip on print? What's the meaning of that? Industrial Designer: I think it's um um a multiple uh chip design um {vocalsound} and it's uh maybe printed on to the circuit board. User Interface: {vocalsound} Project Manager: Mm-hmm. Marketing: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: Uh I could find out more about that uh before the next fi next meeting. Project Manager: Yeah, is it means it's on the {disfmarker} yeah is it on a micro-proc micro-processor based or uh {disfmarker} Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} I don't know, but I'll find out more at our next meeting. Project Manager: Okay, tha that would be great, so if you find out from the technology background, okay, so that would be good. Marketing: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: Sounds good. User Interface: Why was the plastic eliminated as a possible material? Industrial Designer: Because um it gets brittle, cracks {disfmarker} User Interface: Mm-hmm. Industrial Designer: Um We want {disfmarker} we expect these um {vocalsound} uh these remote controls to be around for several hundred years. So. {vocalsound} Good ex {vocalsound} {gap} Good expression. {vocalsound} User Interface: {vocalsound} Whic Marketing: Wow, User Interface: {vocalsound} Which {disfmarker} Marketing: {vocalsound} good expression. Well after us. {vocalsound} User Interface: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: I don't know, speak for yourself, I'm planning to be around for a while. {vocalsound} User Interface: Although I think {disfmarker} {vocalsound} Marketing: {vocalsound} User Interface: I think with wood though you'd run into the same types of problems, wouldn't you, I mean it chips, it if you drop it, Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} Marketing: {vocalsound} User Interface: uh it's {disfmarker} I'm not su {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} {vocalsound} Project Manager: So {gap} so you're not convinced about the the wood, yes. User Interface: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} {gap} you're what? Marketing: Actually, I'm ready to sell it. User Interface: I think {vocalsound} if you re if you use really good quality wood, then it might work, Marketing: I'm ready to sell it. Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} You think? {vocalsound} And you could {disfmarker} you could sell oils with it, to take care of it. User Interface: but you can't just use {disfmarker} Marketing: No y {vocalsound} no no no, the o the only w the only wood you can use are the ones that are hard, extremely hard wood, User Interface: Yeah, exactly, yeah. Marketing: but there are some very pretty woods out there {vocalsound}. Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} Well I'm glad you {disfmarker} User Interface: {vocalsound} Marketing: That's actually very innovative idea. Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} Okay, good. User Interface: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} Sorr having a hard time keeping wi control over my face. {vocalsound} Marketing: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} Marketing: Well, it's actually a very innovative n different idea that uh you know you can choose your colour of wood, your type of wood. Industrial Designer: Mm-hmm. User Interface: The stain. Marketing: {vocalsound} I mean it's {disfmarker} each person is gonna have their own personalised, individualised speech recognition remote control in wood, that's not on the market. Industrial Designer: Mm. User Interface: {vocalsound} Project Manager: Yeah, so it it's looks good the the design the functional design uh, what about yo you? Marketing: {vocalsound} User Interface: {vocalsound} Um, in terms of comments on this or in terms of my own {disfmarker} Project Manager: Yes, in t yes, in term in terms of comments first {disfmarker} Marketing: {vocalsound} In turns of wow. {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} User Interface: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: She works in the cubicle next to me so she's uh she was already a little bit prepared for this {vocalsound}. User Interface: Y yeah. Marketing: {vocalsound} {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: Luckily Ed was not. {vocalsound} User Interface: {vocalsound} Marketing: Wood? {vocalsound} User Interface: {vocalsound} I think we can get the quality materials then {vocalsound} it shouldn't influence the design principles too much, which you'll see with my presentation. Marketing: {vocalsound} {vocalsound} User Interface: One thing we'd have to check though is what the users {disfmarker} whether {disfmarker} how quickly the novelty wears off of having uh {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} Mm-hmm. Yeah, you wouldn't wanna have to have splinters in your hand while you're using your {disfmarker} User Interface: {disfmarker} Yeah, for example. {vocalsound} So, have to see how kid-friendly it is and and all that, Marketing: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} It's really good if your dog gets ahold of it, they can use it {vocalsound} {gap} for teething. User Interface: but {disfmarker} {vocalsound} Marketing: {vocalsound} User Interface: {vocalsound} Marketing: They do that anyway with the rubber and plastic, Industrial Designer: Yeah, they do it with other materials as well, yeah. Marketing: so {vocalsound}, and chew'em up. And chew'em up. Project Manager: Okay then, uh, let's move to Agnes. User Interface: Sure. Industrial Designer: Oh, I'm sorry. Project Manager: S you're {disfmarker} User Interface: {vocalsound} Project Manager: You are in participant three. User Interface: One point three, yeah Marketing: {vocalsound} User Interface: Uh, yeah. Project Manager: This one? User Interface: I think so, yeah. Yeah, that's the one. So, it's a very short presentation,'cause I'm actually gonna draw you the layout on the board so if you want to just go straight to the second slide, um, which basically shows, sort of {disfmarker} Marketing: {vocalsound} User Interface: I took the ideas that we were talking about last time um and tried to put that into the remote control so the things that y you can actually see on it are the on off switch, volume and channel control, the menu access button, ergonomic shape, which I completely agree with Christine's idea to have it sort of molded, so it's slightly more ergonomic and comfortable to hold than the r standard very straight remote controls. And actually the other thing with the wood if we take your customising idea, is that people can actually do sort of quasi-measurements on their hand size, so if someone has larger hands, you have a wider remote control. Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} Right, my hand is uh different size than yours for example. User Interface: {vocalsound} So, that's actually a really good idea for customi customisability. Um, one thing I thought might be kind of interesting is to put a flip screen on it, just like you have on flip phones, Marketing: {vocalsound} User Interface: so that you don't have this case where someone sits on the remote control or accidentally puts their hand on it, especially if you have little kids around, they're not pressing the buttons while you're trying to watch a T_V_ show and accidentally change the channel or turn it off. Industrial Designer: Mm-hmm. User Interface: And also {vocalsound} um you had issues with the batteries running out, Marketing: {vocalsound} User Interface: so I thought maybe we could put a little battery life-light on it that kind of goes dimmer and dimmer and dimmer as your battery is {disfmarker} starts to die. And in terms of invisible features, audio and um tactile feedback on button presses and, like you said, speech recognition. Industrial Designer: Mm-hmm. User Interface: So, in terms of what this thing would actually look like {disfmarker} Marketing: {vocalsound} User Interface: Despite working in interface design, I'm not the greatest artist in the world, so you'll have to forgive me. {vocalsound} {vocalsound} You'd have something like this with an on-off switch fairly big, sort of in the corner and by itself, so you don't accidentally turn your T_V_ off while you're trying to manoeuvre other buttons. And then you have sort of one of those toggle displays for, oops, channels and volume, sort of for surfing channels and then volume, so the volume would be the up and down,'cause volume goes up and down and then channels left to right. And then here you'd have your sort of standard, telephonish number pad. {vocalsound} And then on one side you would have an access to the menu on your T_V_ Project Manager: {vocalsound} User Interface: and on the other side a way to turn off the voice control. So that if the user doesn't want to use their voice, they can just turn it off and you don't have the remote control accidentally changing things on you. Industrial Designer: Mm. Mm-hmm. User Interface: {vocalsound} Um, so again you can have a little L_C_D_ light somewhere, the flip {vocalsound} thing and {disfmarker} Have I forgotten anything? I don't think so. So, as you can see, it's a very very simple design, Marketing: No. {vocalsound} Project Manager: {vocalsound} User Interface: which is one of the things I really wanted to keep, is keep it simple, not have too many buttons, not have too many functionalities thrown into it. Think the design can pretty much carry over to everything, although with the wood the flip screen might have to do something slightly different. Project Manager: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: A hinge. Be like a copper hinge or you know. Project Manager: {vocalsound} User Interface: Yeah. But you also have to d start watching out for the weight,'cause depending on how much the the flip screen will add to the weight of the remote control, you don't want it to start getting too heavy. Industrial Designer: Mm-hmm. Mm. User Interface: But that's the general layout with the general functionalities, if we come up with something else. As you can see, there's still lots of space on the actual remote control and if you do it customisably, {vocalsound} you can make this thing fairly small or fairly o large, depending on personal preferences. Industrial Designer: Mm-hmm, mm-hmm. {vocalsound} Marketing: Hmm. User Interface: So, that's pretty much {vocalsound} all I had to say, I mean, everything else in terms of design issues. Um the centering of the key pad and {vocalsound} the channel is just depending on where your thumb is and you tend to use the the volume control and uh the browsing more than the actual number pad, so that would be sort of in direct line of where your thumb goes when you are holding the remote control, Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} Mm-hmm. User Interface: the number pad a little bit lower'cause it's used less frequently. Industrial Designer: Mm. Mm-hmm. User Interface: So once we decide exactly what we want, then we can figure out the exact positioning, but more or less I think it should go along those lines. Project Manager: {vocalsound} So what's your, uh, the comments or uh s Marketing: Simple design. It's what consumers want. Project Manager: Okay Marketing: It's almost like, Houston, we have a product here. {vocalsound} User Interface: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} {vocalsound} Marketing: Problem is obviously gonna be cost. User Interface: Mm-hmm. Marketing: Okay, I also have a f {vocalsound} very simple presentation, Project Manager: Mm-hmm. Marketing: because for the marketing point you have to see what the consumers want. Project Manager: Yeah. User Interface: Yeah. Marketing: {vocalsound} I also have uh copied a different type of remote. If you can find me, where I'm at. {vocalsound} There should only be one in here. {gap} trend watch. Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} Sure. Marketing: It's being modified. User Interface: {vocalsound} Marketing: {vocalsound} They're stealing our product. {vocalsound} We've been giving simple {vocalsound} questionnaires in different areas because th {gap} obviously we have to see what the com consumers are looking for today,'cause uh trends change very very quickly. In six months maybe this idea is already gone out the window, so it's gonna be a question how fast we can act. Uh they already erased the rest of mine, huh. Industrial Designer: No, User Interface: No, no. Industrial Designer: f go to findings. Project Manager: {vocalsound} Marketing: No no, no no. {vocalsound}'Cause I had another comment there. Uh the market trend. This is what we know from the last uh {disfmarker} from the {vocalsound} questionnaires from the the {disfmarker} all the p surveys we've done, fancy and feel-good, that's what we've been looking for, something that feels good in the hand, that's easy to use. Looking for next generation of innovation, because all the remotes out there now, they're all very similar, they all do the same thing, Project Manager: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} Marketing: we have to have something completely different. Okay? Easy to use, has always has become {disfmarker} has become another major interest that uh, with the whiteboard we can see that it's a remote that's easy to use. And I think this is another thing that's interesting is the consumers actually willing to pay the price for exciting tel technology. So even if we have a product that may be more expensive, if it comes out right, if they {gap} look {disfmarker} it looks and feels good and has technology. The second two, you can see the last one is a very easy simple design. {vocalsound} The second one, there is about uh forty-five thousand different buttons on it, which makes it fairly hard to read, uh very hard to use. Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} User Interface: {vocalsound} Marketing: The first one, I see {vocalsound} that they put in a display. Now there's something else uh with the little flip-up, now we're adding all kinds of things in, User Interface: Mm-hmm. Marketing: but with the little flip-up, if you have a little display on the flip-up that when you close it everything is locked. User Interface: Yeah. Marketing: Maybe the display also makes it easier to use, because sometimes when you're looking for buttons, maybe if you see a display {disfmarker} User Interface: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: Context-sensitive instructions, depending on what the tel what mode the T_V_ or the D_V_D_ or something else is in. User Interface: Right. Marketing: {vocalsound} Okay Because I've seen {disfmarker} mostly the standard ones, User Interface: Especially you might need something like that for training the speech recognition and Marketing: yeah. Now you have it {disfmarker} now you have one with the very simple also. The idea is simple, but with a display, so you can see what you're doing. User Interface: Mm-hmm. Marketing: So maybe if we can incorporate the easiness of use, trendy, fancy, feels good, {vocalsound} uh with a display, wood, designer wood, designer colours User Interface: Mm-hmm. Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} User Interface: {vocalsound} Project Manager: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: You know, maybe what you could do is when somebody orders the device id you could send them like um {vocalsound} a uh {vocalsound} uh b some sort of a foam rubber um ball, Marketing: , we might've {disfmarker} User Interface: {vocalsound} Oh yeah. Industrial Designer: and then they would squeeze it, and it would take the shape of their hand. User Interface: Yeah, so it's really molded to to your specific {disfmarker} Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} To t {vocalsound} an and then you would know like {vocalsound} um what the geometry of their hands would be and uh {disfmarker} Marketing: Mm-hmm. Project Manager: {vocalsound} {vocalsound} Marketing: How hard they squeeze? User Interface: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} Yes {vocalsound} you'd know what kind of wood to get. Marketing: {vocalsound} Resistance resistance, right. {vocalsound} User Interface: But th for that you'd also have to do sort of an average across families and things like that if {disfmarker} unless everyone has their own personal remote. Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} That's right, that's right, you wouldn't wanna go too far down that. Oh that {disfmarker} that actually would uh increase the um {disfmarker} the revenues we could expect, yeah. {vocalsound} User Interface: The sales, yeah. {vocalsound} Project Manager: The {disfmarker} Yeah. I hope so. User Interface: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} Marketing: No, but incorporating the three uh obviously it'd be something totally new on the market, totally different User Interface: Yeah. Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} Marketing: and from {disfmarker} User Interface: Well, already the customisability is a really good sort of new gimmick. Marketing: {vocalsound} Although, what it {disfmarker} was it uh {disfmarker} it was uh Nokia that came out with this changeable colours. User Interface: Yeah. Industrial Designer: Mm-hmm. Marketing: Right, you take it apart, and put on another face, take it off and put on another face User Interface: Yeah. Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} Right, mm. User Interface: And that took off, yeah, yeah. Marketing: and then they sold millions, millions. So. So say with the f with the findings, with the research, easy to use something totally new. User Interface: Mm-hmm. Marketing: We have to come up with something totally new that is not on the market. Industrial Designer: We'd also have to wor um consider that uh who we were gonna get to make these custom cases in terms of manufacturing processes, we might wanna um learn about um {vocalsound} labour laws. Project Manager: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: You know in different countries and stuff wher so we can do it cheap, but you don't wanna exploit uh labour in um third world countries. Project Manager: Yeah. Industrial Designer: So actually you could turn it y turn around and say that you're uh par the reason the cost is high for the device is because um you're paying a a working wage to the person who made the device. Project Manager: {vocalsound} Marketing: {vocalsound} User Interface: Mm-hmm. Project Manager: Yeah, but we can get a production in, uh {vocalsound}, countries like, uh, India Industrial Designer: Cost of living is low. Project Manager: {disfmarker} yes, yes, countries like India or China or Malaysia, so you can go a better features and better price and you can sell more. So {disfmarker} Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} Good, well th that'd be something that manufacturing would have to um explore more Project Manager: Yeah, {vocalsound} yeah, so Yes. User Interface: Mm yeah. Industrial Designer: and to where {disfmarker} Marketing: Where w Where it would be manufactured is is another step. Project Manager: So {disfmarker} Yeah, so {disfmarker} Industrial Designer: Yeah Marketing: We're here to design, come up with a nice product. {vocalsound} Project Manager: {vocalsound} Yes uh, but uh that that we can that we can talk about the production later, okay, depends on the the quantity, okay. User Interface: Mm-hmm. Project Manager: So we don't need to have our own uh fabric factory or something, Industrial Designer: Mm-hmm. Project Manager: so we can have a tie-up with who the do the fabric, okay, for the different uh electronics items, then we can have a business tie-up and to get {disfmarker} to cut the cost, okay, to sell more. So, but uh le let's decide first about the components concept and uh interface concept, okay, if is acceptable for both of you, what uh Ed was talking. And your design {vocalsound} whether you want with the display or without display or just a simple, so User Interface: Mm-hmm. {vocalsound} I think it depends, I mean I think it's a good idea, but we need to really think about how useful it's gonna be because theoretically with the T_V_ you already have a big display {vocalsound} right in front of you. Project Manager: Yeah. Industrial Designer: Hmm. User Interface: So, if we're trying to keep costs down, then maybe sacrificing the display is a way to go. Industrial Designer: Hmm. User Interface: I mean it depends on how much putting a display costs and what it would be used for {disfmarker} Industrial Designer: Hmm. User Interface: very specifically what it would be used for, Industrial Designer: Mm-hmm. User Interface:'cause if it's only used for one little thing, then putting in a big display case or a big display that's probably expensive just to do the training on the chip for the speech recognition or whatever, may not be the most cost-efficient way to go, Project Manager: {vocalsound} User Interface: but that's just sort of speculation, I mean. Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} What do you think Ed? Do you {disfmarker} he liked the display in one of the concepts that you showed, um, do you know how much it costs, um, to to add a little display like this uh? Marketing: {vocalsound} No. No Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} Do you wanna take an action item to go find out? Marketing: {gap} no p spec {vocalsound} It's'cause we have to find out cost on it. Industrial Designer: Okay. {vocalsound} Sorry about that. Marketing: Um, no that's no problem. I'm here for the {vocalsound} pushing it after it's made. {vocalsound} Project Manager: Yes. Marketing: I will market it. {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} Marketing: Once we get a price on it then we can market it. Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} {vocalsound} So the {vocalsound} the advanced chip on print is what um what we've {vocalsound} we've deci we've determined Marketing: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: and the uh engineering industrial design is the recommendation, and um I think we've kinda come to some agreement regarding um this concept of a wooden case. Project Manager: {vocalsound} {vocalsound} User Interface: Mm-hmm. {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: A customisable and {disfmarker} Marketing: Nice beautiful mahogany red wooden case. {vocalsound} User Interface: What about the buttons, would {disfmarker} Would the buttons be wood too, or {disfmarker} Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} Uh I don't think so, no, Project Manager: I don't think so. Industrial Designer: I think they could be rubber like they are now, Project Manager: Yes. Yes. Industrial Designer: so you have that tactile experience of {disfmarker} Project Manager: Don't looks nice uh. Yeah, so uh what we'll do is, uh, we will stick with the the simple design for time being until uh th Ed find outs about the how much it's cost to the extra, in case we go for the display. Okay. So User Interface: Mm-hmm. Project Manager: maybe what you can do is uh, both of you, you can come up with the the prototype, okay, the model. User Interface: Okay. Project Manager: Okay? User Interface: Sure. Project Manager: {vocalsound} User Interface: {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: So um are we done with this meeting? Project Manager: {vocalsound} Yeah, I hope, if {disfmarker} is it okay if uh they will come up with the prototype design, okay. Then they can show you how it looks like, and then we can uh submit to the {vocalsound} {disfmarker} I will submit to the management. Okay? Then meantime you can come up with the price, how much it's cost as extra for uh the display. Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} Project Manager: An and the marketing strategy, that's very important, okay. Industrial Designer: And a marketing strategy. Marketing: And marketing strategy, thank you. User Interface: {vocalsound} {vocalsound} Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} Project Manager: Yes. How much you can {disfmarker} Marketing: Fired. {vocalsound} Project Manager: how mu how much how much you can sell extra. User Interface: {vocalsound} Project Manager: Of course you'll make money too, Industrial Designer: {vocalsound} Project Manager: so it it's not only pay-out, you make money too, your commission. User Interface: {vocalsound} Marketing: {vocalsound} User Interface: {vocalsound} Marketing: {vocalsound} Project Manager: Okay, so, any questions? User Interface: No. Project Manager: So, by next meeting, so, please come up with the the prototype, okay, then uh, then we can proceed from there. User Interface: Okay. Project Manager: It's okay? User Interface: Mm-hmm. Project Manager: So thanks for all your uh efforts and coming for the meeting again, and see you soon then. Okay? User Interface: Okay. Project Manager: Thank you. Summary: This meeting focused on the conception of the functional design of the new remote control. Industrial Designer evaluated several components in the technical design of the product and gave his personal preferences, especially on the chip and the material to use in the construction. Then User Interface presented a general layout of the functionality, the design of which should follow two principles: simpleness and customizability. Marketing, in his turn, explained the current market trend based on the results of his questionnaires on user requirements. The group also discussed where the remote control would be manufactured by taking into account the price of the local labour force.
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As the MAIN TITLES BEGIN, the theater thrums with a subsonic HISS which mounts in all the rattling power of THX, and we... <b> BURN IN, BRIGHT LIVING COLOR: </b> <b> EXT. STRATOSPHERE - DAY </b> The glory of stratospheric dawn. The engines of a silver Lockheed U-2F rasp upon the trace oxygen here at 72,500 feet. Scattered cloud formations hang over the blue brilliance of sea far, far below. In the haze, the looming edge of land. <b> SUPER: FLIGHT G-3101. OCTOBER 14TH, 1962. OVER CUBA. </b> The spy plane's CAMERA DOORS whine open. The glassy eye of the 36-inch camera focuses. And then with a BANGBANGBANGBANG, its high-speed motor kicks in, shutter flying. <b> MATCH CUT TO: </b> <b> INT. O'DONNELL BEDROOM - DAY </b> A simple CAMERA, snapping away furiously in the hands of a giggling MARK O'DONNELL, 4. He's straddling and in the face of his dad, KENNY O'DONNELL, 30's, tough, Boston-Irish, with a prodigious case of morning hair. Kenny awakens, red-eyed. <b> HELEN (O.S.) </b> Mark, get off your father! Kenny sits up to the morning bedlam of the O'Donnell house. KIDS screech, doors bang all over. Kenny pushes Mark over, rolls out of bed, snatches up the corners of the blanket and hoists Mark over his shoulder in a screaming, kicking bundle. <b> INT. O'DONNELL HALLWAY - DAY </b> Kenny, with Mark in the bundle on his shoulder, meets his wife HELEN going the other way in the hall with LITTLE HELEN, 1, in her arms. <b> KENNY </b> Hi, hon. They kiss in passing. Daughter KATHY, 12, races by in angry pursuit of her twin, KEVIN, 12. <b> HELEN </b> Don't forget, Mrs. Higgins wants to talk to you this afternoon about Kevin. You need to do something about this. <b> KENNY </b> Kids are supposed to get detention. Kenny dumps the bundle with Mark in a big pile of dirty laundry. <b> SMASH CUT TO: </b> <b> EXT. MCCOY AIR FORCE BASE - FLORIDA - DAY </b> A pair of massive FILM CANISTERS unlock and drop from the belly of the U-2. TECHNICIANS secure them in orange carrying cases, lock them under key, fast and proficient. They whisk them out from under the spy plane. The Technicians run for an idling Jeep. They sling the cases into the rear of the vehicle which in turn accelerates away hard, curving across the runway for another waiting plane. <b> SMASH CUT TO: </b> <b> INT. O'DONNELL KITCHEN - DAY </b> A kitchen out of the late 1950's. Kenny drinks coffee, ties a tie, rifles through a briefcase at the kitchen table. The horde of kids, ages 2-14, breakfast on an array of period food. Kenny grills the kids while he goes over papers. <b> KENNY </b> Secretary of Defense... <b> KEVIN </b> Dean Rusk! <b> KENNY </b> Wrong, and you get to wax my car. KENNY JR. smirk at Kevin. <b> KENNY JR. </b> Rusk is State, moron. Robert McNamara. <b> HELEN </b> Got time for pancakes? <b> KENNY </b> Nope. Attorney General? A PHONE RINGS as the kids cry out en masse. <b> KIDS </b> (chorus) Too easy! Bobby, Bobby Kennedy! Kenny glances up at the wall. There are two phones, side by side. One RED, one BLACK. It's the black one ringing. Helen answers. Kenny goes back to his papers. <b> KENNY </b> All right, wise guys, Assistant Secretary of State for Latin America... <b> SMASH CUT TO: </b> <b> EXT. STEUART BUILDING - DAY </b> A U.S. Navy truck lurches to a stop in front of the run-down, brick-faced seven-story Steuart Building on 5th and K. Rear doors BANG open, and out hop two MARINE GUARDS, side arms drawn, film canisters in a carrying case between them. <b> SUPER: NATIONAL PHOTOGRAPHIC INTERPRETATION CENTER </b><b> (NPIC), WASHINGTON D.C. </b> As the Marines approach the building, front doors SLAM open. <b> INT. OPERATIONS OFFICE, NPIC - DAY </b> A bespectacled OPERATIONS MANAGER hands a clipboard to one of the big Marine Guards who in turn hands him a set of keys. The Manager unlocks the film cases. PHOTO INTERPRETERS swoop in, whisk away the contents: SPOOLS OF FILM. <b> SMASH CUT TO: </b> <b> EXT. O'DONNELL RESIDENCE - DAY </b> A black Lincoln pulls away from the modest white house on a tidy Washington D.C. residential street. <b> EXT. WASHINGTON D.C., AERIAL - DAY </b> The car threads its way through the Washington traffic, past the big administrative buildings, down tree-lined avenues, takes a turn into a gate. As the car stops at the gate, the CAMERA flies past, revealing it's the gate to the WHITE <b> HOUSE. </b> <b> SMASH CUT TO: </b> <b> INT. NPIC - DAY </b> CLOSE ON the five-thousand rolls of film spewing through processing equipment, its streaking passage leading us straight through the development machinery to: <b> A SERIES OF VARIOUS SHOTS: </b> Photo Interpreters power up light tables, stereoscopic viewers, zip across the floor in wheeled chairs. Flying switches, flickering lights, humming motors. It's an eerie dance of technological black magic. Another pair of Interpreters loom out of the darkness, side by side, ghostly looking, their glasses reflecting the glare of the light table, like magicians staring into a crystal ball. <b> IMAGES FILL THE SCREEN </b> Aerial shots, flashing by. Cuban countryside from 72,500 feet. A MAGNIFYING GLASS swings down on its arm in front of us, magnifying the carpet of trees... and a row of six canvas covered OBJECTS among them. <b> SMASH CUT TO: </b> <b> EXT. WHITE HOUSE - WEST WING - DAY </b> Kenny, in business suit and tie, trots up the steps, and a MARINE GUARD snaps the door open for him. <b> INT. WEST WING - CONTINUOUS </b> Kenny, briefcase in hand, weaves his way through the empty, ornate hallways of the West Wing. Past magnificent doorways, early American furniture, paintings. He finally reaches a doorway, goes through into: <b> INT. KENNY'S OFFICE - CONTINUOUS </b> A long, narrow affair, window at the back looking out into the Rose Garden. Kenny dumps his briefcase on the desk, shucks off his coat, removes a folder from his briefcase, turns and heads back out... <b> INT. WEST WING HALLS - CONTINUOUS </b> And into the warren of offices and halls that is the working White House. He takes a right, passes the doors to the Oval Office right next to his office, goes down a long, straight hall, into... <b> INT. MANSION - CONTINUOUS </b> The formal main building, the executive mansion. He passes the busts of Presidents past, turns left into an elevator. The doors close. <b> INT. 3RD FLOOR - FAMILY QUARTERS - DAY </b> The doors open. Kenny strides out onto a DIFFERENT FLOOR, the third. He heads down the long, posh hall of the family quarters. Fine furnishings, art. The living White House. He approaches the double doors at the end of the hall guarded by a cluster of SECRET SERVICE AGENTS. An agent opens one of the doors. <b> KENNY </b> Morning, Floyd. <b> SECRET SERVICE AGENT </b> Good morning, Mr. O'Donnell. <b> INT. PRESIDENT'S BEDROOM - CONTINUOUS </b> Kenny enters the elegant bedroom. The figure alone at a side table by the window, drinks coffee, breakfast still spread out before him, Washington Post obscuring his face. <b> KENNY </b> Top o' the morning, Mr. President. The figure lowers the paper. It is PRESIDENT JOHN F. KENNEDY. He's wearing boxers and a tank top. Unshaven. Bed-head. Kenny O'Donnell, former ward-pol and long-time Kennedy man, is his Chief of Staff... <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Morning, Kenny. You see this goddamn Capehart stuff? The President rattles the paper. Kenny collapses in the chair opposite the President, sprawls, comfortable. <b> KENNY </b> Bayh's going to lose, but it's good groundwork for us for '64. Kenny steals a piece of buttered toast off the President's plate. The President spares him a glance. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> I was eating that. <b> KENNY </b> No you weren't. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> (scanning the paper) I was, you bastard. Kenny takes a defiant bite. <b> THE PRESIDENT (CONT'D) </b> So what've we got today? <b> KENNY </b> Today, for your information, is Pulaski Day. We're going to Buffalo... <b> SMASH CUT TO: </b> <b> INT. HOTEL LOBBY - DAY </b> <b> SUPERIMPOSE: BUFFALO, NEW YORK </b> A luxury hotel crowded with LOCAL POLS: the Democratic machine of Buffalo. Beyond the open floor-to-ceiling windows, a CROWD. The Pulaski Day Parade, a glimpse of '69s Americana. High School bands blare Sousa. The scene is deafening, boisterous. Pols trail Kenny as he crosses the room: fast, tough, on-the-go. <b> POL #1 </b> We're putting up Potowski next time. Will you guys come out for him? <b> KENNY </b> Who else you got? <b> POL #2 </b> There's Richardson. Good kid. <b> KENNY </b> Got the touch? <b> POL #2 </b> Yeah. Still moldable, too. <b> KENNY </b> Everyone likes a good kid... And like that, a congressional candidate is made... Kenny accelerates, leaving the Pols behind. Suddenly, outside the windows, the crowd swells forward with a collective ROAR. <b> CROWD </b><b> MR. PRESIDENT! PRESIDENT KENNEDY! </b> <b> EXT. HOTEL - DAY </b> Kenny heads down the steps with New York Times Washington Bureau Chief, SCOTTY RESTON. Anonymous, they weave their way through the crowd for a police car on a side street. <b> RESTON </b> How's my favorite President? <b> KENNY </b> Busy. But you've got his heart. <b> RESTON </b> I want an hour with him. <b> KENNY </b> I said his heart, not his attention. <b> RESTON </b> Three weeks before midterm elections? You need me. <b> KENNY </b> Well. There is a new civil rights initiative he wants to talk about. <b> RESTON </b> I'm doing a piece on Skybolt. I hear Macmillan's meeting with him in Nassau. Kenny just sighs as they make their way up to the police car. A Secret Service Agent opens the door for him, another is behind the wheel. <b> KENNY </b> We're giving the Brits Polaris instead. But a story'll just aggravate things. Scotty stares at Kenny, determined. Kenny looks away. And his eye catches a tall, willowy BEAUTIFUL WOMAN. She is talking, excited, embarrassed, to two more SECRET SERVICE AGENTS. What they're saying is lost in the noise. Scotty follows Kenny's gaze. Then the two men share a look, a silent understanding. Kenny glances at the Secret Service guy holding the car door, tilts his head at the woman. <b> KENNY (CONT'D) </b> Not today. He's got tight schedule. The Agent nods, heads for the other Agents and the Beautiful Woman. Scotty acts like nothing has happened. <b> RESTON </b> Pretending there isn't a problem won't fix it. He can clear the air on Anglo American relations. <b> KENNY </b> Forget it, Scotty. <b> RESTON </b> Let him talk to me, he makes Macmillan look good, I print it, the British public likes it, Macmillan owes you. The formula's exactly what Kenny wants to hear. He pretends to consider, pretends to cave as he gets in the car. <b> KENNY </b> All right, you're in. Half hour. Reston's won. But so has Kenny, and he's made Scotty feel tough in the bargain. People like Kenny. <b> INT. POLICE CAR - DAY </b> In the back seat, Kenny stares out the window at the parade goers. The Secret Service Agents leave the Woman. Disappointed, the Woman turns and vanishes into the crowd. It's an eerie moment. Something troubles Kenny, and he glances up at the sky. A premonition. But it's a clear, clear blue. A day like this, all is right with the world... <b> SMASH CUT TO: </b> <b> INT. NPIC - NIGHT </b> Six Interpreters huddle around IMAGES on a light table. One of them shoulders his way into the group and THUMPS a black BINDER on the table. There are grim nods of agreement. The book is open to a PICTURE of an SS-4 BALLISTIC MISSILE. A photo from Moscow Mayday parade. An icon of the nuclear age escorted like some devil-god to a holocaust... <b> END MAIN TITLE SEQUENCE </b> <b> EXT. THE WHITE HOUSE - DAY </b> The White House casts long shadows this gorgeous October morning. Blue sky; the first flash of color in the trees. <b> SUPER: TUESDAY, OCTOBER 16TH, 1962. DAY 1. </b> <b> INT. KENNY'S OFFICE - CONTINUOUS </b> Briefcase and coat in hand, Kenny enters his office - and finds THREE MEN. Standing there. Thin-haired, bespectacled, academic-looking MCGEORGE BUNDY, 43, the National Security Advisor. The two men in the background: PHOTO INTERPRETERS. Kenny hangs up his coat, sees the Interpreters' large black display cases. And suddenly the world is slightly off kilter. <b> KENNY </b> Hey, Mac. You're up bright and early. <b> BUNDY </b> No, Ken. I need to see him now... <b> INT. WHITE HOUSE - RESIDENTIAL FLOOR - DAY </b> Kenny emerges from the elevator with Bundy. They head down the long, posh 3rd floor hall, the Presidential Detail guarding the doors at the end. But the familiar route feels strange, and lasting an eternity. Kenny eyes the package under Bundy's arm, its TOP SECRET stamp visible. <b> KENNY </b> Morning, Floyd. <b> SECRET SERVICE AGENT </b> Good morning, Mr. O'Donnell. Mr. Bundy. The Agent opens the door. Bundy pauses, Kenny with him. <b> KENNY </b> What's it about? <b> BUNDY </b> Cuba. Bundy is tense. But Kenny relaxes. <b> KENNY </b> Just Cuba? Okay, I got work to do, see you guys downstairs. <b> INT. KENNY'S OFFICE - CONTINUOUS </b> Kenny's office is a raging beehive of activity. Kenny works the phone as ASSISTANTS come and go with files. <b> KENNY </b> (to phone, scary calm) Listen to me, you worthless piece of disloyal shit. You will pull Daly's man on the circuit. You owe your goddamn job to this administration. (beat, listening) There is a word you need to learn. It is the only word in politics. Loyalty. LOYALTY you motherfucking piece of shit! As Kenny THROWS the phone down at the receiver, and the PRIVATE DOOR to the Oval Office suddenly opens. Kenny glances up. President Kennedy stands there in the doorway. Kenny thinks he's reacting to the tirade. <b> KENNY (CONT'D) </b> What're you looking at? This isn't the blessed order of St. Mary the Meek. Kenny stops. <b> KENNY (CONT'D) </b> Excuse us. The Assistants leave, shutting the door after them. Kenny rises. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> I think you should come in here. Kenny starts for the door. <b> THE PRESIDENT (CONT'D) </b> Still think Cuba isn't important? <b> KENNY </b> Not as far as the election goes. The President lets Kenny by into... <b> INT. OVAL OFFICE - CONTINUOUS </b> WE ENTER from a different angle than we usually enter in movies: through the side door. The President's ornate desk sits on the right, windows looking out on the Rose Garden behind it. Kenny's gaze swivels to: THE OTHER END OF THE ROOM where the Interpreters, their crewcut chief, ARTHUR LUNDAHL, 50's, and Bundy stare at him. They're surrounded by PRESENTATION BOARDS propped up around the fireplace. The President's rocking chair and sofas. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> You used to look down a bomb sight for a living, Ken. What do you see? In eerie silence, as all eyes follow him, Kenny makes his way among the presentation boards with the U-2 imagery, stops in front of the picture of the six canvas-covered objects. It unleashes a wave of memories. <b> KENNY </b> We hit a Nazi buzz bomb field in '45. (beat, incredulous) It looks like a rocket base... He puts his hand out to touch the image, then turns and looks to the President, knowing what they must be. <b> BUNDY </b> On Sunday morning, one of our U-2s took these pictures. The Soviets are putting medium range ballistic missiles into Cuba. Shock. Silence. Kenny glances to the other men. <b> LUNDAHL </b> They appear to be the SS-4: range of a thousand miles, three-megaton nuclear warhead. <b> KENNY </b> Jesus Christ in Heaven... <b> INT. WHITE HOUSE OPERATOR'S CENTER - DAY </b> A bank of WHITE HOUSE OPERATORS work the switchboard, fingers flying, voices overlapping in a babble of: <b> VARIOUS OPERATORS </b> Please hold for the White House...Mr. O'Donnell for Secretary McNamara... White House Operator... please hold... <b> INT. KENNY'S OFFICE - DAY </b> Kenny carries the phone with him as he paces hard from his desk to his window. <b> KENNY </b> The principals are assembling in an hour. See you then. Kenny hangs up. The President enters. A beat. And in that beat, there's a void. The two men are off their emotional stride, trying to grope their way out of shock. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Where's Bobby? Kenny nods, acknowledging the feeling <b> KENNY </b> Should be here any minute. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Good. And we glimpse the chemistry of these guys by Bobby's absence. It's like they're missing their third wheel. <b> THE PRESIDENT (CONT'D) </b> Good. <b> BOBBY (O.S.) </b> Where the hell are you? The President and Kenny hear him out in the hall. And the tension goes out of them instantly. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> In here! They turn to the door as BOBBY KENNEDY, 37, the President's younger brother/Attorney General, enters. Bobby shuts the door behind him, falls into Kenny's chair, and clearly grappling with his own disbelief, is hushed. <b> BOBBY </b> Jesus Christ, guys. What the hell's Khruschev thinking? <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Did you have any indication of this from Georgi? Any possible warning or sense of motivation? <b> BOBBY </b> (shaking his head) Complete snowjob. And then we went out and told the country they weren't putting missiles into Cuba. (beat) By the way, you realize we just lost the midterms. <b> KENNY </b> Who gives a shit about the midterms now? The Soviets are putting nuclear weapons ninety miles away from us. <b> BOBBY </b> You mean there's something more important than votes? Didn't think I'd live to see the day, Ken. The President paces away, grim. <b> KENNY </b> Jesus. I feel like we've caught the Jap carriers steaming for Pearl Harbor. <b> INT. WEST WING HALLWAY - DAY </b> The President strides down the plush hallway, Bobby and Kenny flanking him. Unconsciously, all three men assume the same gait: confident, powerful, no longer disoriented. And before our eyes, the three men's game faces appear, and they become the hard-ass leaders of the United States. Secret Service Agents throw open the massive double doors to the Cabinet Room. <b> INT. CABINET ROOM - CONTINUOUS </b> And they enter. The group of men at the long, ornate Roosevelt-era table, rise as one. <b> GROUP </b> Good morning, Mr. President. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Good morning, gentlemen. And the doors close on the eighteen men of EXCOM: The Executive Committee of the National Security Council. They are the legendary "Best and Brightest." The President makes his way down the line: shakes hands with Secretary of State DEAN RUSK, 53, distinguished, with a soft, Georgian accent, a distant reserve. <b> THE PRESIDENT (CONT'D) </b> Dean, good morning. <b> RUSK </b> Mr. President. The President leans past him, grasps the hand of the Secretary of Defense ROBERT MCNAMARA, 46, a gifted managerial genius... the price of which is a cold, hard personality. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Bob. Bet you had a late night. <b> MCNAMARA </b> Sleep is for the weak, Mr. President. OFF TO THE SIDE, Kenny greets Vice President LYNDON JOHNSON, 54, and ADLAI STEVENSON, 62, Representative to the U.N., intellectual, well-spoken. <b> KENNY </b> Lyndon. Adlai. The silver-haired war hero and politically savvy Chairman of The Joint Chiefs of Staff, GENERAL MAXWELL TAYLOR, 50s, shakes the President's hand. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Max. <b> GENERAL TAYLOR </b> McCone's been notified and is coming back from the West coast. Carter's here, though. He gestures to GENERAL MARSHALL CARTER, Deputy Chief of Operations for the CIA. Carter nods to the President. <b> THE CAMERA PANS OVER THE OTHERS. </b> DOUGLAS DILLON, ex-banker, Secretary of the Treasury. ROSWELL GILPATRIC, studious Deputy Secretary of Defense. PAUL NITZE, 55, the detail-driven facts man, Assistant Secretary of Defense. GEORGE BALL, 50s, Undersecretary of State. Eloquent, a man of conscience. U. ALEXIS JOHNSON, Deputy Under Secretary of State. EDWARD MARTIN, Assistant Secretary of State for Latin America. LLEWELLYN THOMPSON, laid back, rumpled Soviet Affairs Advisor. DON WILSON, Deputy Director of the USIA. The President sits down at the center of the table, Rusk and McNamara to either side, and the others resume their seats. Bobby takes one of the over-stuffed chairs at the table. Kenny finds one along the wall behind the President, under the windows to the Rose Garden to TED SORENSEN, 30s, the President's legal counsel and speech writer. They greet each other coolly. <b> KENNY </b> Ted. <b> SORENSEN </b> Kenny. The room falls silent. The President looks across the table to GENERAL CARTER. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Okay. Let's have it. <b> GENERAL CARTER </b> Arthur Lundahl heads our photographic interpretation division at CIA. I'll let him and his boys take you through what we've got. Arthur? Lundahl, standing at the end of the room with briefing boards, steps forward with a pointer. <b> LUNDAHL </b> Gentlemen, as most of you now know a U-2 over Cuba on Sunday morning took a series of disturbing photographs. <b> SWINGING THE POINTER AT A BOARD SMASH CUTS US TO: </b> <b> EXT. MISSILE SITE - LOS PALACIOS, CUBA - DAY </b> The sweltering Cuban countryside. Shouting SOVIET ROCKET TROOPS, stripped to the waist, glistening with sweat, machete a clearing under scattered, limp palm trees. <b> LUNDAHL (V.O.) </b> Our analysis at NPIC indicates the Soviet Union has followed its conventional weapons build-up in Cuba with the introduction of surface-to surface medium-range ballistic missiles, or MRBMs. Our official estimate at this time is that this missile system is the SS-4 Sandal. We do not believe these missiles are as yet operational. A bulldozer TEARS through the undergrowth. FILLING THE SCREEN. A 70-foot long MISSILE TRANSPORTER creeps along in the bulldozer's wake like a vast hearse with its shrouded cargo. <b> INT. CABINET ROOM - DAY </b> Lundahl raps his second board: a map of the United States, Cuba visible in the lower corner. An ARC is drawn clearly across the U.S., encompassing the entire Southeast. <b> LUNDAHL </b> IRONBARK reports the SS-4 can deliver a 3-megaton nuclear weapon 1000 miles. So far we have identified 32 missiles served by around 3400 men, undoubtedly all Soviet personnel. Our cities and military installations in the Southeast, as far north as Washington, are in range of these weapons, and in the event of a launch, would only have five minutes of warning. <b> GENERAL CARTER </b> Five minutes, gentlemen. Five minutes. <b> GENERAL TAYLOR </b> In those five minutes they could kill 80 million Americans and destroy a significant number of our bomber bases, degrading our retaliatory options. The Joint Chiefs' consensus is that this is a massively destabilizing move, upsetting the nuclear balance. The President stares at Lundahl, and beating out each word. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Arthur. Are. You. Sure? Lundahl looks around the room. Everyone is hanging. <b> LUNDAHL </b> Yes, Mr. President. These are nuclear missiles. The men come to grips with their own fears, own anger. <b> BOBBY </b> How long until they're operational? <b> LUNDAHL </b> General Taylor can answer that question better than I can. General Taylor drops a memo on the table WHICH BECOMES: <b> EXT. FIELD TABLE - MISSILE SITE, CUBA - DAY </b> SCHEMATICS slapped down on a camp table. A group of Soviet site ENGINEERS point and gesture as they study their ground from a shaded hillock. CLEARING CREWS and SURVEYORS work and sweat in the distance. <b> GENERAL TAYLOR (V.O.) </b> GMAIC estimates ten to fourteen days. However, a crash program to ready the missiles could cut that time. <b> INT. CABINET ROOM - DAY </b> Taylor sees the grim looks all around. <b> GENERAL TAYLOR </b> I have to stress that there may be more missiles that we don't know about. We need more U-2 coverage. Kenny lets out his breath. He catches Bobby's eye. This is unbelievable. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Is there any indication - anything at all - that suggests they intend to use these missiles in some sort of first strike? <b> GENERAL CARTER </b> Not at present, sir. But I think the prudent answer is we don't know. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Do we have any sort of intelligence from CIA on what Khruschev is thinking? <b> GENERAL CARTER </b> No, Mr. President. We don't. We just don't know what's happening inside the Kremlin at that level. <b> BOBBY </b> They lied to us. Two weeks ago Dobrynin told me to my face Khurschev had no intention of putting missiles into Cuba. They said themselves, this is our backyard. There's angry agreement. The President cuts it off. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Gentlemen, I want first reactions. Assuming for a moment Khruschev has not gone off the deep end and intends to start World War Three, what are we looking at? Rusk glances to his team at the end of the table. Ball, Johnson, Martin, Thompson and Stevenson. <b> RUSK </b> Mr. President, I believe my team is in agreement. If we permit the introduction of nuclear missiles to a Soviet satellite nation in our hemisphere, the diplomatic consequences will be too terrible to contemplate. The Russians are trying to show the world they can do whatever they want, wherever they want, and we're powerless to stop them. If they succeed... <b> BOBBY </b> It will be Munich all over again. <b> RUSK </b> Appeasement only makes the aggressor more aggressive. Confidence in our security commitments around the world will falter, allies will become unsure in the face of Soviet pressure, and the Soviets will be emboldened to push us even harder. We must remove the missiles one way or another. It seems to me the options are either to build up the crisis 'til they give in, or we hit them. An air strike. There's silence at the table. Some nods. Understanding. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Bob? <b> MCNAMARA </b> We've worked up several military scenarios. Before I ask General Taylor to lead us through the various options, I'd like for us to adopt a rule. If we are going to strike, we must agree now that we will do it before the missiles become operational. Because once they are, I don't think we can guarantee getting them all before at least some are launched. And there it is. The clock is running. <b> BUNDY </b> Sir. We need to consider... if we decide to act, there's a good chance we'll end up in a general war. The room falls silent. The President leans back in his chair, studying the circle of men around the table, weighing them. Kenny and the others watch him in silence. A long, dramatic pause. A course that will change history is about to be chosen. The President leans forward, folds his hands on the table. Fated. Grave. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> It's clear we cannot permit Soviet nuclear missiles in Cuba. We must get those missiles out. <b> EXT. THE ROSE GARDEN - DAY </b> Kenny and Bobby follow the President down a path through the Rose Garden. The shock of the morning has worn off. The President stops, looks at them. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> I don't think it's going to matter what Khruschev's intentions are. I tell you, right now... I don't see any way around hitting them. A long moment of silence as they move along again. <b> KENNY </b> If we hit 'em, kill a lot of Russians, they'll move against Berlin. They attack Berlin, that's NATO... and we're at war. The guys stop again. The autumn day is bright, warm, alive. The air, the distant city sounds derail the relentless train of logic for a beat. And in their faces we see that all three men, for the first time, feel the enormity of war, its shadow over everything. It's only a couple of steps away. Steps that they're seriously contemplating. <b> BOBBY </b> Damned if we do, but if we don't, we're in a war for sure somewhere else in six months. Pained, the President turns away. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> No choice. This is going to cost lives any way we go. Do nothing, and it could be 80 million of ours. We have to get rid of those missiles. <b> KENNY </b> There've got to be alternatives to just going out and bombing them. <b> BOBBY </b> He's right, Jack. Taylor is saying we may have some time. We've got to use it. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> So if there are alternatives that make sense - and I'm not saying there are - we need 'em. Need 'em fast. <b> BOBBY </b> What about the allies? Congress? I think we may need to start letting key people know. And they're all scattered across the country for the campaign. We're going to need to get the U.N. staff in and warmed up. Jesus... I don't even know if we've got secure communications with half our embassies since that the Soviets got that cryptographer of ours. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> We can't worry about everything right now. We've got to figure out what we're going to do before we worry about how we do it. <b> KENNY </b> The other thing is... <b> BOBBY </b> ... I know. CIA and the military fucked us on the Bay of Pigs. <b> KENNY </b> They're going to be pressing for a military solution soon. We can't afford to let them ram their agenda down our throats. We need to come with options other than air strikes so we have some sort of choice here. <b> BOBBY </b> We got a bunch of smart guys. We lock 'em up together in there, kick 'em in the ass til they come up with options. Kenny and the President look at him. Bobby nods. <b> BOBBY (CONT'D) </b> I'll do it. <b> KENNY </b> (to the President) It's too politicized with you in there, anyway. They need to be able to stick their necks out. <b> BOBBY </b> It'll be the principals, a couple of the key guys from each department: the Executive Committee of the National Security Council. We'll call it EXCOM. Kenny snorts a laugh. Bobby shoots him a cross look. <b> KENNY </b> EXCOM. Has a ring to it. Like F-Troop. The President stops. Bobby and Kenny stop, too. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Okay. Kenny and I only show for the meetings you call us into. Impress us. And do it fast. (to Kenny) You're in charge of keeping this quiet. If word gets out before we know what we're going to do, there'll be panic. And it'll ruin any chance of surprise if we decide to hit them. <b> KENNY </b> Then we need to do a few things right away. No Pierre. He knows, the press knows. You're going to have to keep up your schedule - your movements are followed too closely. And we need to get these guys out of the White House. George Ball's got a conference room at State. (to Bobby) Reconvene over there this afternoon, come back here tonight. Bobby nods. <b> BOBBY </b> I think we should bring in Dean Acheson. He was fighting Soviets while we were still working the wards in Boston. The President nods his approval. Looks at Kenny. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Find him, Kenny. We're going to need all the help we can get. <b> INT. WEST WING - HALL OUTSIDE PRESS OFFICE - DAY </b> Kenny moves hard and fast through the twisting warren of hallways and tiny offices which is the West Wing. Suddenly, Scotty Reston pops out of a doorway behind Kenny. <b> RESTON </b> Hey, Kenny! Who died? Kenny glances over his shoulder at Scotty who points to a window. A beat, then Kenny returns to look out the window. Outside, the West Wing Drive is FILLED WITH LIMOUSINES. A flash of dismay, but Kenny covers fast. <b> KENNY </b> Way it's going, the Democratic Party. DNC strategy session. If you can call it that. Scotty chuckles. Kenny moves off, leading him away. Kenny's assistant runs up behind him, holding out a slip of paper. <b> ASSISTANT </b> Sir? Kenny tries to look him away. <b> RESTON </b> It's Tuesday. You said to call. When do I get my 45 minutes? <b> KENNY </b> Tell you what. We're in Connecticut tomorrow for Ribicoff. I'll get you up front with him during the flight. <b> RESTON </b> Deal. <b> ASSISTANT </b> Sir. Kenny turns, harsh <b> KENNY </b> What is it? The Assistant eyes Scotty, holds his tongue. Kenny takes the slips. <b> ASSISTANT </b> The number you asked for. <b> KENNY </b> I ask for a lot of 'em. Whose is it? <b> ASSISTANT </b> Dean Acheson's, sir. That shuts Kenny up. Reston eyes the slip, then looks to Kenny's face. And he knows something isn't right here. <b> KENNY </b> Gotta go, Scotty. See you tomorrow. <b> INT. TREASURY BUILDING GARAGE - NIGHT </b> A car jolts to a stop. The CAMERA PANS up over the sagging suspension, the government plates, the hood ornament revealing half of EXCOM inside. Kenny stands nearby waiting for them. The doors open, and out they pile like a bunch of clowns: Bobby, McNamara, Rusk, Ball, Martin, Dioptric, Sorensen, Stevenson, and Nitze. They're sitting in each others' laps, banging their heads on the roof, joking, but tense. <b> BOBBY </b> Screw secrecy. You try having that fat ass sit on your lap all the way from Foggy Bottom. <b> MCNAMARA </b> You were excited. I say no more. The gang falls in behind Kenny, trails him out of the garage. <b> INT. TUNNEL TO WHITE HOUSE - NIGHT </b> A steel door unlocks, swings open, and Kenny marches at the head of the wedge of men into a long tunnel. It's the infamous old passage from the Treasury to the White House. Kenny and Bobby get a little ahead of the others. <b> BOBBY </b> Everybody agrees the diplomatic route is out. It's too slow, and they'll have the missiles finished. Kenny looks at him. Then there's only one alternative. The CAMERA wipes through the ceiling to: <b> EXT. WHITE HOUSE - NIGHT </b> GROUND LEVEL. Where the brilliantly-lit flag flutters over the spotlit White House: their destination. <b> INT. CABINET ROOM - NIGHT </b> GENERAL WALTER 'CAM' SWEENEY, head of Tactical Air Command, stands at the head of the table with a presentation board. The men of EXCOM gather around Sweeney in their rumpled shirts, nursing coffee and cigarettes. <b> GENERAL SWEENEY </b> We have 850 planes assembling at Homestead, Eglin, Opa Locka, MacDill, Patrick, Pensacola and Key West. <b> SMASH CUT TO: </b> <b> EXT. HOMESTEAD AFB - FLORIDA - NIGHT </b> An F-100 Super Sabre stands under lights on a taxiway. The CAMERA DESCENDS FROM ITS OVERHEAD SHOT, discovering the aircraft's sleek cockpit, menacing tiger-jaw paint job, the four 20mm cannons on its nose. <b> GENERAL SWEENEY (V.O.) </b> Due to the tropical foliage, the OPLAN calls for high-explosive and napalm loadouts for our ground attack sorties. <b> PULL BACK TO REVEAL: </b> The FLIGHT LINE where a full strike wing stands beyond this plane, pylons laden with weapons, GROUND CREW servicing them. <b> INT. CABINET ROOM - CONTINUOUS </b> Other EXCOM members draw near the board, its order of battle, strike maps. They're grim, but fascinated. Empowering. Intoxicating. Sexy. Kenny sees it in the faces, even the President's. Adlai does too, is upset. <b> ADLAI </b> I still think there are diplomatic approaches we haven't considered yet. Kenny looks at Adlai. The others around the room, embarrassed, don't respond. The group has moved on and Stevenson hasn't. <b> GENERAL TAYLOR </b> We have high confidence in the expanded air strike option. (beat) The problem, Mr. President, is that it's a short-term solution. Khruschev can send more missiles next month. The Chiefs and I believe we should follow up the air strikes with the full version of <b> OPLAN 316. </b> <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> An invasion... <b> GENERAL TAYLOR </b> Yes, sir. We can be sure we get all the missiles, and we remove Castro so this can never happen again. Kenny looks around the room at the men, the murmurs of general agreement, senses the consensus building and is agitated. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Is this the Chiefs' recommendation? <b> GENERAL TAYLOR </b> Yes, sir. Our best option is to commence the strikes before the missiles are operational. The invasion happens eight days later. The President leans back in his chair, turns to the man at the far end of the table: DEAN ACHESON, 60s, former Secretary of State. He sits silent, like some revered oracle, the architect of the American Cold War strategy of containment. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Dean. What do you think? Acheson arches an eyebrow, and when he speaks, his voice resonates throughout the room, powerful, smooth, hypnotic. <b> ACHESON </b> Mr. President, you have rightly dismissed the diplomatic option. The Soviet will only tie you down in negotiation, and leave us short of our goal, the removal of the missiles. Negotiating will do nothing more than give them time to make the missiles operational, complicating the necessary military task we have at hand. Everyone in the room listens to him with rapt attention, his presence overshadowing the room, oracular: <b> ACHESON (CONT'D) </b> For the last fifteen years, I have fought here at this table along side your predecessors in the struggle against the Soviet. Gentlemen, I do not wish to seem melodramatic, but I do wish to impress upon you one observation with all conceivable sincerity. A lesson I have learned with bitter tears and great sacrifice. (beat) The Soviet understands only one language: action. It respects only one word: force. Kenny stares at the old man. Acheson's gaze finds his through the cigarette smoke. Acheson's eyes travel to the President. <b> ACHESON (CONT'D) </b> I concur with General Taylor. I recommend, sir, air strikes followed by invasion, perhaps preceded by an ultimatum to dismantle the missiles if military necessity permits. Taylor nods, vindicated. The others murmur their approval. Bobby, at the table in front of Kenny and to his left, trades a dire look with Kenny. This is happening too fast. Bobby holds his head, looks about at the others, deeply distressed. The President sinks back in his chair, staring at Acheson. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Then it appears we have three options. Number one. A surgical air strike against the missiles themselves. Two, a larger air strike against their air defenses along with the missiles. Kenny eyes Bobby. Bobby is writing something. <b> THE PRESIDENT (CONT'D) </b> And three, invasion. Bobby looks over his shoulder at Kenny, and REACHES BACK to him with a folded NOTE. Kenny takes it, opens it. It reads NOW I KNOW WHO TOJO FELT PLANNING PEARL HARBOR. <b> THE PRESIDENT (CONT'D) </b> We're certainly going to do number one; we're going to take out these missiles, so it seems to me we don't have to wait very long. We ought to at least be making those preparations. Kenny gives Bobby a curt nod. Bobby tilts his head at the President: pass the note on to him. Kenny rises, slips the note in front of the President. The President unfolds the note, and we HOLD ON IT and his reaction as in the b.g., out of focus, Taylor speaks: <b> GENERAL TAYLOR </b> Yes, sir, we're preparing to implement all three options, though I must stress again, sir, there are risks to the strikes without the follow-on invasion. Bundy clears his throat. Speaks from somewhere down the table. <b> BUNDY </b> You want to be clear, Mr. President, that we have definitely decided against a political track. The President folds the note away, glances at Bobby. A beat, the President looks from Bobby to Acheson. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Dean, how does this play out? <b> ACHESON </b> Your first step, sir, will be to demand that the Soviet withdraw the missiles within 12 to 24 hours. They will refuse. When they do, you will order the strikes, followed by the invasion. They will resist, but will be overrun. They will retaliate against a target somewhere else in the world, most likely Berlin. We will honor our treaty commitments and resist them there, defeating them per our plans. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Those plans call for the use of nuclear weapons. (beat) And what is the next step? Acheson sits back in his chair, smooths his moustache. A dramatic beat, and then his ominous pronouncement rings out: <b> ACHESON </b> Hopefully cooler heads will prevail before we reach the next step. A chill runs down Kenny's spine. He looks in shock to the President. The President remains calm. But in place of the fated look the President has had, there's a hesitation. <b> INT. WEST WING HALLS - NIGHT </b> Acheson strides down the hall, Taylor, Sweeney, Carter and Bundy swept along behind him. Bundy is on the defensive, the others grim. <b> GENERAL TAYLOR </b> If McNamara'd get off the fence... <b> BUNDY </b> We have time. <b> GENERAL CARTER </b> Goddamn it, it's obvious. It's the only option. That asshole, Stevenson. We can't let this drag out or we lose our shot. <b> BUNDY </b> Bombing them... <b> ACHESON </b> Remember that the Kennedys' father was one of the architects of Munich. The General is right. There is only one responsible choice here. Bundy just nods. Taylor grabs a door ahead for Acheson. <b> ACHESON (CONT'D) </b> Let's pray appeasement doesn't run in families. I fear weakness does. And the men head into a stairwell going down. <b> INT. OVAL OFFICE - NIGHT </b> Grimacing in pain. He opens a pill bottle, takes two pills out. He takes a whiskey in a shot glass from Kenny. <b> RESUME </b> Kenny finishes pouring him and Bobby a couple of more shots, discreetly turning a blind eye to the President's pain. The President returns from his desk, shirt untucked, disheveled, back stiff. He eases into his rocking chair. Bobby lies sprawled on the couch. Kenny sits down. They all look at each other. A beat, something like shock. <b> KENNY </b> Jesus Christ Almighty... They burst out laughing. An absurd, tension draining moment. They shoot their drinks, Kenny refills. <b> KENNY (CONT'D) </b> Call me Irish, but I don't believe in cooler heads prevailing. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Acheson's scenario is unacceptable. And he has more experience than anyone. <b> KENNY </b> There is no expert on this subject, no wise old man. The President stares Kenny in the face, understanding. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> The thing is, Acheson's right. Talk alone won't accomplish anything. Kenny considers the President, his face straight as he says: <b> KENNY </b> Then let's bomb the shit out of them. Everyone wants to, even you, even me. (there's a point) It sure would feel good. The President sees what Kenny's saying: it'd be an emotional response, not necessarily the intelligent one. <b> BOBBY </b> Jack, I'm as conniving as they come, but a sneak attack is just wrong. <b> KENNY </b> He's right. And things are happening too fast. It smells like the Bay of Pigs all over again. Bobby picks up some reconnaissance photos on the coffee table. <b> BOBBY </b> As if dealing with the Russians wasn't hard enough, we gotta worry about our own house. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Tonight, listening to Taylor and Acheson, I kept seeing Burke and Dulles telling me all I had to do was sign on the dotted line. The invasion would succeed. Castro would be gone. Just like that. Easy. The President is rendered mute by a wave of pain. Kenny and Bobby aver their eyes. When it passes, the President is hushed, grave. <b> THE PRESIDENT (CONT'D) </b> There's something...immoral about abandoning your own judgement. Kenny nods, moved. The President reaches out for the reconnaissance photos Bobby's flipping through. Bobby hands them to him. The President looks them over. And when he speaks, there's humility. And resolve. <b> THE PRESIDENT (CONT'D) </b> We can't let things get ahead of themselves. We've got to control what happens. We're going to do what we have to make this come out right. EXCOM is our first weapon. (beat) We'll resort to others as we need 'em. <b> EXT. AIRPORT - BRIDGEPOINT, CONNECTICUT - DAY </b> <b> SUPER: WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 17TH. DAY 2 </b> A LONG SHOT of an ENORMOUS CROWD thronging a bunting-trimmed platform. The President, barely recognizable at the distance, and a cluster of political VIPS wave from it, smiling. Kenny steps INTO FRAME, back here at the fringes of the crowd. <b> THE PRESIDENT (O.S.) </b> Doesn't anybody in Connecticut have to work today? The crowd goes nuts. Kenny paces, checks his watch, impatient to be done with the necessary diversion. Kenny gazes off to his right and spots Scotty Reston, along with half the White House press corps suckered along. Scotty catches Kenny's look. Kenny turns away, but Scotty comes weaving over. The President continues on, but all we hear is Scotty and Kenny. <b> RESTON </b> Kenny! What happened? They didn't let me up front, said the President was on the phone the whole time. <b> KENNY </b> He was. <b> RESTON </b> Yeah? Who was he talking to? Acheson? Come on, O'Donnell, everyone's wondering what's going on. What's Acheson doing in town? And don't give me some bullshit about DNC think tanks. Acheson's Mr. Cold War. <b> KENNY </b> Why don't you ask him yourself? You can have him on the way home. <b> RESTON </b> I'm giving you a chance here: talk to me. You can influence how this thing unfolds. But Kenny stands there, mute. Reston just shakes his head, knowing for sure something's up. He turns and heads back for the press corps. <b> EXT. STAIRS TO AIR FORCE ONE - DAY </b> Kenny and the President climb the stairs to the Presidential plane, the crowd cheering him. He gives a final wave. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Let's get out of here. <b> KENNY </b> Cheer up, you've neutralized the entire White House Press Corps for a day. <b> INT. GEORGE BALL'S CONFERENCE ROOM - DAY </b> EXCOM meets in George Ball's small conference room at the State Department. Bobby, in shirtsleeves, paces at the head of the table, very, very alone. All eyes are on him. <b> BOBBY </b> No. No. No. There is more than one option here. If one isn't occurring to us, it's because we haven't thought hard enough. McNamara squirms. The others react in frustration. CIA chief JOHN MCCONE, sharp, tough, conservative, is harsh. <b> MCCONE </b> Sometimes there is only one right choice, and you thank God when it's clear. <b> BOBBY </b> You're talking about a sneak attack! How'll that make us look? Big country blasting a little one into the stone age. We'll be real favorites around the world. <b> ACHESON </b> Bobby, that's naive. This is the real world, you know that better than anybody. Your argument is ridiculous. <b> MCCONE </b> You weren't so ethically particular when we were talking about options for removing Castro over at CIA. And there's nothing Bobby can say to that. He props himself up on the table, stares at it as if there's an answer in its shiny surface somewhere. There is only the reflection of his own face. <b> BOBBY </b> I can't let my brother go down in History like a villain, like a Tojo, ordering another Pearl Harbor. McCone, Acheson, and Taylor share a look. The last resistance to airstrikes is crumbling. Finally, Bobby looks up at McNamara. <b> BOBBY (CONT'D) </b> Bob. If we go ahead with these air strikes... (beat) There's got to be something else. Give it to me. I don't care how crazy, inadequate or stupid it sounds. (beat, pleading) Give it to me. McNamara suffers under the gaze of everyone at the table, weighing the situation out. And finally he ventures. <b> MCNAMARA </b> Six months ago we gamed out a scenario. It's slow. It doesn't get rid of the missiles. There are a lot of drawbacks. (beat) The scenario was for a blockade of Cuba. <b> SUPER: THURSDAY, OCTOBER 18TH. DAY 3 </b> <b> INT. OVAL OFFICE - DAY </b> Kenny enters the office from his side door in the middle of a debate. Military uniforms dominate the room: General Taylor, General Sweeney, and a host of briefing officers. <b> GENERAL TAYLOR </b> The situation is worse than we thought. We count 40 missiles now, longer range IRBMs. They can hit every city in the continental U.S. The President stares out the window at the Rose Garden, his back to Air Force Chief of Staff GENERAL CURTIS LEMAY, 60. Beetle-browed, arrogant, the archetypal Cold War general. Yet there is something about him, his intelligence perhaps, that suggests he's playing a role he knows and believes in. The only other civilians in the room are Bobby, Bundy and McNamara. The pressure from the military is almost physical. <b> LEMAY </b> Mr. President, as of this moment my planes are ready to carry out the air strikes. All you have to do is give me the word, sir, and my boys will get those Red bastards. The President continues staring out the window. Kenny eases over to the desk, leans on it, arms folded, interposing himself between the President and the soldiers. Bobby joins him, side-by-side. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> How long until the army is ready? <b> GENERAL TAYLOR </b> We've just begun the mobilization under cover of a pre-arranged exercise, sir. We're looking at another week and a half, Mr. President. <b> LEMAY </b> But you can begin the strikes, now. The plans call for an eight-day air campaign. It'd light a fire under the army's ass to get in place. That makes the President turn around, stare at LeMay. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> General LeMay, do you truly believe that's our best course of action? <b> LEMAY </b> Mr. President, I believe it is the only course of action. American is in danger. Those missiles are a threat to our bomber bases and the safety of our nuclear deterrent. Without our deterrent, there's nothing to keep the enemy from choosing general nuclear war. It's our duty, our responsibility to the American people to take out those missiles and return stability to the strategic situation. The Big Red Dog is digging in our back yard, and we're justified in shooting him. Taylor steps in softly, smoothly: good cop to LeMay's bad. <b> GENERAL TAYLOR </b> Sir, we have a rapidly closing window of opportunity where we can prevent those missiles from ever becoming operational. The other options... He spares a look at McNamara, who watches the fireworks, arms folded, serious. <b> GENERAL TAYLOR (CONT'D) </b> ...do not guarantee the end result we can guarantee. However, the more time that goes by, the less reliable the choice we can offer you becomes. The President, partially defused, looks from Taylor to McNamara. LeMay steps forward, softer now, sincere. <b> LEMAY </b> Mr. President, the motto I chose for SAC is 'Peace is our Profession.' God forbid we find ourselves in a nuclear exchange. But if launched, those missiles in Cuba would kill a lot of Americans. That's why I'm being such a pain in the ass about destroying them. Destroying them immediately. Hell, even Mac agrees. Bundy is uncomfortable. Everyone turns to him. He nods. Kenny realizes he's been co-opted by the military. McNamara does too, lets out a deep breath. The President eyes Bundy, then paces out from behind his desk, walks up to LeMay. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> General, what will the Soviets do when we attack? <b> LEMAY </b> Nothing. Kenny, Bobby and the President look at each other, unable to believe what they just heard. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Nothing? <b> LEMAY </b> Nothing. Because the only alternative open to them is one they can't choose. His pronouncement hangs there in the air: ominous, dangerous. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Those aren't just missiles we'll be destroying. We kill Soviet soldiers, and they will respond. How would we respond if they killed ours? No, they will do something, General, I promise you that. And I believe it'll be Berlin. <b> INT. WEST WING HALLWAY - DAY </b> LeMay walk out of the Oval Office with Taylor, Carter and their staffers. <b> LEMAY </b> Those goddamn Kennedys are going to destroy this country if we don't do something about this. There are dark looks on the faces of the other officers. They agree. <b> INT. KENNY'S OFFICE - DAY </b> As the meeting next door disperses, the President rummages through Kenny's jacket which hangs on Kenny's chair. Kenny, bemused, holds out the package of cigarettes the President is looking for. <b> KENNY </b> I was hoping LeMay pushed you. I wouldn't mind going a few rounds with him. The President glances up, takes the proffered smokes. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> We knew it was coming. I tell you, Kenny, these brass hats have one big advantage. We do what they want us to, none of us will be alive to tell 'em they were wrong. Bobby, Rusk and Sorensen enter from the hall. <b> SORENSEN </b> Mr. President, Gromyko should be on his way by now. <b> RUSK </b> We need to go over what you're going to say. <b> BOBBY </b> There's still no sign they know that we know about the missiles. Been a lot of cloud cover; probably think we aren't getting any good product. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> We keep 'em in the dark as long as we can. But I sure as hell am going to test him. <b> INT. WEST WING HALL - DAY </b> Kenny comes out of the bathroom, and is buttonholed by the crewcut, bullet-headed Press Secretary, PIERRE SALINGER, in the crowded, busy hallway. <b> SALINGER </b> Kenny, I'm getting funny questions from the guys in the press office. As Press Secretary, I need to know. What's going on? Kenny wheels back into his office. It's filled with people. But he bends confidentially to Pierre's ear. <b> KENNY </b> They're planning to shave you bald next time you fall asleep on the bus. (off Pierre's get-serious look) Sorry, Pierre, Gromyko just arrived. <b> INT. KENNY'S OFFICE - DAY </b> The Press Corps throngs Kenny's tiny office, pushing and shoving for a vantage at the side door to the Oval Office, waiting for the Gromyko photo-op. Kenny stands shoulder-to shoulder with Reston and Sorensen near the door. <b> RESTON </b> Are they going to discuss the military exercises going on in Florida? Kenny doesn't even blink, but Sorensen does a poorer job at hiding his reaction. <b> KENNY </b> Come on, Scotty. This meeting's been on the books for months. It's just a friendly talk on U.S.-Soviet relations. Fortunately, the conversation is cut short as a dozen FLASHBULBS suddenly go off on a dozen cameras as the reporters crush in on the Oval Office, and Reston is swept forward. <b> KENNY'S POV: </b> over the reporters. The President, unsmiling, enters the room beside Soviet Foreign Minister, ANDREI GROMYKO. Gromyko pauses for the photos: grim, dark haired, saturnine. <b> RESUME </b> Kenny reacts. At last, the face of the enemy. <b> INT. OVAL OFFICE - NIGHT </b> The CAMERA picks up the darkened windows: the meeting has gone long. The CAMERA MOVES PAST Kenny and Sorensen standing in the doorway to Kenny's office, FINDS the President in his chair across from Gromyko on the sofa. Rusk, Ambassador ANATOLY DOBRINYN, and two INTERPRETERS around them. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> So that there should be no misunderstanding, the position of the United States, which has been made clear by the Attorney General to Ambassador Dobrynin here, I shall read a sentence from my own statement to the press dated September 13th. (beat, reading) Should missiles or offensive weapons be placed in Cuba, it would present the gravest threat to U.S. national security. The President stares at Gromyko as the translator finishes translating. Gromyko sits there, enigmatic, cold, unreadable. The translator finishes, and Gromyko stops him with a gesture so he can answer in his own accented English. <b> GROMYKO </b> Mr. President, this will never be done. You need not be concerned. The President hides his fury masterfully, and gazing over his glasses, asks: <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> So I do not misunderstand you: there are no offensive weapons in Cuba. A beat. And Gromyko's response is flat, sure, steady: <b> GROMYKO </b> No, Mr. President. We have sent defensive weapons only to Cuba. Kenny's blazing eyes could drill holes in the back of Gromyko's head. His gaze swings to the PRESIDENT'S DESK. BENEATH THE DESK sit the BRIEFING BOARDS with the evidence. <b> INT. WEST WING HALLWAY - NIGHT </b> Kenny emerges from his office. The Soviet delegation disappears down the hallway with Rusk. Kenny turns as Bobby, haggard, comes up from the other direction. Bobby gestures to the vanishing delegation, now being HARANGUED OC by the press. <b> BOBBY </b> What happened? The President comes out of the next door down the hall, the Oval Office. He turns and sees Kenny and Bobby. He's livid. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Lying bastard. Lied to my face. <b> BOBBY </b> We're split down the middle. If I held a vote I think airstrike would beat blockade by a vote or two. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> I want a consensus, Bobby. Consensus. Either air strike or blockade. Something everyone'll stand by even if they don't like it. I need it by Saturday. Make it happen. <b> BOBBY </b> What if I can't? <b> KENNY </b> We go into this split, the Russians will know it. And they'll use it against us. The prospect disturbs the three men. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Have you cancelled Chicago and the rest of the weekend yet? <b> KENNY </b> You don't show for Chicago, everyone'll know there's something going on. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> I don't care. Cancel it. <b> KENNY </b> No way. The President spins on him, unsure he heard correctly. <b> KENNY (CONT'D) </b> I'm not calling and cancelling on Daly. You call and cancel on Daly. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> You're scared to cancel on Daly. <b> KENNY </b> Damn right I'm scared. The President pauses, looks at Bobby. Bobby shakes his head: don't look at me. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Well, I'm not. <b> BOBBY </b> Then you'll call, right? <b> INT. HALLWAY - SHERATON-BLACKSTONE HOTEL - NIGHT </b> <b> SUPER: FRIDAY, OCTOBER 19TH. DAY 4 </b> <b> THEN SUPER: CHICAGO </b> Kenny threads his way through the host of SECRET SERVICE AGENTS and ADVANCE MAN cramming the hallway on the floor of the hotel they've taken over. From one of the rooms emerges Salinger. <b> SALINGER </b> Kenny, all right. What's going on here? There's rumors going around an exercise in the southeast is related to Cuba. I'm the Press Secretary. I can't do my job if I don't know what's going on. So what's going on? <b> KENNY </b> What are you telling them? <b> SALINGER </b> The truth: I don't know. <b> KENNY </b> (deadly serious) Tell 'em you've looked into it, and all it is is an exercise. And Pierre -- (beat, loaded) The President may have a cold tomorrow. Kenny stares at him, and the light dawns on Pierre. Something big is going on and he's been cut out of it. He stalks off. <b> SALINGER </b> Damn it, Kenny. Goddamn it! <b> INT. RECEPTION HALL - SHERATON-BLACKSTONE - NIGHT </b> A big 100-dollar-a-plate dinner is in full swing to a dinner band's tunes. The President and Chicago MAYOR RICHARD DALY make the rounds among the fund raising CROWD. Kenny follows them at a respectful distance, greeting old cronies. Suddenly a MESSENGER hustles over to Kenny, hands him a note. Kenny makes eye contact with the President, nods and leaves. <b> INT. HOTEL ELEVATORS - NIGHT </b> Kenny waits at the elevator. Scotty saunters up behind him. He sizes Kenny up, clears his throat. Kenny turns around. <b> RESTON </b> There are major rail disruptions in the South, two airborne divisions are on alert. That exercise is an invasion. <b> KENNY </b> Well, you know how Bobby has it in for the State of Mississippi. <b> RESTON </b> This is about Cuba. Kenny freezes, then explodes. <b> KENNY </b> Cuba? You're fucking crazy. We are not invading Cuba. Nobody gives a rat's ass about Cuba. Not now, not ever. If you print something like that, all you're going to do is inflame the situation. Nobody talks to assholes who inflame situations. Assholes like that can find themselves cut out of the loop. Reston is taken aback. Stung silence for a beat. Kenny's response is far louder than any "yes." Now Kenny realizes it. <b> RESTON </b> You've never threatened me before. And Kenny looks away, upset, but when he turns back to Reston, all that's there is his poker face. The elevator arrives. <b> RESTON (CONT'D) </b> All right. I'm not going to print anything until I have another source. But I promise you, I'll get one. Kenny boards the elevator. The doors shut on Scotty. <b> INT. ELEVATOR - CONTINUOUS </b> Kenny closes his eyes, sags against the wall, hating himself. <b> INT. KENNY'S ROOM - CONTINUOUS </b> Kenny enters his hotel room. An Assistant waits with the phone, hands it straight to Kenny. <b> KENNY </b> (to Assistant) Tell Pierre I need to talk to him. (to phone) Bobby? <b> INT. OUTER ROOM - GEORGE BALL'S OFFICE - NIGHT </b> EXCOM files past Bobby out of George Ball's conference room. <b> BOBBY </b> Bring him back. <b> EXT. STREET OUTSIDE SHERATON-BLACKSTONE HOTEL - DAY </b> <b> SUPER: SATURDAY, OCTOBER 20TH. DAY 5 </b> The President emerges from the hotel, a HAT on his head. The Press and a CROWD surge forward, crying out for the President's attention. Kenny slides into the limo first as the President waves to the crowd. Salinger waits on the sidewalk, and after the limo pulls away, the Press pushes in on him. Pierre's face is pale - he's just been told everything. <b> SALINGER </b> The President has a cold. He is cancelling the remainder of this trip and is returning to Washington on the advice of his doctor. <b> INT. WHITE HOUSE MANSION - OVAL ROOM - DAY </b> The White House Oval ROOM: opulent, filled with priceless art and furniture, but cramped. EXCOM members crowd around the center coffee table and the President. Kenny stands behind him with Bobby. Rusk rises from his seat, formal. <b> RUSK </b> Mr. President, our deliberations have led us to the conclusion that, for the moment, a blockade of offensive weapons to Cuba is our best option. But we'll still need a strong showing of support from the Organization of American States to give us an umbrella of legitimacy. At long last... Kenny looks at Bobby, relieved. They've bought time to find a settlement. Bobby smiles a small smile: what were you so worried about? <b> MCNAMARA </b> A blockade is technically an act of war, therefore we recommend calling the action a quarantine. McNamara folder in hand, opens it, SMASH CUTTING US TO: <b> EXT. ATLANTIC OCEAN - DAY </b> A SOVIET FREIGHTER churning its way south. <b> MCNAMARA (V.O.) </b> There are between 20 and 30 Soviet ships underway to Cuba at this time. The CAMERA races along its side, discovering TARPULINED OBJECTS on deck, and on its stack, the RED HAMMER AND SICKLE. <b> MCNAMARA (V.O.) (CONT'D) </b> 800 miles out, the navy will stop them, board, and any vessels containing weapons will be turned back. <b> CUT TO: </b> The Destroyer U.S.S. JOHN R. PIERCE putting out to sea, SAILORS racing over its deck, through hatches to its 5-inch gun turrets. The ship races by, AMERICAN FLAG streaming from its stern distaff, FILLING THE SCREEN, WIPING TO: <b> INT. WHITE HOUSE MANSION - OVAL ROOM - CONTINUOUS </b> The President. He listens, looks over the briefing papers as McNamara continues. Everyone watches the President. <b> MCNAMARA </b> A quarantine prevents more missiles from reaching Cuba, but it doesn't remove the ones already there. It gives the Soviets a chance to pull back without war. If they refuse to remove the missiles before they're operational, we retain the option to strike or invade. <b> BOBBY </b> We believe that a surprise attack would be counter to what the United States stands for. We believe that an attack leaves us no room for maneuver, and the inevitable Soviet response will force us into a war we do not want. A war that, this time, will really end all war. <b> MCCONE </b> Mr. President, there are still those of us who believe we should proceed with the strikes. With the blockade, we lose strategic surprise and we run the risk of a first strike if the Soviets decide they have to use the missiles or lose them. The President gazes from one expectant face to another. But he himself remains unreadable. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Quarantine or air strike. Adlai clears his throat. Everyone looks over at him. He stares down at his clasped hands for a beat. He's anguished about what he's going to say. <b> ADLAI </b> There is a third option. With either course we undertake the risk of nuclear war. It seems to me maybe one of us in here should be a coward. He smiles weakly, but gets no response from anyone. <b> ADLAI (CONT'D) </b> So I guess I'll be. Our third choice is to cut a deal. We trade Guantanamo and our missiles in Turkey, get them to pull their missiles out. We employ a back channel, attribute the idea to U Thant. U Thant then raises it at the U.N. Adlai looks for support around the room, but meets only stony gazes. From McCone and General Taylor, contempt. Dead silence for a long, long beat. Kenny's heart goes out to Stevenson as he watches the man commit political suicide. Even Sorensen, standing behind him, unconsciously moves away. At last the President speaks. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> I don't think that's possible, Adlai. (beat, to the room) I will be asking the networks for air time Monday night. I have not yet made my final decision. We will announce our course of action then. I want to thank you all for your advice, gentlemen. <b> EXT. TRUMAN BALCONY - DAY </b> Kenny, Bobby, and the President lean on the railing of the Truman Balcony, stare out at the city. <b> BOBBY </b> Goddman Stevenson. Jesus. Peace at any price. You'd think nobody learned anything from World War Two. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Somebody had to say it. I respect Adlai for having the guts to risk looking like an appeaser. <b> BOBBY </b> We have to pull him. He's not going to be able to handle the Soviets in front of the U.N. Zorin will eat him alive. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> We've got bigger problems right now. <b> KENNY </b> We have to try the blockades. It probably won't work. It may just be delaying the inevitable. But we can't just go to war without trying not to. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> I don't know. I don't know. He stares out at the Ellipse where a little-league football game sweeps across the grass, the shouts and screams of the CHILDREN, so alive, floating to them on the wind. <b> EXT. PATIO - JIM ROWE'S HOUSE - NIGHT </b> A crowded D.C. party spills out of Jim Rowe's house onto his patio. Kenny steps INTO FRAME. He looks at the PARTYGOERS, the Washington social set. He stands out, oppressed by the knowledge he's unable to share. He takes a stiff drink. Suddenly out of the house totters Adlai, highball in hand. Glassy-eyed, he grins at Kenny and joins him. <b> ADLAI </b> Just can't get away from you guys. Escaping for a night on the town, eh? <b> KENNY </b> As the town's most popular playboy, the President felt my presence would be sorely missed. So in the interests of National Security... Kenny shrugs. Adlai takes a long drink, closes his eyes. <b> ADLAI </b> Gotta keep up appearances. Of course, I don't care anymore. I'm a political dead man. You ever seen a man cut his own throat like I did today? Kenny has no answer to that. He looks down, pained for Adlai. <b> ADLAI (CONT'D) </b> Well, it's all right. (beat) I came to tell you, just talked to a friend. Reston and Frankel have the story. It's going to run tomorrow. <b> INT. BEDROOM - JIM ROWE'S HOUSE - LATER </b> Kenny, shut in the bedroom, paces on the phone. <b> KENNY </b> We're not going to make it to Monday. I'll try to lean on Reston, but you're going to have to call Orville Dryfoos. This is the sort of decision the publisher makes himself. <b> INT. ORVILLE DRYFOOS' KITCHEN - CONTINUOUS </b> New York Times publisher ORVILLE DRYFOOS sits at his kitchen table in his underwear, still half-asleep, phone to his ear. <b> DRYFOOS </b> Yes, sir, I understand. But we held on Bay of Pigs and it was the biggest mistake of my life. What makes this any different? <b> INT. PRESIDENT'S BEDROOM - CONTINUOUS </b> The President, on the phone, stops pacing by his bedside table and exhales. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> I'm asking you to hold the story until I can present our course of action on Monday night. <b> INT. ORVILLE DRYFOOS' KITCHEN - CONTINUOUS </b> <b> DRYFOOS </b> All right. But I need a reason to give my boys. They're going to be screaming for my head on a plate. <b> INT. PRESIDENT'S BEDROOM - CONTINUOUS </b> <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Orville. I want you to tell them this: they'll be saving lives. Maybe even including their own. <b> INT. ORVILLE DRYFOOS' KITCHEN - CONTINUOUS </b> At that, Dryfoos sits up. Serious. All resistance gone. <b> DRYFOOS </b> Yes, Mr. President. <b> INT. ST. STEPHEN'S CHURCH - DAY </b> <b> SUPER: SUNDAY, OCTOBER 21ST. DAY 6 </b> AVE MARIA soars over the communion meditation at a crowded Sunday mass. Kenny, in a pew, glances off to his left. The President sits nearby, head bowed. But Kenny knows he's not thinking about the mass. And when the President at last lifts his head, Kenny sees the calm poise. The President has made up his mind... <b> INT. KENNY'S OFFICE - DAY </b> Bobby barges into Kenny's office. Kenny, knowing his unique entry, doesn't bother to look up. <b> KENNY </b> Acheson called, DeGaulle's with us; haven't heard from anyone else yet. Kenny finally looks up. Bobby's grim. And an icicle forms in Kenny's gut as Bobby relays. <b> BOBBY </b> He wants to talk to LeMay again. <b> INT. OVAL OFFICE - DAY </b> Kenny, Bobby, McNamara, Rusk, Bundy and half of EXCOM stand to the side of the room. General Sweeney and LeMay stand in front of the President's desk. The President, bowed in the window, is care-worn, a thousand years old. The shadow, the composition of the SHOT tells us all. It's down to what's in the heart of one man. Kenny is deeply moved at his friend's Gethsemane. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Cam, can you guarantee me you'll get all the missiles? Sweeney glances at LeMay. LeMay's stern, frozen look wills him to say, very simply, "yes." But then the President turns around, looks Sweeney in the eye. It would make Machiavelli himself tell the truth. <b> GENERAL SWEENEY </b> Sir, I can guarantee we'll get all the missiles we know about. The President holds Sweeney in his gaze. Thank you. <b> LEMAY </b> Mr. President, we can get better than ninety percent of them. The President doesn't respond to LeMay's last-ditch appeal. Ninety-percent isn't good enough with nuclear weapons. He moves to his desk, signs a paper, hands it to General Sweeney. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> As of seven o'clock Monday night, all United States armed forces world wide will stand up to DEFCON 3. <b> EXT. BARKSDALE AFB - SUNSET </b> <b> SUPER: MONDAY, OCTOBER 22ND. DAY 7 </b> A DEAFENING WHINE. And INTO FRAME yawns the enormous spinning mouth of a B-52 bomber jet engine. It closes on us, sucking us in like a maelstrom, but at the last second the <b> CAMERA SLIPSTREAMS OVER IT -- </b> -- carrying us over the aircraft's wing. The CAMERA pivots and the vast war machine crawls away underneath joining -- -- a long LINE of identical behemoths, in single file inching down a taxi way which vanishes into the distance. As the plane's immense vertical tail WIPES OUR VIEW: <b> EXT. MISSILE SILO - NIGHT </b> The CAMERA races toward a spotlighted concrete emplacement, over the immense BLAST DOOR which is sliding open, and DOWN -- <b> INT. MISSILE SILO - CONTINUOUS </b> -- into the depths of a missile silo. The CAMERA speeds down the side of the Titan missile, through CLOUDS of steaming liquid hydrogen, past FUELING HOSES which clamp one by one to the rocket's side, past GANTRY ARMS pulling away. The CAMERA hurtles all the way to the bottom, SMASHING THROUGH THE FLOOR <b> TO: </b> <b> EXT. CARRIBEAN SEA - NIGHT </b> The dark ocean, whitecaps whipping luminous around the aircraft carrier, U.S.S. ESSEX and her escorts. Running lights flash red and green. The carrier's SIREN begins a lonely, eerie WOOP WOOP WOOP WOOP like some immense creature which has lost its mind. The ship FILLS THE SCREEN, CUTTING US INTO: <b> INT. WEST WING - CONTINUOUS </b> The doors to the Cabinet room. A beat. Then they SWING WIDE. The President emerges, livid fury on his face, leaving chaos behind: the Congressional briefing. Kenny comes out a beat later, catches up with him. <b> KENNY </b> You'd worry that something was wrong if Congress offered you unconditional support. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> They want this fucking job, they can have it. It's no great joy to me. The President exhales, getting control. <b> THE PRESIDENT (CONT'D) </b> The elected representatives of the people have spoken... (beat; determined) Now let's tell the people... <b> INT. OVAL OFFICE - NIGHT </b> Kenny stands there in the doorway, arms folded. As we PULL AWAY FROM HIM, we REVEAL the three NETWORK T.V. CAMERAS staring straight at us. Their red lights go on as one, and we swing around REVERSING TO: The President at his desk: telegenic, powerful. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Good evening, my fellow citizens. This Government, as promised, has maintained the closest surveillance of the Soviet military build-up on the island of Cuba... <b> EXT. BARKSDALE AFB - NIGHT </b> The first B-52 trundles to a stop at the end of the runway. It begins to throttle-up, the ROAR of its engine mounting... <b> THE PRESIDENT (V.O.) </b> ...unmistakable evidence has now established the fact that a series of missile sites is in preparation on that imprisoned island. The purpose of these bases can be none other than to proved a nuclear strike capability against the Western Hemisphere... -- AND DROWNING OUT the President's speech as the plane lurches forward, down the runway into the night. <b> EXT. MISSILE SILO - NIGHT </b> The Titan solo door GRINDS OPEN. And the missile inside begins to rise into the white bath of the crossed spotlights. <b> THE PRESIDENT (V.O.) </b> Therefore, in the defense of our own security and under the authority of the Constitution, I have directed that the following initial steps be taken. First, to halt this offensive build-up, a strict quarantine -- <b> EXT. CARRIBEAN SEA - NIGHT </b> The President's words conjure the ESSEX battlegroup, its destroyers plunging through heavy seas, lit up in the night. <b> THE PRESIDENT (V.O.) </b> -- on all offensive military equipment under shipment to Cuba is being initiated. All ships of any kind bound for Cuba, if found to contain cargoes of offensive weapons, will be turned back. Second: I have directed the continued and increased close surveillance of Cuba and its military build-up. Should these offensive military preparations continue, further action will be justified -- <b> EXT. OVER THE FLORIDA STRAITS - NIGHT </b> A flight of F-4 PHANTOMS drops INTO FRAME, lights flashing. <b> THE PRESIDENT (V.O.) </b> -- I have directed the Armed Forces to prepare for any eventualities. <b> INT. OVAL OFFICE - NIGHT </b> A beat. And the President looks up from his notes. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> And third: it shall be the policy of this nation to regard any nuclear missile launched from Cuba against any nation in the Western Hemisphere as an attack by the Soviet Union on the United States, requiring a full retaliatory response upon the Soviet Union... The chilling words hang there in the air. BLEEDING IN: the rising and falling WOOP WOOP WOOP WOOP which becomes -- <b> EXT. CARRIBEAN SEA - NIGHT </b> -- the voice of the Essex battlegroup: sparkling, alive, a constellation of lights scattered across the sea. One by one the escort ships answer the carrier's SIREN with their own wailing cries, an alien chorus among the ships, disappearing and reappearing in the swells. The communication crescendos to its fever pitch -- -- and then the battlegroup goes to blackout. Like a dying universe, the answering sirens cut off, the life-lights wink out, and an appalling darkness falls across the sea... <b> FADE OUT </b> BLACKNESS, LIKE BEFORE A CURTAIN RISES. And then a flickering: a FLUORESCENT LIGHT COMES ON. <b> INT. BATHROOM - WEST WING - DAY </b> <b> SUPER: TUESDAY, OCTOBER 23RD. DAY 8 </b> Kenny, stripped to the waist, Sorensen and Bundy shave in nearby sinks. Bobby barges in. <b> BOBBY </b> We're getting the Soviet response. <b> INT. KENNY'S OFFICE - MOMENTS LATER </b> Specks of shaving cream still on his face, Kenny paces, reads the inky carbon as Bobby, Bundy and Sorensen read copies. <b> KENNY </b> This is all rhetoric. (realizing) They don't know how to respond yet. Kenny looks up. The President enters from the Oval Office. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> So now you're Khurschev. What do you do? <b> INT. CABINET ROOM - DAY </b> Kenny, arms folded, stands behind the President, the rest of EXCOM is looking at him. <b> KENNY </b> -- run the blockade. They'll run the blockade. ADMIRAL GEORGE ANDERSON, 50s, dapper, the Chief of Naval Operations, nods from the far end of the table. <b> ADMIRAL ANDERSON </b> Which is exactly what they appear to be preparing to do, Mr. President. We're tracking 26 ships inbound to Cuba. There's no sign they're changing course. The closest ships, the Gagarin and the Kimovsk, will make the quarantine line by this time tomorrow. <b> MCNAMARA </b> We're concerned about the possibility of an incident with an innocent cargo carrier. If it turns ugly, the Russians could use an ugly incident and bad world opinion as leverage to force us to remove the quarantine. <b> MCCONE </b> Or they could use it as an excuse to escalate. <b> BOBBY </b> Admiral Anderson, if the ships do not stop, what exactly are our rules of engagement? Anderson signals A BRIEFING OFFICER who hits the lights and an overhead projector which SMASH CUTS TO: <b> INT. BRIDGE - U.S.S. JOHN R. PIERCE - DAY </b> The bridge of the U.S.S. John Pierce, a Gearing class destroyer. A RADIO OPERATOR addresses a mike in Russian. <b> ADMIRAL ANDERSON (V.O.) </b> Russian-speakers have been transferred to all of our ships. Once the quarantine takes effect in the morning, our ships will attempt to make radio contact with the approaching vessels. They will be ordered to reduce speed and prepare for inspection. <b> INT. WEAPONS' LOCKER - U.S.S. PIERCE - DAY </b> MARINES in flak jackets grab M-16s off a rack, race by. <b> EXT. U.S.S. PIERCE - AFT DECK - DAY </b> A ship's boat full of Marines lowers away, hits the water, engine spraying as it launches forward - in dress rehearsal. <b> ADMIRAL ANDERSON (V.O.) </b> An inspection party will then board and search the ship. If weapons are found, the ship will be ordered to leave the quarantine area or be towed into port upon refusal. <b> INT. CABINET ROOM - DAY </b> All eyes are on Admiral Anderson's overhead projections. Bobby, restless, gets up, begins pacing. <b> BOBBY </b> What happens if the ship doesn't stop for inspection or want to be towed? <b> ADMIRAL ANDERSON </b> A warning shot will be fired across its bow. Bobby stops, stares directly at the Admiral. <b> BOBBY </b> And what happens if the ship ignores the warning shot? <b> ADMIRAL ANDERSON </b> Then we fire at its rudder, disable it, and carry out the inspection. Kenny looks at the President who remains unmoved, unreadable. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> There will be no shooting without my explicit orders. Is that understood? <b> ADMIRAL ANDERSON </b> Yes, sir. The President glances at McNamara. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Well, Admiral, it looks like it's up to the Navy. <b> ADMIRAL ANDERSON </b> The Navy won't let you down, sir. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> General, have we developed any more information on the missiles? <b> GENERAL TAYLOR </b> They are continuing to proceed with the development. We're commencing low-level photography runs this morning. <b> MCCONE </b> The pictures will be used to firm up our estimates of the missiles' readiness and develop target packages for strikes should you order them. <b> GENERAL TAYLOR </b> Our guy running this show is the best. Commander Bill Ecker of the Navy's VFP 62, the Fightin' Photo. Something of a character, but the highest efficiency ratings we've ever had. He pushes Ecker's personnel file across the table, and as the President opens it, on ECKER'S PHOTO, we SMASH CUT TO: <b> INT. READY ROOM - KEY WEST NAVAL AIR STATION - DAY </b> The man himself, COMMANDER BILL ECKER, 30s, playing cards, smoking cigars with his wingman, LIEUTENANT BRUCE WILHEMY and the PILOTS of VFP-62, the 'Fightin' Photo.' They lounge, tinker with equipment. Their ready room is filled with pin ups, movie posters, and all things photographic. <b> ECKER </b> 75 millimeter, I'm listening. On the big screen there's nothing like it. The other pilots heckle him, but are muted by Taylor. <b> GENERAL TAYLOR (V.O.) </b> To protect our pilots, we're prepared to retaliate against any SAM site or anti aircraft battery that opens fire. <b> WILHEMY </b> Watch out, Hollywood. There's a new epic director in town! <b> INT. CABINET ROOM - DAY </b> EXCOM listens in sober silence. <b> GENERAL TAYLOR </b> We have a flight of Thunderchiefs able to respond within minutes of an attack on our planes. Kenny catches the President's eye. Kenny glances at the door. Step outside, I need to talk to you. <b> INT. OVAL OFFICE - CONTINUOUS </b> The President and Kenny stand in front of the President's desk. All the doors are shut. Weak sunlight filters into the hushed room as if to a confessional. <b> KENNY </b> I don't like what's happening. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> In the morning I'm taking charge of the blockade from the situation room. McNamara'll set up shop in the flag plot at the Pentagon, keep an eye on things there. <b> KENNY </b> All right. 'Cause you get armed boarders climbing into Soviet ships, shots being fired across bows... <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> I know, I know... <b> KENNY </b> What about these low-level flights? They're starting in what? An hour? Do you realize what you're letting yourself in for? <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> We need those flights. We have to know when those missiles become operational, because when they do, we need to destroy them. <b> KENNY </b> Fair enough. But Castro's on alert and we're flying attack planes over their sites, on the deck. There's no way for them to know they're carrying cameras, not bombs. They're going to be shot at, plain and simple. Kenny's right, and the President looks away in frustration. <b> KENNY (CONT'D) </b> I'm your political advisor, and I'm giving you political analysis here. This is a setup. The Chiefs want to go in. It's the only way they can redeem themselves for the Bay of Pigs. They have to go in, and they have to do it right. It's that simple. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> I'm gonna protect those pilots. Thep President stares intently at Kenny. Kenny glances at the door, his voice hushed. He hesitates. <b> KENNY </b> They're boxing us in with these rules of engagement. If you agree to 'em, and one of our planes gets knocked down or one of the ships won't stop for inspection, the Chiefs will have us by the balls and will force us to start shooting. They want a war, and they're arranging things to get one. If you don't want one, we have to do something about it. The President understands. He shakes his head, paces away. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> How does a man get to a place where he can say, 'throw those lives away,' so easily? <b> KENNY </b> Maybe it's harder for them to say it than they let on. At the very least, they believe it's in our best interest. And at the end of the day, they may end up being right. The President turns away, considers. Then turns back. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Triple check everything the Chiefs say to us with the guys who actually have to do it. No one's to know about this but Bobby. I need redundant control over what happens out there. And if things aren't as advertised, you're going to make sure they come out the way I want them to come out, starting with this low level flight thing. Jesus Christ...Kenny is daunted. For a beat he just stares. <b> KENNY </b> That's going to be tough. You know how these guys are about their chains of command... <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Any problems, you remind them those chains of commands end at one place. Me. <b> INT. WEST WING HALLS - DAY </b> Kenny and the President head for the Cabinet Room. Rusk comes out before they get there. <b> RUSK </b> Mr. President. The OAS meeting starts in an hour. I haven't prepared at all. We can't expect -- <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> -- we need this one, Dean. The quarantine's legal if we get a mandate, otherwise it's an act of war in the eyes of the world. Get me that vote. Make it unanimous. <b> RUSK </b> Mr. President, The Organization of American States hasn't had a unanimous vote since -- The President moves for the Cabinet Room. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> -- unanimous, Dean. Kenny slaps the dismayed Rusk on the back, heads off down a hall away from the Cabinet Room. <b> INT. WHITE HOUSE SWITCHBOARD - DAY </b> Kenny opens the door to the White House switchboard room. A half-dozen OPERATORS work their lines, making connections on the old-fashioned switchboard. Unnoticed, he sizes them up, their skill. They're all courteous, pretty, professional. The CAMERA PANS down the line... and stops on a middle-aged matron at the end - the sternest, most scary of them all. Her name is MARGARET. <b> MARGARET </b> White House Operator. Yes sir. (beat, harsh, booming) Speaker McCormack, hold for the Vice President. Her voice is so severe, so smoker-gravelled, it makes the blood run cold. This is the woman Kenny's looking for. <b> KENNY </b> Ma'am, would you mind helping me out with a few special calls? <b> INT. READY ROOM - KEY WEST NAS - DAY </b> Ecker, Wilhemy and their Pilots are in angry debate. <b> ECKER </b> Orson Welles is a hack. Now you want to talk about a director, you talk about David Lean... <b> WILHEMY </b> Welles is a G-d. Lean's the hack. <b> ECKER </b> Bullshit, Bruce, nobody but Lean is making decent movies these days. (to Young Pilot) Get that fixed yet? Nearby, a YOUNG PILOT tinkers with a $300,000 spy camera. <b> YOUNG PILOT </b> Uhhh... yup. Think so. Suddenly, the door opens and a pale DUTY SERGEANT enters. <b> DUTY SERGEANT </b> Sir...telephone, sir. <b> INT. DUTY OFFICE - DAY </b> Ecker enters, marches over to the phone. All the SOLDIERS in the room stare at him. Ecker wiggles his cigar to a corner of his mouth, picks up, styling. <b> ECKER </b> VFP-62, Fightin' Photo, here. But what we really want to do is direct. <b> INTERCUT CALL TO: </b> <b> INT. WHITE HOUSE SWITCHBOARD - CONTINUOUS </b> Margaret works her magic. <b> MARGARET </b> This is the White House Operator. Hold for the President. <b> INT. DUTY OFFICE - CONTINUOUS </b> Ecker blinks, becomes a mild lamb. <b> ECKER </b> Oh shit. <b> INT. WHITE HOUSE SWITCHBOARD - CONTINUOUS </b> <b> MARGARET </b> Honey, you don't know what shit is. <b> BEGIN INTERCUT </b> <b> INT. KENNY'S OFFICE - CONTINUOUS </b> Kenny, sitting on his desk, taps his fingers, looks at the phone. He's kept Ecker on hold long enough - and picks up. <b> KENNY </b> Commander, my name is Ken O'Donnell. Special Assistant to the President. <b> INTERCUT CALL TO: </b> <b> INT. DUTY OFFICE - CONTINUOUS </b> Ecker exhales. It's not the President, but Ecker is so shaken up it might as well be. <b> ECKER </b> Yes, sir. <b> KENNY (O.S.) </b> The President has instructed me to pass along an order to you. (beat) You are not to get shot down. Did he hear right? <b> ECKER </b> Uh... we'll do our best, sir. <b> INT. KENNY'S OFFICE - CONTINUOUS </b> <b> KENNY </b> I don't think you understand me correctly. You are not to get shot down under any circumstances. Whatever happens up there, you were not shot at. Mechanical failures are fine; crashing into mountains, fine. But you and your men are not to be shot at, fired at, launched upon. <b> INT. DUTY OFFICE - CONTINUOUS </b> Ecker sits down in a chair, sobered. <b> ECKER </b> Excuse me, sir, what's going on here? <b> INT. KENNY'S OFFICE - CONTINUOUS </b> Kenny stands, drops the hard nose bullshit. <b> KENNY </b> Commander, if you are fired upon, the President will be forced to attack the sites that fire on you. He doesn't want to have to do that. It's very important that he doesn't, or things could go very badly out of control. <b> INT. DUTY OFFICE - CONTINUOUS </b> Ecker lets out a long breath. <b> ECKER </b> I think I understand. What about my men? If it comes up hot and heavy, and we don't have anyone to protect us... I'm going to be writing letters to parents. I hate writing letters to parents. <b> INT. KENNY'S OFFICE - CONTINUOUS </b> Kenny nods to himself, feeling. He's done it himself. <b> KENNY </b> If the President protects you, Commander, he may have to do it with the Bomb. <b> INT. DUTY OFFICE - CONTINUOUS </b> Ecker doesn't want to be avenged with atomic weapons. No sane person would. <b> KENNY (V.O.) </b> I've known the man for fifteen years. The problem is, he will protect you. So I'm asking: don't make him protect you. Don't get shot at. Ecker down, deeply affected. Suddenly, A BELL RINGS. A TELETYPE goes off. Ecker knows it's for him. His orders. <b> ECKER </b> Okay, Mr. O'Donnell. We'll do what we can. <b> END INTERCUT. </b> As Ecker hangs up, the Duty Officer rips off the ORDERS, hands them to Ecker, who takes one look, then gazes out the window at the runway -- <b> EXT. RUNWAY - KEY WEST NAVAL AIR STATION - DAY </b> A CART speeds down the flight line past the waiting F8U-1P Corsairs. One by one, the four pilots accompanying Ecker and Wilhemy jump off to mount their planes. The cart still moving. <b> ECKER </b> Get that fuel assayed? <b> WILHEMY </b> Yeah. It sucks. Ain't for high performance babies like ours. Shoulda brought some from home, but what can you do? Last-second deployments... Wilhemy jumps off, then they're at Ecker's plane, and he jumps off. Too late to worry about bad fuel now. He hoists himself up and into the cockpit of the sleek navy jet. <b> INT. ECKER'S CRUSADER - DAY </b> As the canopy closes, Ecker powers up the engines, talks to his flight over the Guard channel. <b> ECKER </b> Okay, time to play Spin the Bottle with our bearded buddy. Nobody gets out ahead. Remember, just sitting here we're only ten minutes from target. <b> EXT. RUNWAY - DAY </b> The Crusaders swing around in pairs at one end of the runway, and then the first two throttle-up, flaps down, and drop their brakes. The machines LUNGE forward like duelling drag racers. The FILL THE SCREEN, blow past. <b> EXT. AERIAL - OVER KEY WEST - DAY </b> The six Crusaders, in pairs, streak over the buildings and streets of Key West. And in a heartbeat, cross the beach and are out to sea. And already on the horizon, the low clouds and dark line of land. Cuba. Ninety miles away. <b> INT. ECKER'S CRUSADER - DAY </b> The ocean shrieks past so close you can see the white foam. Ecker checks the altimeter: 150 FEET. A small fishing boat looms ahead, its net booms reaching up like tree limbs. The Crusader rockets over it. Ecker checks his instruments. OUT THE WINDOW, the other Crusaders thunder over the water, past sailboats, cabin cruisers, the small-craft traffic outside Key West. The speed sucks the breath away. <b> ECKER </b> Go to military throttle on my mark. Three...two...one... mark. His airspeed indicator spins up to 400 knots. And then his radio suddenly crackles: <b> PILOT #1 (O.S.) </b> Flameout flameout! <b> PILOT #2 (O.S.) </b> Shit! Me too! <b> ECKER </b> Get some altitude! Two of the Crusaders pull up, away from the water. <b> PILOT #1 (O.S.) </b> Oh, God damn. Got it restarted. <b> PILOT #2 (O.S.) </b> Yeah. Yeah. Me too. Goddamn fuel. <b> PILOT #1 (O.S.) </b> Sir, I don't think she's gonna hold up for the run. <b> ECKER </b> Affirmative. You two get out of here. <b> EXT. AERIAL - CRUSADERS - DAY </b> The two planes with bad fuel pull wingovers to their left, head for the airfield in the distance. The four remaining planes streak over the ocean. There are no more small craft this far out in the strait. <b> INT. ECKER'S CRUSADER - DAY </b> Cuba, green and hazy, looms in the window. Ecker throws a series of switches. <b> ECKER </b> Start your camera checks. A mechanical WHINE accompanies the switch-throwing. Ecker pulls the trigger on his joystick and a THUMP THUMP THUMP hammers away. There are green lights across his boards. One of the other pilots cuts in on the radio: <b> PILOT #3 (O.S.) </b> Failure. All cameras. Sonofabitch. Film must not have fed. <b> PILOT #4 (O.S.) </b> Jesus! Shit! Oh shit! I just shot it all, boss. Activator jammed open, its exposing everything now. <b> WILHEMY (O.S.) </b> That's alright, Lenny, it happens to most men at some time -- Ecker grimaces, but his voice stays cool. <b> ECKER </b> -- Scrub, you two. Get out of here. Still with me, Bruce? <b> WILHEMY (O.S.) </b> That's affirm. The two Crusaders who've failed their camera checks break off. And now Cuba's hills, the Havana sky line are right in front of them. <b> EXT. CUBAN BEACH - CONTINUOUS </b> The last two Crusaders streak over the surf, a white wake of spray in their jetwash, and cross the beach with a boom. <b> EXT. AERIAL - CRUSADERS - CONTINUOUS </b> The planes dip and rise with the green tropical contours, taking us on a sickening roller-coaster ride over Cuban countryside at treetop level. Palm forest, roads, can fields, more palm forest race by. And then, ahead, a large clearing. <b> ECKER (O.S.) </b> Warm 'em up. We're here. <b> EXT. ANTI-AIRCRAFT BATTERY - CONTINUOUS </b> Cuban ANTI-AIRCRAFT GUNNERS shout as they traverse their 40mm guns in their sandbagged emplacement. The low rippling thunder of the incoming jets becomes an earsplitting ROAR... and the Crusaders blast out over the clearing. The anti aircraft guns open up. <b> INT. WILHEMY'S CRUSADER - CONTINUOUS </b> Wilhemy jinks left to avoid a streaking of TRACER FIRE. <b> WILHEMY </b> Holy shit! <b> INT. ECKER'S CRUSADER - CONTINUOUS </b> Tracers and flack pepper the air in front of Ecker's Crusader. METAL PINGS, TINKS, RATTLES off the fuselage. Anti-aircraft and small arms fire comes up from all over, hitting the planes multiple times. He surveys the shapes in the target zone dead ahead. <b> ECKER </b> Lights. And sees the long, canvas-covered objects on the ground. The missiles. They draw closer. <b> ECKER (CONT'D) </b> Camera. A steel fragment CRACKS his window, obscuring our view. <b> ECKER (CONT'D) </b> Action. And he thumbs the CAMERA SWITCH. All twelve B-system cameras begin banging away like cannons. <b> EXT. AERIAL - CRUSADERS - DAY </b> TRACERS lace the air between the two planes as they blast over the missile site. Over trailers. Over tents. Over trucks. Over trenches. Over bulldozers. And then they're out over forest again. It's all over in seconds. The triple-A stops. In unison, the two planes bank right, heading for the distant blue, blue sea. <b> INT. KENNY'S OFFICE - DAY </b> Kenny paces by the phone. It rings. He picks up, listens, reacts. Relief. And we know the planes have made it back. <b> EXT. RUNWAY - CECIL FIELD, FLA. - DAY </b> Ecker jumps down from the cockpit ladder and turns an eye to his battered, pock-marked plane. Wilhemy and the GROUND CREW CHIEF come running up, the Chief letting out a whistle. <b> GROUND CREW CHIEF </b> Lookit what daddy done brung home. <b> WILHEMY </b> You shoulda seen it, Chief, they -- <b> ECKER </b> -- damn sparrows. Must've been migrating. Guess I hit a couple hundred. (to Wilhemy, stern) How many did you hit, Bruce? Wilhemy stands there, looking at Ecker, not sure what to make of him. The Crew Chief just starts laughing as more impressed GROUND CREW come up. <b> WILHEMY </b> A few. I guess. <b> GROUND CREW CHIEF </b> Was them 20 or 40 million sparrows? Ecker, sweat-plastered and foul, steps into the Chief's face. <b> ECKER </b> Those are bird strikes. Sparrows to be precise. Got a problem with that? The Chief stands there, glances at the plane one more time, and shakes his head, 'No.' Ecker takes the Chief's maintenance clipboard from him, writes in big bold marker: BIRD STRIKES. He thrusts it back into the Chief's hands and walks off; the astonished Wilhemy remains behind. <b> INT. KENNY'S OFFICE - DAY </b> In Kenny's credenza, a small black and white T.V. plays. WALTER CRONKITE narrates on the television as a train laden with TANKS on flatbeds pulls out of a station. <b> WALTER CRONKITE (V.O.) </b> Massive military preparations are underway throughout the southeast in what Pentagon officials are confirming is the largest mobilization since Korea. The railways have been nationalized to assist in the deployment, here transporting elements of the U.S. 1st Armored Division from Ft. Hood, Texas. A PHONE RINGS. Kenny turns from the T.V., turns down Walter Cronkite, as he answers. <b> KENNY </b> Yeah? <b> INT. OAS MEETING ROOM - CONTINUOUS </b> George Ball stands at the back of a crowded room filled with applauding OAS DELEGATES. It's for Rusk, at a podium up front. <b> BALL </b> Kenny. The vote just came down. <b> INT. OVAL OFFICE - DAY </b> Kenny opens his door, lets Rusk in. The President, Bobby and half of EXCOM look up. Rusk stands there somber. <b> RUSK </b> Unanimous. One abstenation. And then he breaks into a huge grin. Everyone cheers him. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> About time something went our way. An Assistant enters behind Kenny. Kenny senses him, turns as the others move to shake hands with Rusk. <b> ASSISTANT </b> Telephone, Mr. O'Donnell. <b> INT. KENNY'S OFFICE - DAY </b> Kenny, grinning, ducks back into his office, closes the door after the Assistant leaves. He picks up the phone. <b> KENNY </b> Hello? <b> INTERCUT CALL TO: </b> <b> INT. READY ROOM - CECIL FIELD - DAY </b> Ecker stands at a phone, stares out a window at a replacement plane being fueled. A Crusader, not his shot-up one. <b> ECKER </b> Mr. O'Donnell, I've been ordered to deliver the film to the Pentagon personally. What's going on? <b> INT. KENNY'S OFFICE - CONTINUOUS </b> Kenny thinks fast. Oh shit. <b> KENNY </b> The Chiefs must want to talk to you. (beat) Listen to me, Commander, they'll want to know if you were fired on. Were you? <b> ECKER (O.S.) </b> You could say that, sir. <b> KENNY </b> Commander. Do not, under any circumstances, tell the Chiefs. <b> END INTERCUT </b> <b> INT. PENTAGON - DAY </b> SUPER: E-RING. Then SUPER: THE PENTAGON Ecker, still in his sweat-drenched flight suit approaches a security checkpoint. GUARDS secure his sidearm and user him through a doorway. A sign over it reads JCS. <b> INT. THE TANK - DAY </b> The door swings open into the Joint Chiefs' SOUND-PROOFED briefing room known as THE TANK. LeMay, Taylor and Anderson sit there around the table. Ecker salutes. <b> ECKER </b> Commander William B. Ecker reporting as ordered! LeMay rises, prowls over to Ecker. <b> LEMAY </b> Son , I want to know just one thing. Those bastards shoot so much as a BB gun at you? A long beat. Sweat runs off Ecker's head. He can smell LeMay's breath. <b> ECKER </b> Sir, it was a milk run, sir. <b> INT. WEST WING HALL - NIGHT </b> Kenny joins the President and General Taylor in the hallway as they head for the Oval Office. <b> GENERAL TAYLOR </b> It appears our low-level flights are getting back okay. Some unconfirmed reports of small-arms fire from some of the missions, but that's it. Slightly behind them, Kenny looks sidelong at Taylor. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Guess we can't blame Khruschev for a few patriotic farmers. And the ships? <b> GENERAL TAYLOR </b> Still heading for Cuba. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> All right. Then I guess it's time. <b> INT. OVAL OFFICE - NIGHT </b> FLASHBULBS go off all around the room as the President walks in, goes over to his desk. Reporters observe silently, T.V. cameras track him; Kenny, Bobby and Sorensen watch as the President sits, takes a pen form his pocket. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> In accordance with this afternoon's vote at the OAS, the quarantine shall hereby be effective as of ten o'clock tomorrow morning. Kenny observes in silence as the President SIGNS the Proclamation of Interdiction. <b> INT. OVAL OFFICE - LATER </b> The Oval Office has emptied out. Only Kenny, Bobby, Sorensen and the President remain. The President looks out the window, Sorensen sits in a chair in front of the desk. Bobby and Kenny sit on the edge of the desk. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Last summer I read a book. The Guns of August. I wish every man on that blockade line had read that book. The President moves over to the GLOBE by his desk, spins it, stopping in on Europe. <b> THE PRESIDENT (CONT'D) </b> World War One. Thirteen million killed all because the militaries of both alliances were so highly attuned to each other's movements and dispositions, afraid of letting the other guy have a theoretical advantage. And your man in the field, his family at home, couldn't even tell you the reasons why their lives were being sacrificed. (beat) Why couldn't they stop it? Can we? The President's fingers turn the globe. It stops on North America. Kenny and Bobby listen. <b> THE PRESIDENT (CONT'D) </b> And here we are, fifty years later. One of their ships resists the inspection. We shoot out its rudder and board. They shoot down our planes in response. We bomb their anti-aircraft sites in response to that. They attack Berlin. We invade Cuba. They fire their missiles. We fire ours. The President sets the globe gently spinning and walks away. <b> INT. KENNY'S OFFICE - NIGHT </b> Kenny rubs his eyes, listens to his phone and the WOMAN'S VOICE at the other end. It's his wife. <b> HELEN (O.S.) </b> When are you going to be home? <b> KENNY </b> I don't know, Helen. I want you to keep the kids close tomorrow. Leave the T.V. on, sleep with it on in the bedroom until I tell you you can turn it off. <b> HELEN (O.S.) </b> What's happened? <b> KENNY </b> Nothing. Nothing you don't know about. Tomorrow's the big day. Just have the car ready to go if I call or if the Civil Defense Warning comes on. <b> HELEN (O.S.) </b> What happens to you? I'm not leaving without you. <b> KENNY </b> I'll be evacuated with the President. A long silence on the other end of the line. <b> HELEN (O.S.) </b> Great. So while you're under a rock somewhere with the President, what am I supposed to do with your five children? And to that, there is no answer. A beat, and it's all Kenny can promise: <b> KENNY </b> I'll find you. But we're not going to let it come to that. I promise. <b> INT. WHITE HOUSE CAFETERIA - NIGHT </b> Kenny hands Bobby and Bundy cups of coffee. The three men nurse them in the silence of the abandoned cafeteria. <b> KENNY </b> Helen just asked me what sort of arrangements we have for the families. <b> BUNDY </b> I just checked myself. (beat) They're being issued identity cards. Call comes, and evacuation officers meet them at pre-arranged departure areas. They go by helicopter to Mount Weather. We meet them there. Bobby looks at his coffee, then up at Kenny. He gently shakes his head. It's all a sham. <b> BOBBY </b> Course that's for morale. The missiles only take five minutes to get here. <b> INT. KENNY'S OFFICE - NIGHT </b> <b> SUPER: WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 24TH. DAY 9. </b> Kenny bolts upright from his couch. He rubs his face, sits on the edge in the dark for a beat. He's not going back to sleep. He grabs his trousers. <b> INT. WEST WING HALLS - CONTINUOUS </b> Kenny makes his way through the dim, deserted halls. Somewhere in the distance a phone rings. He reaches a door. <b> EXT. WHITE HOUSE - NIGHT </b> Kenny, bundled in an overcoat, steps outside the North Entrance. The cool air invigorates him. He eyes the fence, Pennsylvania Avenue beyond it, seeming to isolate this world from the living city beyond. He starts for the main gate. <b> EXT. MAIN GATE - CONTINUOUS </b> A WHITE HOUSE POLICE OFFICER jumps up as Kenny approaches. <b> POLICE OFFICER </b> Would you like me to call a car, Mr. O'Donnell. Kenny checks his watch. <b> KENNY </b> How long will it take to get someone up? <b> POLICE OFFICER </b> Fifteen minutes, maybe. To your house, sir? Kenny considers, shakes his head. He wants to go home, but... <b> KENNY </b> No. No, I'll let her sleep. Let 'em sleep. Kenny says it with a certain finality. The Police Officer nods, and Kenny wanders out through the gates, shouldering the weight of the world. <b> EXT. CITY STREETS - NIGHT </b> Kenny makes his way down a sidewalk not far from the White House. A 24-hour drug store's doors are open. He pauses. Inside, a knot of PEOPLE - late-night deliverymen, a cop, the store employees - talk in undertones at the counter. Behind it, a T.V. is signing off with the national anthem. Sober voices, sober looks. Kenny moves on. <b> EXT. NEWS STAND - NIGHT </b> A cluster of COLLEGE STUDENTS talk at a news stand. They're waiting for the NEWSIE to cut the bands of the next day's Washington Post, the bundles just being thrown to the sidewalk from the delivery truck. Kenny approaches. In their thing beards, counter-culture clothes, the kids seem so young, Kenny so old. Kenny buys a newspaper, its dire headlines, every story about the crisis. <b> EXT. CATHOLIC CHURCH - NIGHT </b> Kenny, newspaper under his arm, continues down the street. Up ahead, the lights are on in a Catholic Church. Lines of CHURCHGOERS are at the door. Kenny stops, surprised at the sight this late. And then he sees the hand-painted banner: <b> CONFESSIONS 24 HOURS. PRAY FOR PEACE. </b> Kenny is moved. He glances over his shoulder, and then... joins the line himself. <b> INT. WHITE HOUSE - SITUATION ROOM - DAY </b> Kenny's WATCH reads one minute til ten o'clock. PULL BACK TO <b> REVEAL: </b> Kenny, standing just inside the open doors to the White House Situation Room, a state-of-the-art conference room. A long, central table surrounded by leather chairs with phones and screens built in. T.V. monitors hang from the ceilings in the corners. There are no windows, just oppressive bunker like walls. It's far underground. Across the room the President paces, phone in hand. Half of EXCOM is in their seats. The other half, along with a steady stream of DUTY OFFICERS, are coming and going. Kenny steps aside for a Duty Officer, listens to the President. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Okay, Bob, I'm putting you on intercom. Suddenly, McNamara's VOICE fills the room. <b> MCNAMARA (O.S.) </b> Hey, guys, can you hear me? <b> SMASH CUT TO: </b> <b> INT. FLAG PLOT - THE PENTAGON - DAY </b> McNamara stands, phone in hand. <b> MCNAMARA </b> I have one minute til ten here -- <b> THE CAMERA TRACKS AROUND HIM, REVEALING: </b> A large, elaborate war room, like Mission Control. Big screens, plexiglass tracking boards, tiered banks of communications equipment. A massive LIGHT TABLE on the floor at the center of the room projects a map of the Caribbean and Atlantic. Arcing across it is a RED LINE: the blockade. The map is covered with cryptic military notations; WATCH OFFICERS on a platform which swings out over it update the latest ship positions. McNamara's in a booth overlooking the room. It's open to the next tier below where Admiral Anderson is giving orders. <b> MCNAMARA (CONT'D) </b> -- and no sign of them stopping. <b> INT. SITUATION ROOM - DAY </b> Kenny and Bobby move to the President's end of the table, sit down across from each other in mirror-image fashion. EXCOM looks to the President. The second hand of the clock on the wall wheels past 12. A hush falls over the room. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Bob, the quarantine is now in effect. <b> INT. FLAG PLOT - DAY </b> McNamara is mute for a beat. He turns to view the big room. <b> MCNAMARA </b> Then it looks like our first customers are the Gagarin and Kimovsk. He nods to Admiral Anderson, who calls an order down to a Watch Officer on the floor, and on screens all around the room, a sector of the map MAGNIFIES the unfolding encounter -- <b> EXT. BRIDGE WING - U.S.S. PIERCE - DAY </b> -- between the destroyer, U.S.S. Pierce and the SOVIET FREIGHTERS Gagarin and Kimovsk. The Pierce's bridge wings are crammed with helmeted OFFICERS and LOOKOUTS. They peer through binoculars at the distant ships, plowing ahead, straight for them. The CAPTAIN lowers his binoculars, determined. <b> CAPTAIN </b> Helm, shape heading for intercept, zero one zero. All ahead full -- <b> OFFICER (O.S.) </b> -- new contact! New contact! Everyone whirls to the bridge. The Captain steps forward. <b> INT. COMBAT INFORMATION CENTER - U.S.S. PIERCE - DAY </b> The Captain ducks into the CIC. The CHIEF SONARAN reports. <b> CHIEF SONARMAN </b> Submerged contact, designation Sierra one at 6000 yards bearing 030. <b> CAPTAIN </b> A submarine... <b> INT. SITUATION ROOM - DAY </b> The President reacts. Kenny and Bobby react. <b> GENERAL TAYLOR </b> It's protecting the freighters. Consternation. The President picks up the phone. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Bob, is there any way we can avoid stopping a submarine first? <b> MCNAMARA (O.S.) </b> I'm afraid not, Mr. President. The sub has positioned itself between the Pierce and the Soviet ships. Admiral Anderson insists it's too much of a risk to proceed with stopping the freighters. The Pierce would be a sitting duck for the sub. All around the room frustration. Bobby shakes his head. Kenny sinks back in his chair. The President hesitates. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Put me through to the Pierce. <b> INT. FLAG PLOT - DAY </b> Admiral Anderson nods to a COMMUNICATIONS OFFICER. The man makes the connection on a switchboard. McNamara casts an eye to the map. The two red MARKERS labeled Gagarin and Kimovsk are joined by a third: the SUB. They are ALMOST TOUCHING the blockade line. On the other side, the single blue marker for the Pierce. <b> INT. BRIDGE - U.S.S. PIERCE - DAY </b> The Captain enters the bridge, takes the phone from the arm of his chair. <b> CAPTAIN </b> Mr. President? <b> INT. SITUATION ROOM - CONTINUOUS </b> The President holds the phone, agonized. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Captain, can you force that submarine to the surface for inspection without damaging it yourself? <b> INT. BRIDGE, U.S.S. PIERCE - DAY </b> <b> CAPTAIN </b> I can bring it up, Mr. President. But whether it's damaged or not is up to the sub. <b> INT. SITUATION ROOM - CONTINUOUS </b> The President lowers the phone, looks to Bobby and Kenny. <b> MCCONE </b> Even if they force it up, that sub will be inspected over the crews' dead bodies. They'd be executed for allowing it when they got home. All eyes are on the President. His eyes are closed tight, face gray, hand over his mouth. The time of decision is at hand. He lifts the phone once again. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Captain, force the sub to the surface for inspection. <b> MCNAMARA (O.S.) </b> Mr. President! We're receiving reports that the ships are stopping! <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> (to phone) Captain, belay that order! (to McNamara) Bob, where's that coming from! <b> MCNAMARA (O.S.) </b> Just a second, Mr. President. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Will somebody find out what's going on?! McCone jumps up, leaves the room. The President looks at Kenny, tense. Everyone holds their breath. <b> RUSK </b> Are they stopping? The HISS of static on the open line fills the room. Silence. <b> EXT. BRIDGE - U.S.S. JOHN R. PIERCE - CONTINUOUS </b> Lookouts peer across the water at the oncoming Soviet Freighter. <b> BINOCULAR POV: </b> Of the Soviet Bridge, where their LOOKOUTS are staring right back through their binoculars. <b> INT. SITUATION ROOM - DAY </b> The HISS of static. And then. <b> MCNAMARA (O.S.) </b> Mr. President? <b> INT. FLAG PLOT - THE PENTAGON - CONTINUOUS </b> McNamara is grinning wildly at the chaos unfolding in the flag plot below. Phones are ringing everywhere. <b> ON THE LIGHT TABLE </b> The Watch Officers' hands fly from one notation to the other, circling the Soviet ships, marking them DEAD IN THE WATER. <b> MCNAMARA </b> -- we've got reports coming from all over! The ships are stopping! Some... are turning around! <b> INT. SITUATION ROOM - CONTINUOUS </b> The room EXPLODES, victorious. Kenny and Bobby break into big grins, grab each other. Kenny pumps the President's hand. Rusk and Bundy slap each other on the back. <b> RUSK </b> We were eyeball to eyeball and I think the other fellow just blinked. The ruckus goes on for a minute. McCone comes back in. <b> MCCONE </b> Mr. President. His voice is lost in the celebration. McCone calls out: <b> MCCONE (CONT'D) </b> Mr. President! The hubub dies away. <b> MCCONE (CONT'D) </b> Sir, we have the tally from NSA. We have twenty ships stopping and or turning around. Six, however, appear to be continuing for the line. Including the Gagarin and Kimovsk. The elation goes out of the room. Kenny looks at the President. The President picks up the phone again. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Captain, have the ships you're observing changed course? <b> CAPTAIN (O.S.) </b> No, Mr. President. They've just crossed the quarantine line. Bobby grips the edge of the table, immediately believing. <b> BOBBY </b> It's an accident. They must not have gotten their orders yet. Let 'em go. <b> GENERAL TAYLOR </b> Unlikely, Mr. President. We've been monitoring transmissions from both the Gagarin and Kimovsk. Their radios are working fine. <b> MCCONE </b> One ship, an accident maybe. Six: this is intentional. The President looks to Bobby. He has no answer. Kenny's mind races over the variables, and he leans forward, intense, suddenly understanding in a flash of insight: <b> KENNY </b> They're right. This is intentional. He glances around the room. All of EXCOM is looking at him. Bobby stares at Kenny, too shocked to feel betrayed. <b> KENNY (CONT'D) </b> Khruschev's stopped the 20 ships which are carrying contraband, and he's letting the ones which aren't go through, hoping for an incident. I think we should let them go. Bobby relaxes. Around the table there are nods. <b> MCCONE </b> If we do, it erodes the credibility of the quarantine. He'll just send more through tomorrow. The President looks at Kenny. <b> KENNY </b> Then we deal with it tomorrow. But today he's stopped most of them. He's done something smart here. We gave him an ultimatum, and he's agreed to most of it, preserving just enough room to save face. We need to do something just as smart now. Bobby's nodding, following the argument. Kenny looks around the room for support. <b> INT. FLAG PLOT - THE PENTAGON - CONTINUOUS </b> McNamara, pacing on the phone, jumps in. <b> MCNAMARA </b> Mr. President, I agree. Let them go. Four of the six continuing ships are still a day away from the line. They've stopped all the ones we suspect have weapons aboard. It would look bad shooting up a freighter full of baby food. <b> INT. SITUATION ROOM - CONTINUOUS </b> The President holds Kenny's gaze, then lifts the phone. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Captain, I want you to maintain contact with those ships. Do nothing until I order otherwise. Is that clear? <b> CAPTAIN (O.S.) </b> Yes, Mr. President. Contact only. He hangs up, turns to Kenny. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> I hope you're right. <b> EXT. SOUTH LAWN - DAY </b> Kenny, Bobby and the President make their way across the lawn, out of earshot of the building. <b> BOBBY </b> What happened to speak when spoken to? <b> KENNY </b> Give it a rest. You were thinking the same thing, just didn't have the guts to take the heat. Bobby likes getting under Kenny's skin. Bobby aims a punch at his head which Kenny knocks away. The President changes gear, serious. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> We can horsetrade with Khruschev on ships. But it doesn't get us any closer to removing those missiles. <b> KENNY </b> Have to hope it's a signal that he'll back down on the real issue too. <b> BOBBY </b> We're going to have to stop a ship eventually, show the quarantine's got teeth, or we'll prove McCone right. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> McNamara's on his way back here now. We need to pick the right ship. No subs. No armed boarding parties either. We need a little more time to figure this one out. <b> KENNY </b> Then let's move the quarantine line. It's a simple suggestion. The President considers him a beat, and then McNamara emerges from the White House, heads for them. The three friends assume their more reserved, political faces as he comes up. <b> MCNAMARA </b> Mr. President. Bobby. Kenny. The Essex battle group has the Gagarin, Kimovsk and the sub escort under their thumb. We've got a few hours now before we need to worry about any more flashpoints on the line. (beat) We could use a few more hours. I think we should consider moving the quarantine line back to 500 miles. Bobby and the President look at Kenny like he's some kind of Svengali. Kenny just stands there, poker faced. <b> INT. WEST WING - DAY </b> Kenny and McNamara enter the White House from the South Lawn. They stride down the hall, side by side. <b> KENNY </b> Moving the line. Stroke of genius. <b> MCNAMARA </b> (snappish) Of course it is. But the President needs to realize we're going to have to stop a ship eventually. They turn a corner, silence for a beat. <b> KENNY </b> The Chiefs are looking for a provocation out there. The President's going to come under enormous pressure. You have to keep 'em on a short leash, Bob. McNamara spares Kenny a short, nasty look. <b> MCNAMARA </b> You must think I'm blind and stupid. I've already gotten the birds and bees from Bobby. The President doesn't have to double-barrel me. <b> KENNY </b> Listen to me, goddamn it. We're talking about a possible nuclear war. You dropped the ball on Bay of Pigs -- <b> MCNAMARA </b> -- you sonofabitch, goddamn it, I didn't drop -- <b> KENNY </b> You were in the room. It was your purview. It was your job to make sure Bissel wasn't fucking us over and you didn't do it. You've got the most important job in the world right now. You're the smartest guy the President has. (beat) Besides me. That gets an amused snort from McNamara, breaking the tension. <b> MCNAMARA </b> Anybody ever tell you you're an egomaniac and a prick, O'Donnell? Kenny stares him in the eye, serious, hushed. A friend. <b> KENNY </b> You need to be the best you've ever been. McNamara enters the elevator. He turns, stands there facing Kenny for a dramatic beat. Then the doors close. <b> INT. KENNY'S OFFICE - DAY </b> WALTER CRONKITE, on the B&W T.V. screen, sits in front of a map showing Cuba and the blockade line. <b> WALTER CRONKITE (V.O.) </b> -- well, it appears the world has just received a reprieve. Defense Secretary Robert McNamara has announced that the quarantine zone has been moved from 800 to 500 miles. <b> PULL BACK, REVEALING: </b> Kenny watching the T.V., is yelling at the phone. <b> KENNY </b> Find out how close our exercises are coming to their cruise missiles. I'm calling you back in five, and you will have an answer for me or I will come down there and beat the shit out of you. (beat) Then you can press charges, and I'll get a Presidential pardon. He hangs up, hears SHOUTING from the Oval Office. He goes to the door, enters -- <b> INT. OVAL OFFICE - CONTINUOUS </b> -- and sees the President leaning over his desk, jabbing his finger at General Taylor. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> -- how the goddamn hell did this happen? I'm going to have Power's head on a platter next to LeMay's! (noticing Kenny) Hey, Kenny, did you hear me give the order to go to DEFCON 2? I remember giving the order to go to DEFCON 3, but I must be suffering from amnesia because I've just been informed our nuclear forces are DEFCON 2! Kenny realizes he's not joking as he spots Bobby sitting on the couch behind Taylor, pale as a ghost. Taylor, embattled, wants to die, but stands there like a man. <b> SMASH CUT TO: </b> <b> INT. MISSILE SILO - DAY </b> <b> CLOSE ON </b> The nose cone of a TITAN MISSILE, its 20 megaton nuclear warhead wrapped in the steel re-entry shell. Cold, silent, fearsome. <b> GENERAL TAYLOR (V.O.) </b> Mr. President, the orders were limited to our strategic forces in the continental U.S. <b> INT. OVAL OFFICE - CONTINUOUS </b> Taylor continues on. <b> GENERAL TAYLOR </b> Technically, General LeMay is correct that SAC has the statutory authority -- The President punches his desk. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> -- I have the authority. I am the commander-in-chief of the United States, and I say when we go to war! <b> GENERAL TAYLOR </b> We are not at war, sir, not until we're at DEFCON 1. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> General, the Joint Chiefs have just signalled our intent to escalate to the Soviets. You have signalled an escalation which I had no wish to signal, and which I did not approve. But Taylor knows this very well. And the way he's suffering, it's clear he's taking the heat for his underlings. From over on the couch Bobby chimes in: <b> BOBBY </b> LeMay... he's history. The President glances at Kenny who stands there, speechless. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Get out of here, Max. The General leaves. Kenny closes the door, wanders deeper into the office. He looks from the President to Bobby. There's a long, long beat of shocked silence. <b> KENNY </b> Jesus... <b> BOBBY </b> Rescind the order. Can all the Chiefs. Put Nitze, Gilpatric and the Undersecretaries in charge. <b> KENNY </b> We can't do that, Bobby. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> He's right, we can't rescind DEFCON 2. The Soviets will think we've gotten sweet on them. <b> KENNY </b> And we can't purge the Chiefs. Our invasion talk will look like a bluff. Or even that there's been an attempted coup. Bobby is disgusted, but knows they're right. <b> BOBBY </b> McNamara won't be able to handle them. It's too much for one man... (knowing look to Kenny) ...with all due respect to our heroic fifth column. The President collapses in his rocking chair. Kenny leans over the back of the sofa next to Bobby. <b> KENNY </b> We've got Khruschev's attention with the blockade. If we want a political solution. I think it's time to turn up the diplomatic heat. Cause if we let this go on too long, we're going to find ourselves in a war. Bobby looks at the President, meaningful. The President turns to Kenny. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> I've been considering a variation on one of Stevenson's ideas. We're going to send up a trial balloon through Lippman. The Jupiter missiles. <b> EXT. WEST WING DRIVEWAY - DAY </b> <b> SUPER: THURSDAY, OCTOBER 25TH. DAY 10. </b> The West Wing looms behind Kenny and Bundy. Kenny, poker faced, takes a drag on his cigarette. Bundy nervously flicks his, looks away from Kenny a beat. <b> BUNDY </b> What did you think of Lippman's column this morning? <b> KENNY </b> I think it's a bad idea. Bundy turns back to him. <b> BUNDY </b> Thank God. Look, everyone is furious about it. We trade away our missiles in Turkey and we're fucked politically. Kenny grinds his jaw, but doesn't say anything. He agrees. Bundy steps up to him, confiding. <b> BUNDY (CONT'D) </b> You gotta stop 'em. We know it's Jack and Bobby's idea - they leaked it to Lippman. The military guys are going ape, and they're not alone. <b> KENNY </b> Then they should speak up. <b> BUNDY </b> Christ, Ken, you know it's not that easy. <b> KENNY </b> Yes it is. <b> BUNDY </b> No it isn't. They don't trust the people that feel this way. But these people are right. And the Kennedys are wrong. (beat) We need you to tell 'em, Kenny. They'll listen to you. Kenny prickles, intense, but Bundy presses on, too wrapped up in his own thinking to notice. <b> BUNDY (CONT'D) </b> Jack and Bobby are good men. But it takes a certain character, moral toughness to stand up to -- <b> KENNY </b> -- You listen to me. Nobody, nobody, talks about my friends that way. You're fucking here right now because of the Kennedys. They may be wrong. They make mistakes. But they're not weak. The weak ones are these 'people' who can't speak their own minds. <b> BUNDY </b> You know I don't mean they're weak. Kenny gets in his face, intimidating. <b> KENNY </b> No, they just lack 'moral toughness.' And you think I'll play your Judas. You WASPS and blue-bloods never understood us, thinking we want into your club. Well we got our own club now. (beat) And you guys don't realize fighting with each other is our way. Nobody plays us off each other. And nobody ever gets between us... <b> INT. PRESIDENT'S BEDROOM - DAY </b> Kenny throws himself on a chair in the bedroom's sitting area, newspaper in hand. The President, buttoning his shirt in a full-length mirror, sees him. There's a TV on. The President selects a tie from a nearby rack, eyes the paper. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> What's that? <b> KENNY </b> Oh, just a bunch of crap about withdrawing our Jupiter missiles in Turkey if the Soviets'll do the same in Cuba. The President's eyes flick over to him in the mirror. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> I don't want to listen to this again. <b> KENNY </b> If we made a trade, we'd be giving in to extortion, and NATO would never trust us again. We'll get clobbered in world opinion. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> It's a goddman trial balloon. Trial is the operative word, here. <b> KENNY </b> Then somebody'd better deny it publicly. The President turns around, heads over to the T.V. Kenny folds his arms, disgusted. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Jesus Christ, O'Donnell, you're the one saying we need to move forward on a political solution. <b> KENNY </b> Yeah, a good political solution. <b> ON THE T.V. </b> Live coverage of the United Nations Security Council meetings. Holding forth in Russian is VALERIAN ZORIN, 50s, tough, likeable, the Soviet Ambassador to the U.N. and chairman of the Security Council. A translator relays the meaning. <b> TRANSLATOR FOR ZORIN (O.S.) </b> We call on the world to condemn the piratical actions of America... <b> RESUME </b> The President's jaw tightens. He turns to Kenny. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> You want to turn up the heat? You call Adlai. Tell him to stick it to Zorin. <b> INT. KENNY'S OFFICE - DAY </b> Kenny, phone to his ear, suffers as Bobby harangues him. <b> BOBBY </b> Adlai's too weak! We have to convince Jack to pull him, get McCloy in there. <b> KENNY </b> You can't take him out this late in the game. <b> BOBBY </b> Zorin will eat him alive! <b> KENNY </b> Then talk to your brother, goddamn it. The two of you don't need any advice to get into trouble. <b> BOBBY </b> What's gotten into you? Kenny throws the Lippman article at him. <b> BOBBY (CONT'D) </b> Oh, still sore about this. <b> KENNY </b> Something your father would've come up with. Silence. Terrible silence. That paralyzes Bobby. Kenny stares at him. He means it, but regrets it, too. <b> BOBBY </b> My father -- <b> KENNY </b> -- I'm just trying to make a point. This idea is that fucking bad. But Bobby gets it. Kenny shifts gears, lets it go. <b> KENNY (CONT'D) </b> Adlai can handle Zorin. He knows the inning and the score. <b> BOBBY </b> He better. Because nobody thinks he's up to this. Nobody. <b> INT. U.S. OFFICES - U.N. - DAY </b> The U.S. suite is in frantic preparation, STAFFERS coming and going. Stevenson takes his phone from a SECRETARY. <b> ADLAI </b> Yes? <b> INT. KENNY'S OFFICE - CONTINUOUS </b> Kenny turns to gaze at his little T.V. in the credenza, U.N. coverage continuing, as if he could see Adlai there. <b> KENNY </b> Adlai, it's Kenny. How're you doing? <b> INT. U.S. OFFICES - U.N. - CONTINUOUS </b> Adlai is packing up his briefcase. <b> ADLAI </b> Busy, Ken. What do you need? <b> INT. KENNY'S OFFICE - CONTINUOUS </b> Kenny rises from his chair, paces toward the T.V. He pauses. <b> KENNY </b> The President told me to pass the word to you: stick it to them. <b> INT. U.S. OFFICES - U.N. - CONTINUOUS </b> Adlai looks around to his own T.V., showing the session going on downstairs. Zorin, ON CAMERA, dominates the council: alternately bold, aggressive, and then reasonable. Even in Russian, with the lagging translation, he's formidable. <b> INT. KENNY'S OFFICE - CONTINUOUS </b> Kenny is watching exactly the same performance. Zorin is masterful. Kenny knows it. And when he talks to Adlai, it's with the fatalism of a coach knowing he's putting his third string quarterback in against the all-Pro linebacker. <b> KENNY </b> Adlai. The world has to know we're right. If we're going to have a chance at a political solution, we need international pressure. You got to be tough, Adlai. You need to find it, old friend. <b> INT. U.S. OFFICES - U.N. - CONTINUOUS </b> Adlai watches his Staffers leave his inner office. He hears Kenny, and everything Kenny is saying. <b> ADLAI </b> I hear you. I'm glad it's you calling. I thought it would be Bobby. If they're still sticking to their stonewall strategy, I'll get 'em. (beat) Thanks, Ken. Adlai lowers the phone to its cradle. An ANXIOUS STAFFER sticks his head in the door, a concerned, questioning look on his face. Adlai adjusts his tie. HIS HAND IS SHAKING. He notices it, and manages a brave smile. <b> ADLAI (CONT'D) </b> I'm an old political cat, Jimmy. (beat) But I've got one life left. <b> INT. HALL, U.N. - CONTINUOUS </b> Adlai, briefcase in hand, marches down the hall at the hand of his team: Staffers and Photo Interpreters with large leather portfolio bags. The big double doors to the council chamber loom, and he gestures to the Photo Interpreters. <b> ADLAI </b> Wait here. And then a DOORMAN throws open the door for him. <b> INT. U.N. SECURITY COUNCIL CHAMBERS - CONTINUOUS </b> Adlai enters. He is instantly dwarfed by the enormous room. Lights, T.V. cameras, the imposing circular arrangement of delegation tables. And the entire world is watching. Adlai pauses. Then as the first SECURITY COUNCIL MEMBERS begin to notice him, he heads for the vacant seats for the American delegation. The ROMANIAN DELEGATE saws the air. <b> ROMANIAN DELEGATE </b> (through translator) ...we call upon the world to condemn this purely American provocation... But as the Romanian wheezes on, all eyes are on Adlai. Adlai takes his seat, his Staffers behind him. They pass him up papers, and he spreads them before him, taking no notice that the entire room is staring at him. Adlai finally glances up. Across the circle sits Zorin, in the flesh, at the head of his own tough-looking DELEGATION. He acknowledges Adlai with a superior smile. <b> ROMANIAN DELEGATE (CONT'D) </b> We, the people of Romania, stand in solidarity with the people of Cuba and their revolution in the face of this American threat to world peace. Thank you, Mr. Chairman. The Romanian Delegate leans back from his microphone. Zorin leans forward, begins in Russian, and the Translator's voice catches up with him. His tone, body language, composure are all that of complete confidence. <b> ZORIN </b> (through translator) We are glad you could join us, Mr. Stevenson. Adlai nods, returns to his notes, as Zorin continues. <b> ZORIN (CONT'D) </b> For the last couple of hours I have heard nothing but questions from the world here. The United States has led us to the brink of calamity. The peoples of the world want to know why. We are told again and again of this so called incontrovertible evidence of offensive weapons in Cuba. Yet we are not allowed to see this evidence. Are your spy planes so secret you cannot share this evidence with us? Some planes?! The audience laughs. Zorin basks in it. And then grows stern. <b> ZORIN (CONT'D) </b> Or perhaps there is no such evidence. Perhaps the United States is mistaken. <b> INT. SITUATION ROOM - WHITE HOUSE - CONTINUOUS </b> EXCOM watches the coverage on the situation room's T.V.'s. The President and Bobby sit side by side, Kenny just behind them. Bobby checks his watch, looks at the President. <b> BOBBY </b> I make the call, and Adlai is out. McCloy goes in. Bobby looks back at Kenny. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Let's hope it doesn't come to that. <b> INT. U.N. SECURITY COUNCIL CHAMBERS - CONTINUOUS </b> Zorin stares at Adlai. Adlai studiously ignores him, works on his own papers. <b> ZORIN </b> The United States has no facts in hand. Falsity is what America has in its hands - false evidence. Zorin leans back in his chair. Adlai finally looks up. He meets Zorin's icy bravura. He notes the cameras around the room. This is the grandest stage of all. <b> ZORIN (CONT'D) </b> The chair recognizes the representative from the United States. And in that moment, Adlai becomes the spokesman for America. <b> ADLAI </b> Well, let me say something to you, Mr. Ambassador, we do have the evidence. We have it, and it is clear and incontrovertible. Adlai's tone is definitive. A tremor of interest passes through the various delegations. <b> ADLAI (CONT'D) </b> And let me say something else. Those weapons must be taken out of Cuba. You, the Soviet Union, have created this new danger, not the United States. <b> INT. SITUATION ROOM - CONTINUOUS </b> EXCOM is transfixed by the continuing debate. <b> BUNDY </b> Come on, Adlai! They all crowd the T.V. as if it were a title fight. Except for Bobby. Kenny glances over at him. He has the phone pinned between his ear and shoulder. Kenny looks back to the <b> T.V. </b> <b> INT. U.N. SECURITY COUNCIL CHAMBERS - CONTINUOUS </b> Adlai fixes Zorin in his seat, his voice rising. <b> ADLAI </b> Mr. Zorin, I remind you that the other day you did not deny the existence of these weapons. But today, again, if I heard you correctly, you now say they do not exist. Zorin, headphones on, listens to his own translation, but doesn't respond, acts bored. It gets Adlai's goat, and he begins to lose his cool. A rumble from the U.N. The CAMERA FINDS Adlai's hand SHAKING, gripping his pen. <b> INT. SITUATION ROOM - WHITE HOUSE - DAY </b> EXCOM is worried. <b> RUSK </b> Come on, Adlai, don't let him off! <b> BOBBY </b> John? It's Bobby. Get ready to send your staffer in. He's going to be coming out. <b> INT. U.N. SECURITY COUNCIL CHAMBERS - CONTINUOUS </b> But Adlai's tremors are not tremors of fear. They are tremors of anger. His voice goes hard and cold. <b> ADLAI </b> All right, sir. Let me ask you one simple question. Do you, Ambassador Zorin, deny that the U.S.S.R. has placed and is placing medium and intermediate range missiles and sites in Cuba? Yes or no - don't wait for the translation - yes or no? The diplomatic world GASPS as Adlai drops all pretense of civility, all statesman-like grace. <b> INT. SITUATION ROOM - CONTINUOUS </b> EXCOM's excitement mounts. In the chorus urging Adlai on, we find Kenny edge toward the screen. <b> KENNY </b> Yeah. Yeah. <b> INT. U.N. SECURITY COUNCIL CHAMBERS - CONTINUOUS </b> Zorin shoots Adlai a testy look. <b> ZORIN </b> I am not in an American courtroom, sir, and therefore I do not wish to answer a question that is put to me in the fashion in which a prosecutor puts questions. In due course, sir, you will have your answer. There's laughter at Zorin's refusal to be bullied: but it's nervous laughter, not the polite stuff of diplomatic tete-a tete. The RUMBLE in the room grows louder. <b> ADLAI </b> You are in the courtroom of world opinion right now, and you can answer yes or no. You have denied they exist, and I want to know if I have understood you correctly. <b> INT. SITUATION ROOM - DAY </b> EXCOM ROARS! Fists in the air! Bobby lets the phone dangle a beat, covers it. And then he lifts it again. <b> BOBBY </b> John, I'll get back to you. He lowers the phone to the receiver. Kenny shoots him a triumphant smile. The President looks at Kenny, shakes his head, a big smile on his face. <b> INT. U.N. SECURITY COUNCIL CHAMBERS - CONTINUOUS </b> Adlai presses on. <b> ADLAI </b> And I'm prepared to present the evidence in this room, proving that the Soviet Union has lied to the world. And Zorin cracks. He looks uneasily to his delegation. They bend forward to consult. Adlai sits back in his chair, draping his arms over its wings with the confidence of someone who knows he's kicked ass. Adlai looks around the room while he's waiting for his answer, managing not to smile. The diplomatic world is scandalized. At last Zorin regroups, lifts his head from his huddle. <b> ZORIN </b> If you do not choose to continue your statement, the Chair recognizes the representative from Chile. The CHILEAN DELEGATE stands. <b> CHILEAN DELEGATE </b> I yield my time and the floor to the representative to the United States. The room explodes in laughter. Not just nervous any more, not just polite. They're laughing at Zorin's parliamentary ploy blowing up in his face. Zorin's smile is gone, his smooth facade destroyed. And he looks like the biggest fool in the world. Adlai stares at the beet-faced man with disdain. At last, Adlai stands, gestures to the door to the hall behind him. The PHOTO INTERPRETERS come racing in with their briefing boards. <b> ADLAI </b> Well then, ladies and gentlemen, since it appears we might be here for a while, shall we have a look at what the Soviets are doing in Cuba? The Delegates RUMBLE in interest, rise from their seats to approach Adlai. <b> INT. SITUATION ROOM - CONTINUOUS </b> EXCOM celebrates. Phones ring at several of the chairs at the conference table. The President and Kenny meet as Bundy picks up a phone in the b.g. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Didn't know Adlai had it in him. Too bad he didn't have this stuff in '52. <b> KENNY </b> Zorin must not have gotten instructions. Somebody in their Foreign Ministry's blown it big-time. Bundy steps forward, holding the phone. <b> BUNDY </b> Mr. President... Kenny and the President turn to see what they already have heard in those two words: concern. The room falls quiet. <b> INT. FLAG PLOT - THE PENTAGON - CONTINUOUS </b> Phone in hand, McNamara paces at his post over the flag plot. <b> MCNAMARA </b> ...the ship is called Groznyy. <b> EXT. OCEAN, PUERTO RICO TRENCH - CONTINUOUS </b> The Soviet Tanker, Groznyy, breasts the heavy seas. Armed CREWMEN race along the deck to makeshift sandbagged emplacements in the bow. <b> MCNAMARA (V.O.) </b> We lost track of it yesterday at nightfall. We thought we gave it plenty of room when we moved the quarantine line back. We just reacquired it. The CAMERA PANS to the left, revealing a U.S. DESTROYER racing up alongside a few hundred yards away, pounding up and over the swells, punching up a huge fan of spray from its bow. <b> INT. FLAG PLOT - THE PENTAGON - CONTINUOUS </b> <b> MCNAMARA </b> It crossed the line hours ago. Admiral Anderson, on the phone on the level below, is tense. <b> ADMIRAL ANDERSON </b> Hail them again. <b> THE PRESIDENT (O.S.) </b> Keep us posted, Bob. McNamara leans against the wall, closes his eyes in exhaustion and stress. And when he opens the, we PAN AROUND <b> TO REVEAL: </b> A G-d-like view of the flag plot, covered with HUNDREDS OF <b> SHIPS, PLANES AND MARKINGS. </b> McNamara stares out at the bewildering tangle of symbols, living men behind each one. Each tangle of red and blue symbols a powderkeg. A G-dlike view indeed. And it is far more than any one mere man could keep control of. And he begins to realize it. <b> MCNAMARA </b> We're kidding ourselves... And not only that, in his bleary, sleep-deprived fog, he begins to understand something happening down there. The CAMERA MOVES over the enormous map, over the scrolling cryptic numerology. THE BUZZ of radio communications bleeds in from the background. The overhead platform swivels on its motor, like the vast arm of some fate-writing god as the Watch Officer on it updates the movements of the ships. McNamara stares, at the verge of grasping something. Through the door-crack of genius, he has the glimpse of some grander thing, some grander design. <b> ADMIRAL ANDERSON </b> Very well. Load your guns. That starts McNamara from his fatigued reverie. He goes to the railing, looks down on Anderson. <b> MCNAMARA </b> What was that, Admiral? Anderson turns, gazes up from his tier below, distracted. <b> ADMIRAL ANDERSON </b> We've been hailing the Groznyy for the last hour, Mr. Secretary. The Groznyy refuses to stop. <b> MCNAMARA </b> What are you doing? <b> ADMIRAL ANDERSON </b> Carrying out our mission, Mr. Secretary. If you don't mind, we're very busy right now. We need to be able to do our jobs. <b> MCNAMARA </b> Admiral, I asked you a question. Anderson holds the phone aside, turns around again, looks up at him, impatient. His answer is hard, cold, dangerous. <b> ADMIRAL ANDERSON </b> We're going to follow the Rules of Engagement. The Rules of Engagement which the President has approved and signed in his order of October 23rd. Anderson listens again to the phone. <b> ADMIRAL ANDERSON (CONT'D) </b> Yes, Captain, you may proceed. Clear your guns. <b> MCNAMARA </b> What -- <b> EXT. OCEAN, PUERTO RICO TRENCH - CONTINUOUS </b> The Destroyer's forward 5-inch twin guns swivel, train on the Groznyy. A beat. They OPEN FIRE with an ear-splitting BAMBAM, ripping the air in front of the muzzles, the Groznyy so close a miss isn't possible. <b> INT. FLAG PLOT - THE PENTAGON - CONTINUOUS </b> McNamara SHOUTS at Anderson, dropping down the steps to Anderson's level. <b> MCNAMARA </b><b> GODDAMNIT, STOP THAT FIRING! </b> Watch Officers scramble to comply, chaos and shouting in the war room as a chorus if "Cease fire cease fire cease fire," goes up. McNamara turns on Anderson, is in his face. <b> MCNAMARA (CONT'D) </b> Jesus Christ, God help us. Anderson smashes the phone down, wheels on McNamara, furious. <b> EXT. OCEAN, PUERTO RICO TRENCH - CONTINUOUS </b> The Destroyer's guns hammer away at the Groznyy, at point blank range... but the Groznyy IS UNHARMED. Suddenly, in the air above it appear BRILLIANT FLARES. They light up the ship, brighter than the sun. The destroyer isn't firing deadly rounds... it's firing harmless starshells. <b> INT. FLAG PLOT - THE PENTAGON - CONTINUOUS </b> Anderson gets in McNamara's face. <b> ADMIRAL ANDERSON </b> That ship was firing starshells. Starshells. Flares, Mr. Secretary. Everyone's eyes are on the two men. Only the chatter of teletype breaks the paralyzing silence. McNamara blinks, looks down at the plot on the floor. Anderson's voice drops to a deadly sotto. <b> ADMIRAL ANDERSON (CONT'D) </b> Goddammitt, I've got a job to do. You've been camped out up there since Monday night. You're exhausted and you're making mistakes. Interfere with me, you will get some of killed. I will not allow that. McNamara looks away at the faces of the men in the room. <b> MCNAMARA </b> Starshells. <b> ADMIRAL ANDERSON </b> Get out of our way, Mr. Secretary. The navy has been running blockades since the days of John Paul Jones. McNamara turns back. And all trepidation, embarrassment, hesitation are gone. He coldly appraises Anderson. <b> MCNAMARA </b> I believe the President made it clear that there would be no firing on ships without his express permission. <b> ADMIRAL ANDERSON </b> With all due respect, Mr. Secretary, we were not firing on the ship. Firing on a ship means attacking the ship. We were not attacking the ship. We were firing over it. <b> MCNAMARA </b> This was not the President's intention when he gave that order. What if the Soviets don't see the distention? What if they make the same mistake I just did? (beat) There will be no firing anything near ANY Soviet ships without my express permission, is that understood, Admiral? <b> ADMIRAL ANDERSON </b> Yes, sir. <b> MCNAMARA </b> And I will only issue such instructions when ordered to by the President. (beat) John Paul Jones... you don't understand a thing, do you, Admiral? He passes his hand over the enormous plot below. <b> MCNAMARA (CONT'D) </b> This isn't a blockade. McNamara, trembling with anger, awe, whirls to Anderson. And his burgeoning insight is born - clear, hard and cold. <b> MCNAMARA (CONT'D) </b> This, all this, is language, a new vocabulary the likes of which the world has never seen. This is President Kennedy communicating with Secretary Khruschev. McNamara JABS HIS FINGER OUT AT the plot, and -- -- the CAMERA RACES DOWN, TRACKING OVER IT, across the vast ebb and flow of information, the delicate ballet of symbols and numerology, this language of steel and human life. <b> INT. KENNY'S OFFICE - DAY </b> <b> SUPER: FRIDAY, OCTOBER 26TH. DAY 11. </b> On Kenny's T.V. Walter Cronkite reads the news to footage of a BOARDING PARTY going up a ladder to the freighter MARCULA. <b> WALTER CRONKITE (V.O.) </b> At 7:29 this morning, the U.S.S. Joseph Kennedy stopped and boarded the Soviet charter vessel Marcula. The Boarding Party wears dress whites and is UNARMED. <b> WALTER CRONKITE (V.O.) (CONT'D) </b> After a 3-hour inspection, the Kennedy signaled no contraband found. Cleared to continue. Pentagon spokesmen expect the next encounter. Kenny, who turns from the T.V. as the door to his office opens. Rusk walks in. <b> RUSK </b> Kenny, we need to see the President. Something's happened. Kenny reacts to Rusk's enigmatic expression. And out from behind Rusk steps JOHN SCALI, the ABC News Correspondent. <b> INT. OVAL OFFICE - DAY </b> OFF THEIR REACTIONS, the CAMERA FINDS an under-strength, ad hoc EXCOM - Kenny, Bobby, Taylor, Bundy, Sorensen, McCone, Ball and the President. Guarded hope all around. The short, balding, pugnacious Scali looks discomfited. <b> SCALI </b> I have lunch with him maybe once a month. Way he talks, he acts like he knows Khruschev personally, but he's never elaborated. I've used him as a source in a couple of stories. Kenny paces behind the gathered men around the President's desk, listening, mind going a million miles an hour. <b> RUSK </b> The FBI has identified this Alexander Fomin as the Soviet Resident, the KGB equivalent of one of our station chiefs. He's their highest ranking spy in this country. And he knows John's a friend of mine. <b> BUNDY </b> All the trademarks of a back-channel overture. Kenny eyes Bundy, makes him uncomfortable. The President sizes Scali up. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> So they'll remove the missiles, and we'll pledge not to invade Cuba, destabilize Castro or assist anyone who plans in doing so... Nobody dares speak. It's as if the possibility of a settlement will vanish into thin air if anyone moves. <b> BOBBY </b> I think... this may be our first real message from Khruschev. <b> MCCONE </b> The alternative, Mr. President, is that this could be a trap. <b> KENNY </b> Dangle a settlement, tie us down in negotiations, we come up short... <b> MCCONE </b> Why else would they approach us in this way? It's deniable. The Soviets have done nothing but lie to us. This could be more of the same. <b> KENNY </b> That may be why Khruschev's introducing this guy. We've been burned by his usual players in the formal channels, so he brings in an honest broker. <b> MCCONE </b> That may be what they want us to think. <b> RUSK </b> The truth is, Mr. President, we don't even really know whom Fomin speaks for. It could be Khruschev. It could be some faction in the Politburo or the KGB itself. We just don't know. <b> BOBBY </b> By the way, Scali, your activities now fall under the secrecy codicils of the National Security Act. Sorry, no Pulitzer. The gathered men chuckle, only Scali a bit dour but being a good sport about it. Scali checks his watch. <b> SCALI </b> Mr. President, we don't have much time. I'm supposed to meet with him again in three and a half hours. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Well, it seems the question of the day is -- is the offer legitimate? He moves away from his desk. The men watch him. <b> THE PRESIDENT (CONT'D) </b> If it is... if it is, then we can't afford to ignore it. (beat, to Scali) John, we'll have instructions for you in a couple of hours. Scali nods. Rusk escorts him out. They wait until the door closes. Taylor looks over at McCone who nods. <b> GENERAL TAYLOR </b> Mr. President, I'm afraid we have some bad news. We're getting GMAIC estimates from our latest low-level overflights. It appears the missiles are two to three days away from operational status. <b> MCCONE </b> So we don't have much time to play out back-channel communiques. Kenny gives Bobby a hard look. The President appears unfazed. <b> GENERAL TAYLOR </b> The quarantine, sir, is not producing results. The Chiefs feel it's time you take another look at our options. The President considers Taylor, then looks over to Kenny. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Kenny, get over to your old stomping grounds. Go through everything the FBI has on Fomin. I need your best call: is this guy legit and is he speaking for Khruschev? And I need you to tell me by the time I call you, because right after I call you, I'm calling Scali with his instructions. <b> INT. FBI, COUNTER-INTELLIGENCE DEPARTMENT FILES - NIGHT </b> BANG! A STACK OF FILES slams down beside Kenny on a large paper-covered conference table. WALTER SHERIDAN, Kenny's investigator-buddy, wears a visitor's pass just like Kenny. Kenny and Walter RIFLE through the folders, super fast, super proficient. A half-dozen FBI AGENTS work around the table. <b> SHERIDAN </b> Okay. So, what we've got is this guy Alexander Feklisov, aka Alexander Fomin, declared Consul to the Soviet Embassy, but in reality the KGB Papa Spy. An illustrious tour of duty during the Great Patriotic War gets him on the Party fast track, various tours of duty in KGB, American postings. He's an expert on us, and... that's all we've got on Papa Spy. <b> KENNY </b> Who's he talking for? Is it Khruschev, or is this more bullshit? Kenny stands, runs his hands through his hair, aggravated. <b> KENNY (CONT'D) </b> How do you become the KGB top spy in the United States? <b> SHERIDAN </b> Gotta know someone. Kenny whirls on Sheridan. A frozen beat. <b> KENNY </b> Politics is politics. Walter. (whirling on Agents) Khruschev is the Moscow Party Boss under Stalin. Give me their career chronologies! Walter pushes a typed dateline of Khruschev's major career moves, and one of the Agents hands Kenny a list of Fomin's postings. He lays them side by side. And for every step of Khruschev's, there's a step for Fomin. Not only that, but the DATES ARE IDENTICAL or nearly so. <b> KENNY (CONT'D) </b> Every time Khruschev moves up, Fomin does within a year... (tracing up the list) Khruschev was the administrator in charge of preparing Moscow's defenses during the war. And Fomin... was here in the U.S. Kenny's face falls. But a YOUNG FBI AGENT cuts in. <b> YOUNG FBI AGENT </b> Not at first. The Young FBI Agent proffers him a file. Kenny snatches it. <b> YOUNG FBI AGENT (CONT'D) </b> He was an engineer stationed outside Moscow in '42. Specialized in tank traps. Kenny looks up at Walter. Walter nods sagely, lights a pipe. <b> KENNY </b> They know each other. They're war buddies. <b> SHERIDAN </b> It's thin. But real life usually is. A PHONE on the table SHRILLS, shattering the silent triumph. <b> KENNY </b> Hello? <b> THE PRESIDENT (O.S.) </b> I've got to move. What do you have, Kenny? <b> KENNY </b> They know each other! Khruschev and Feklisov aka Fomin were war buddies! <b> THE PRESIDENT (O.S.) </b> You're sure... <b> KENNY </b> Don't take it to court, but we've got good circumstantial evidence... (off Walter's nod) Walter agrees. My gut's telling me Khruschev's turning to a trusted old friend to carry his message. <b> THE PRESIDENT (O.S.) </b> Okay, Ken. We're going. <b> INT. STATLER HOTEL COFFEE SHOP - NIGHT </b> A few lonely BUSINESS TRAVELERS hang out in the dim coffee shop. Faint music plays. Scali and ALEXANDER FOMIN sit with steaming cups of coffee. Scali, nervous, unfolds a note. Fomin, an expressionless gray spectre of a man, eyes him. He is, in his boredom, a spy's spy. <b> SCALI </b> I am instructed to tell you that the American Government would respond favorably to an offer along the lines you have discussed. If this solution were raised at the U.N. by Ambassador Zorin, he would find a favorable reply from Ambassador Stevenson. <b> FOMIN </b> So I understand you correctly. If the missiles in Cuba were dismantled, returned to the Soviet Union, and a guarantee was made not to reintroduce them, the United States would be prepared to guarantee that it would never invade Cuba? <b> SCALI </b> That is correct. <b> FOMIN </b> This is from the Highest Authority? <b> SCALI </b> Yes. From the Highest Authority. There are two conditions. The U.N. must be allowed to inspect the removal of the missiles. <b> FOMIN </b> And, of course, the U.N. must be allowed to observe the redeployment of forces from the American Southeast. Scali demurs. He has no instructions on this count. <b> FOMIN (CONT'D) </b> And the second condition? <b> SCALI </b> Time is of the essence. Scali takes a sip of coffee. Fomin stares at him, intense. <b> FOMIN </b> John. How much time? <b> SCALI </b> 48 hours. In 48 hours there can be no deals. <b> INT. OVAL OFFICE - NIGHT </b> Scali finishes debriefing the President, Bobby, Kenny, McCone, Taylor and Bundy. <b> SCALI </b> He left right away. Got the feeling he meant business. Kenny and Bobby share a hopeful glance. Rusk enters from Kenny's office. And he's unable to contain his excitement. <b> RUSK </b> Mr. President, we're receiving a letter from Khruschev over at State. <b> INT. COMMUNICATIONS OFFICE - STATE DEPARTMENT - NIGHT </b> From a cluster of folding metal chairs, Kenny, Bobby, Rusk and Sorensen watch a TELETYPE hammer out the message as it comes off the wire. It's painfully slow, like watching a bad typist type a manuscript. Ten pages of this is an eternity. To top it off, it's in Russian. A TRANSLATOR reads it off, word by word to a TRANSCRIBER. <b> TRANSLATOR </b> ...two...of...us...pull...on...the... knot...of...war... <b> INT. CABINET ROOM - NIGHT </b> Kenny slams a page of Khruschev's letter on the table. He jabs his finger at it. EXCOM listens, intent. <b> KENNY </b> It's ten pages of sentimental fluff, but he's saying right here. He'll remove the missiles in return for a no-invasion pledge. It looks like Fomin's overture was genuine. The President turns to McCone. <b> MCCONE </b> Our early analysis says this was probably written by Khruschev himself. It's a first draft, and shows no signs of being polished by the foreign ministry. In fact, it probably hasn't been approved by the Politburo. They wouldn't have let the emotionalism go by. The analysts say it was written by someone under considerable stress. EXCOM chuckles. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Glad to hear we're not alone. The President eyes the EXCOM members one by one, an incipient smile on his face. <b> THE PRESIDENT (CONT'D) </b> Well, gentlemen, I wasn't planning on invading Cuba anyway. I think we can live with the terms of this deal. There are mostly nods of assent, big smiles around the table. Except from McCone and Taylor. The President takes his copy of the letter, flips through it. He shakes his head, almost unable to believe that Khruschev has given in. A long beat. <b> THE PRESIDENT (CONT'D) </b> Ted, I want you to draft our acceptance. <b> EXT. O'DONNELL DRIVEWAY - NIGHT </b> A long, black car stops at the end of Kenny's driveway. The door opens, and Kenny steps out. He says an inaudible goodnight to the driver, and the car pulls off. He turns, facing the white two-story house with the neat front yard, the lights out. And he smiles. Home at last. <b> EXT. O'DONNELL PATIO - NIGHT </b> A screen door squeaks open. Kenny steps out into the darkness of the back yard. And there, in her robe, sitting startled on a lawn chair, lit only by the dim glow of the kitchen window, is Helen. Kenny stands there tired, his coat slung over his shoulder. <b> KENNY </b> Hi. Helen rises, her own care-worn face turned to his. For a silent moment they gaze at each other, searching in the lines of each others' face for the changes of a long separation. They see them. But they've been married a long time, and the awkwardness passes. <b> HELEN </b> Hi, O'Donnell. You look old. Kenny drops his coat on a table as Helen comes up and folds herself into his arms. <b> HELEN (CONT'D) </b> This job's going to kill you. If I don't first. They kiss, comfortable. But not too long, and he lets her go. She looks at him again, sees he's suppressing a smile. <b> HELEN (CONT'D) </b> If you're home it means either Jack and Bobby have finally figured out what a con man you are and fired you, or -- <b> KENNY </b> -- we got a back channel communication from Khruschev this evening feeling us out about a deal. He confirmed it just a little while ago in a letter to the President. I think we've won. <b> HELEN </b> A thing like this... who could even think of winning? <b> INT. HALL OUTSIDE KENNY'S OFFICE - DAY </b> <b> SUPER: SATURDAY, OCTOBER 27TH. DAY 12. </b> Kenny, in his overcoat, steps aside as a pair of Duty Officers race past him, almost bowling him over. He slows as he nears the doors to his office and the Oval Office, DISCOVERING: TOTAL CHAOS. EXCOM guys, Assistants, dart to and from the offices and halls. On all their faces grim expressions. Kenny stands there a beat in confusion. And then Bobby swings out of Kenny's office. There's a desperate edge to Bobby's voice. <b> BOBBY </b> Where've you been? We've been trying to find you all morning. <b> KENNY </b> Helen and I went out for breakfast. EXCOM's not supposed to convene til eight. <b> BOBBY </b> We just got a second letter from Khruschev. The deal's off. <b> INT. HALL OUTSIDE CABINET ROOM - CONTINUOUS </b> Kenny and Bobby walk fast for the cabinet room, Kenny still in his coat. <b> BOBBY </b> We're getting everyone together as fast as we can. <b> KENNY </b> What does the letter say? <b> BOBBY </b> They want us to take our missiles out of Turkey along with the no invasion pledge. It looks like Fomin was a ploy after all, and they were just stalling for time. Kenny is stunned. <b> BOBBY (CONT'D) </b> It gets worse. Kenny gives Bobby a sharp look as they enter -- <b> INT. CABINET ROOM - CONTINUOUS </b> The President, in shirtsleeves, no tie, glances up at Kenny as he and Bobby enter. Kenny can only bear his look for a second: he blew the call on Fomin. But the President is clearly relieved to see him, gives him a faint smile. Half of EXCOM, including McNamara, McCone, Rusk, and Taylor barely notice them as they're already there arguing. Kenny sits down hurriedly, shucks off his coat as he joins the conversation in mid-stream. <b> MCCONE </b> My specialists are in agreement: this morning's letter is not Khruschev. Last night's letter was. (beat) The evidence supports only one conclusion: there has been a coup, and Khruschev was replaced overnight. <b> KENNY </b> Jesus Christ... Bobby gives him a look: told you things got worse. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Dean? <b> RUSK </b> It doesn't necessarily mean there's been a coup. Khruschev's name is signed to the letter. <b> MCNAMARA </b> Aw, come on, Dean! <b> RUSK </b> But at the very least... It does suggest he's been co-opted by hard line elements. <b> MCNAMARA </b> Which at the end of the day is the same thing as a coup. A puppet Khruschev, and a hard-line Soviet government pulling the strings. No deal. And the missiles are almost operational. Bitter silence. They all look to the President. Imminent victory has turned to ashes. The President studies his own folded hands. Ball and Thompson enter, take seats. One by one, throughout the scene, other EXCOM members join the group. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> You know, the problem we have is that this is latest offer of theirs will seem reasonable to everyone. We remove our missiles, they remove theirs. Our Jupiters were scheduled for removal anyway. They're obsolete, after all. Kenny shakes his head in mute anger. McNamara and Rusk seem to sense the President's feelings, too. <b> RUSK </b> Mr. President, agreeing to such a trade would be tantamount to paying ransom. They'll put a gun to our head again, and expect us to pay again. Kenny looks the President in the eye. <b> KENNY </b> We can't sell out one of our friends for our own safety. NATO wouldn't trust us anymore, and they'd be right not to. The President sighs in the face of the stern advice. He nods, expecting as much. Bobby still can't look at anyone. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> So which one of you geniuses can tell me how to explain ourselves to the world? How do we work with them if there's been a hard-line coup? <b> GENERAL TAYLOR </b> Mr. President, there is another possibility we haven't considered. This may not be a coup at all. Everyone of Kenny's instincts jumps. His head snaps up to listen to Taylor. Taylor pauses. <b> GENERAL TAYLOR (CONT'D) </b> It's possible that the back-channel overture, last night's letter, and this letter today, along with everything the Soviets have said all along, is nothing more than a lie -- disinformation. <b> MCNAMARA </b> Designed to keep us from taking action. Kenny hears the fatalism in McNamara's voice. A long beat. Everyone stares at McNamara. <b> MCNAMARA (CONT'D) </b> I hate to say it, but if I had to bet, I'd bet Max is right. What if they have no intention of honoring this deal, either? Then tomorrow they add another condition. Meanwhile, the quarantine isn't working and they're continuing to work on the missile sites. (beat) I think we have to consider issuing warning orders for our forces. They were so close last night... and suddenly Lundahl and LeMay enter the room with the day's briefing boards. <b> LUNDAHL </b> Mr. President... Lundahl stands there at the end of the table, gray. He almost can't say it, can't look the President in the face. <b> LUNDAHL (CONT'D) </b> This morning's photography is in. It appears the Soviets have commenced a crash program to ready the missiles. <b> SMASH CUT TO: </b> <b> EXT. MISSILE SITE - CUBA - CONTINUOUS </b> The missiles site is now more than just dirt and clearing equipment. It's an armed camp, with missiles, fuel trailers, erectors spaced every few hundred yards. MISSILE TECHNICIANS service the towering SS-4s. <b> LUNDAHL (V.O.) </b> The first missiles became operational last night. With a barrage of shouted orders in Russian, and a whine of the ERECTOR's engines, THE MISSILE BEGINS TO RISE. <b> LUNDAHL (V.O.) (CONT'D) </b> We expect they'll all be operational in 36 hours: Monday morning. It stops, vertical. <b> SMASH CUT TO: </b> <b> INT. CABINET ROOM - CONTINUOUS </b> The news hits the room like a thunderbolt. Kenny looks to Bobby and the President. The blood is gone from their faces. <b> MCNAMARA </b> Then we're out of time. We have to go in. <b> LUNDAHL </b> That may not be as easy as we thought either. We've gotten confirmation that the Soviets have also deployed battlefield nuclear weapons to Cuba. A pall falls over the room as LeMay explains. <b> LEMAY </b> FROGS, we call 'em. Short range tactical nukes. It's possible they've delegated release authority to their local commanders for use against our invasion troops. It'd be standard doctrine. (beat) Our capability to get all the missiles has eroded during our delay with the quarantine. The good news is that for the moment we know where the FROGS are, and we can target them, too. But the longer we wait, the hard it's going to get. They all look to the President. Kenny stares, in a private hell, blacker and more complete than anyone should ever know. In that shocked silence each man grapples with failure. The Best and the Brightest could not prevent what must come next. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Then we have no choice. (to Taylor) General, issue the warning orders to our forces. They will be prepared to execute the air strikes Monday morning and the follow-on invasion according to the schedule thereafter. I'll need the official release orders on my desk Sunday night. <b> GENERAL TAYLOR </b> Understood, sir. We need to step up the overflights, finalize our pilots' target folders in order to be able to carry out the strikes. The President gives Kenny a meaningful look. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Permission granted. Taylor exits. Kenny rises, gives the President an almost imperceptible nod, as he prepares to leave in Taylor's wake. <b> THE PRESIDENT (CONT'D) </b> Gentlemen, if anybody's got any great ideas, now's the time... <b> INT. READY ROOM - MACDILL AFB - DAY </b> MAJOR RUDOLPH ANDERSON, 30, wearing the bulky high-altitude pressure suit of a U-2 pilot, takes the phone from one of the Air Force NCOs who are helping him suit up. <b> MAJOR ANDERSON </b> This is Major Anderson. <b> INTERCUT CALL TO: </b> <b> INT. KENNY'S OFFICE - CONTINUOUS </b> Kenny, at the other end of the line, stares out the window at the fall day. It seems so mild, so unlike war. And it takes him a beat before he realizes Anderson's on the line. <b> MAJOR ANDERSON (O.S.) </b> Hello? Anyone there? <b> KENNY </b> Major, my name is Kenneth O'Donnell. Special Assistant to the President. Kenny takes a breath, ready to start the shuck-and-jive... but for some reason doesn't. <b> KENNY (CONT'D) </b> Major, a few days ago the President ordered me to help him keep control of what's going on out there. I've been browbeating pilots, navy guys left and right to make sure you don't get us here in Washington into trouble. But you know what? We're pretty damn good at getting ourselves into trouble. So instead of riding your ass, I'm just going to tell you what's going on, and let you figure out how best to help us out up here. <b> INT. READY ROOM - MACDILL AFB - CONTINUOUS </b> Now mostly suited up, Major Anderson takes the phone out of the NCO's hand. He nods, serious. <b> MAJOR ANDERSON </b> Go ahead, sir. <b> INT. KENNY'S OFFICE - CONTINUOUS </b> <b> KENNY </b> Last night, we looked like we were going to cut a deal to get us all out of this mess. Today, the Soviets are reneging. We're going to try to salvage the situation, but a lot of things are going wrong today. It's making everyone nervous, and it will be very hard to avoid going to war. Don't get shot down, Major. Beyond that, whatever else you can do to help us, I'd really appreciate it. <b> INT. READY ROOM - MACDILL AFB - CONTINUOUS </b> Major Anderson waves his NCOs away. They leave the room. The Major sits on a bench in front of his locker, thinks. <b> MAJOR ANDERSON </b> When you're up there at 72,000 feet, there's a million things that can go wrong. Is your oxygen mix right? Will your cameras freeze up? Are you leaving contrail... (beat) Those million things are beyond your control, mostly... But you know, when you realize that, there's a kind of peace. You don't need to be in control. You never were in control in the first place. If you're a good man, and your ground crew are good men, it's all you can ask for. And with the grace of G-d, it'll get you through. The young Major smiles to himself, to the phone. <b> MAJOR ANDERSON (CONT'D) </b> You sound like a good man. You'll be all right, Mr. O'Donnell. We believe in you guys down here. (beat) Thanks for the call. <b> INT. KENNY'S OFFICE - CONTINUOUS </b> Kenny nods to himself, deeply touched by the man's faith. <b> KENNY </b> Thank you, Major. <b> INT. READY ROOM - MACDILL AFB - CONTINUOUS </b> With a click, the line goes dead and Anderson walks the phone over to the receiver on the wall. <b> END INTERCUT </b> <b> EXT. RUNWAY - MACDILL AFB - MOMENTS LATER </b> A cart speeds down the tarmac, an NCO behind the wheel. Beside him sits Major Anderson, his helmet on, visor up. He adjusts the mix on the oxygen bottle he's carrying at his feet, breathing in preparation for the high-altitude flight. Up ahead, among a host of service vehicles, sits the U-2. <b> INT. U-2 - DAY </b> Anderson switches over to the U-2's oxygen supply as his NCOs belt him in. They slap him on the helmet for good luck and lower the canopy as he brings his engines up to power. <b> MAJOR ANDERSON </b> This is flight G3132, requesting permission for take-off. <b> TOWER VOICE (O.S.) </b> G3132, you've got runway one, you are cleared to proceed to Angels 72. <b> MAJOR ANDERSON </b> Roger that. And he throws the throttle forward, <b> SMASH CUT TO: </b> <b> EXT. STRATOSPHERE - MOMENTS LATER </b> The twilight, in-between, world of the stratosphere. Far below -- clouds, shining blue day. Above, stars and the indigo depths of space. We hang in utter silence. A silver glint appears in the center of the horizon. It grows larger. Then larger still. It is the U-2. We barely have time to register the rising hiss of its engines, when it FILLS THE SCREEN and BOOMS PAST, leaving us standing still. The CAMERA PANS to follow it, but it's already dwindled to a speck, and we feel how fast 600 miles an hour really is. <b> INT. U-2 - CONTINUOUS </b> Anderson's gloved hand reaches for the CAMERA HEATER switches. <b> EXT. U-2 - CONTINUOUS </b> The belly door whines open like a silver eyelid, exposing the camera's lense. <b> INT. U-2 - CONTINUOUS </b> Anderson double checks his position, switches to the autopilot for the stability only the machine can provide, then hits the CAMERA ACTIVATE button on his joystick. BAMABMABMABMA... The camera begins its photography. Anderson watches the number on the film-remaining counter spool down. He stares out the window. The towering clouds below rise up magnificent, glorious... a glimpse of heaven. Rapt, Anderson stares. And then suddenly a BLARING ALARM GOES OFF IN THE COCKPIT. It shocks Anderson around to the controls. It's his MISSILE WARNING LIGHT. Anderson' hands flash out to the joystick, turning off the cameras, disabling autopilot. He banks the U-2 hard. <b> EXT. U-2 - CONTINUOUS </b> As the U-2 turns, far, far below, emerging from the clouds, barely visible, rises a CONTRAIL. It arcs lazily toward us. A beat, and then another CONTRAIL. Then ANOTHER. The anti-aircraft missiles creating them are too small to be seen with the naked eye. <b> INT. U-2 - CONTINUOUS </b> The cockpit is a cacophony of alarms and lights, the horizon outside tilted. Anderson's breath comes fast, rasping as he does his strains going into the high-g turn. He looks out the cockpit window, finds the first SA-2 missile in pursuit only several thousand feet below him now. He waits. Waits. Waits, still in the turn. The black head of the missile now visible. He puts the plane over, rolling out into an opposite bank. <b> EXT. U-2 - CONTINUOUS </b> The spy plane's long flimsy wings weren't made for dogfighting. They BEND terribly in the rollout. And then the first missile STREAKS past, tries to correct its miss, but can't and vanishes into the distance at a 90-degree angle. <b> INT. U-2 - CONTINUOUS </b> Anderson's breath comes faster and faster as the second missile rises up, now visible. He puts the throttle as far as it goes, trying to outrun death. Every second is a tenth of a mile, and every mile shortens the missile's life span. The rising missile drafts aft, closing on the U-2 from behind. <b> EXT. U-2 - CONTINUOUS </b> The second missile's contrail rises up behind the plane, levels off, and closes on it at a tremendous rate. The third missile rises up in the far distance behind the second. The second missile races up on the U-2, closer, right behind it, can't miss. Then at a hundred yards, the contrail suddenly peters out, and the missile, out of fuel, drops away. But the third missile closes. <b> INT. U-2 - CONTINUOUS </b> Anderson glances out the window, sees the spent missiles fall away, and spots the third missile still seeking him aft. Hand pinning the throttle forward, he prays under his breath. <b> EXT. U-2 - CONTINUOUS </b> The third SA-2 rides its billowing column of exhaust straight for the tail of the U-2. This one is not out of fuel. <b> INT. U-2 - CONTINUOUS </b> Major Anderson opens his eyes. He stares out the window at the glorious wonder of cloud and sea and earth below. <b> EXT. U-2 - CONTINUOUS </b> And the missile looms. We have time to realize it's almost as big as the plane itself before it SHEARS right into the U 2's tail and EXPLODES in a BLINDING FLASH. <b> INT. HALL OUTSIDE BUNDY'S OFFICE - DAY </b> Kenny, jogging down the hall, hears form an open door. <b> BUNDY (O.S.) </b> Kenny! Kenny goes over to the threshold. Inside the office Bundy stands up from behind his desk, grave. And Kenny knows. <b> INT. CABINET ROOM - DAY </b> All of EXCOM is there except for Bundy. Kenny sits behind the President, deeply distraught over Major Anderson. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Does this attack on our plane represent a definitive, intentional escalation on the part of the Soviets? <b> GENERAL TAYLOR </b> The Soviets are in control of the SAMs. It's hard to believe with their centralized command structure that it could be an accidental launch. <b> MCCONE </b> Mr. President, taken with the events of the past few hours, I believe this confirms our worst fears. We're now dealing with a hard-line Soviet government, perhaps with Khruschev as a puppet head, perhaps not. In the silence, Kenny reads the faces around the room. They're convinced by McCone's pronouncement. Kenny's not. <b> KENNY </b> It could be a mistake. McCone gives him a get-serious look. But Kenny presses on. <b> KENNY (CONT'D) </b> We need to be positive before we react. Bundy enters the room. Everyone looks up. He stands there in the doorway, his face tight. Kenny sags in his chair. Bundy, of course, has more bad news, and they all know it. A hopeless beat. The President just stares at Bundy, unable to ask. Bundy nods, affirming what everyone is thinking. <b> BUNDY </b> A U-2 on a routine air-sampling mission over Siberia got lost and penetrated Soviet airspace. The Soviets scrambled MIGs in pursuit, thinking it was a bomber. It got out okay. Somebody forgot to cancel the mission. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Goddammitt. There's always some sonofabitch who doesn't get the word. All we need is the Soviets thinking we're bombing them. (facetious) Anybody else? The humor falls on a cold audience. <b> GENERAL TAYLOR </b> Mr. President, our pilots are in danger. We must order punitive airstrikes against the SAM site that shot down Major Anderson per our rules of engagement. And finally the moment Kenny has dreaded all this time has come to pass. He looks at Bobby, then at the President. The President stares at the cup of coffee in his hands, as if trying to read the Fates' design in it. A long beat, and everyone holds their breath. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> No. I want confirmation there wasn't some sort of accident first. LeMay clears his throat. Everyone looks at him, expecting him to scream or jump up and down. <b> LEMAY </b> I think that's a good idea, Mr. President. It'll be safer for my boys to get those SAMs on Monday when we get the rest of the bastards. I can wait a day and a half. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Very well, then. But he says it without any belief in the words, realizing they're being tied fast to the train tracks of war. <b> INT. KENNY'S OFFICE - DAY </b> Alone in his office, shattered, Kenny stares out the window, viewing the distant Ellipse through a gap in the trees. Kids are out there playing football. He glances at his watch, and grabs his jacket. <b> EXT. WHITE HOUSE - DAY </b> Kenny puts on his jacket as he goes down the steps into the bright autumn day, walking away from the White House. It drops behind him -- his step is faster, more urgent. <b> EXT. STREET - DAY </b> Kenny walks down the sidewalk, drawn toward the Ellipse. The sixth grade FOOTBALL PLAYERS sweep forward with a running play. Kenny scans them, searching, his breath coming hard. <b> EXT. ELLIPSE - DAY </b> He reaches the edge of the open field. And then he spots the name on the jersey: O'Donnell. It's Kevin. The players relinquish the ball and the offense comes off the field. Kevin sees his dad. <b> KEVIN </b> Hey! Dad! Kenny manages a smile as Kevin trots over. Kevin pulls his helmet off. They stand there a long beat, Kenny desperate to take him up, abandon his post... but he doesn't. <b> KENNY </b> Hey, sport. You winning? <b> KEVIN </b> Yeah. But Kevin sees the turmoil in his father's face. <b> KEVIN (CONT'D) </b> Is everything going to be okay, Dad? Kenny's forced smile is answer enough. <b> KENNY </b> Yeah, Kev. Everything's gonna be fine. But Kevin knows. Together they know. The end of the world is at hand. <b> KEVIN </b> I guess you won't be coming home tonight. <b> KENNY </b> I, uh... Suddenly a car HONKS. Kenny turns around. Bobby is leaning out the rear passenger window of his limo. And he sees what Kenny is doing. He doesn't want to cut in, but has to. <b> BOBBY </b> Kenny! We need to talk. Kenny looks back at his son. <b> KENNY </b> Get back out there, kid. Remember to hit 'em hard. <b> KEVIN </b> What about you? Where are you going? <b> KENNY </b> Back to work. Kevin puts his helmet back on his head. Kenny watches as Kevin jogs off to rejoin his team. Kenny turns his back on his son, and strides for Bobby's limo, dying inside. <b> EXT. SANS SOUCI PARKING LOT - DAY </b> Kenny and Bobby stand by their car off to one side of the restaurant's parking lot. Bobby's Secret Service Agents maintain a discreet distance. <b> KENNY </b> If we're going to make a deal, we're going to have to do it fast. This is only getting out of control. The only reason we're not at war this very minute is he's been able to stretch, bend and break his own rules. He won't be able to keep it up forever. Bobby jams the last bit of sandwich in his mouth. A beat. Kenny looks him in the eye. <b> BOBBY </b> And? <b> KENNY </b> And Jack wants to trade the missiles in Turkey. <b> BOBBY </b> The Jupiters are obsolete. They were supposed to have been dismantled last summer anyway -- <b> KENNY </b> -- Jesus, Mary and Joseph. I told you how stupid it was to float the Lippman article! But you wouldn't listen to me. What if there hasn't been a coup at all? What if it's you two who invited that second letter by raising the possibility of a trade? Bobby is speechless with rage. <b> KENNY (CONT'D) </b> And if the two of you are thinking this trade is your ace in the hole, you're so wrong. It's a deuce. Bobby's beyond furious. They catch their rising voices. <b> KENNY (CONT'D) </b> And it's not just me who thinks that. Everyone on this so-called EXCOM is telling you exactly the same thing: make the trade, and they're going to force us into trade after trade until finally they demand something we won't trade like Berlin, and we do end up in a war. (beat) Not to mention, that long before that happens, this government will be politically dead. Bobby simmers for a long beat, thinking. And boy, does this guy hate admitting he's wrong. <b> BOBBY </b> All right, so maybe we overestimated how reasonable this trade would look. Okay? You happy? So now what? <b> KENNY </b> So now you've got to talk him out of it. And then we've got to figure out an acceptable political solution. <b> BOBBY </b> And if there has been a coup and there is no acceptable political solution? Kenny stares off at the city, agonized. <b> INT. OVAL OFFICE - NIGHT </b> Kenny enters from his office, finding Bobby, Rusk and Sorensen talking with the President. The President gives him a brief, meaningful look. <b> RUSK </b> Whatever response we send, it will take several hours for the wire to be received by our embassy and delivered to the Kremlin. So we're looking at early tomorrow morning at the earliest before Khruschev could respond. As Rusk talks, Kenny passes close by Bobby. Bobby whispers: <b> BOBBY </b> He gets it, but he's pissed. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> That's all well and good, but what do we say to 'em? <b> SORENSEN </b> It depends on if we really believe there's been a coup. That strikes a cord with Kenny. <b> KENNY </b> I agree. If there has been a coup, and there's a hard-line government in power now, then it doesn't matter what we say. The end of the day we'll either agree to their terms, they'll agree to ours, or we'll go to war. But what if there hasn't been a coup? What if... what if what is happening is a series of accidents? <b> SORENSEN </b> The second letter is an accident? <b> KENNY </b> No. The letter is an intentional, but it's having an effect far greater than its authors intended. (beat) What if our Jupiter missiles are just a last minute haggle to salvage something? Maybe a bone Khruschev is throwing to the hard line, not really caring if we reject it or not? (beat) And then these accidents have happened. <b> BOBBY </b> Making the second letter and the overall picture look worse than it really is. <b> SORENSEN </b> The Guns of August. <b> KENNY </b> Exactly. (beat) If they're sane and human like we are, then maybe we just refuse, and they'll let it slide, like we've been letting things slide. <b> SORENSEN </b> So we reject the second letter. And Kenny looks at Bobby. The world stops. <b> KENNY </b> No. We don't reject it... It hits Bobby like a lightning bolt. <b> BOBBY </b> ... We accept the first letter and pretend the second doesn't exist. The President, Rusk and Sorensen stare at him, mute. <b> INT. CABINET ROOM - NIGHT </b> HOLD ON the exact same mute reaction from the entire assembled EXCOM. Finally McCone breaks the spell. <b> MCCONE </b> It won't work -- Bobby, Kenny and Sorensen start to object, but McCone raises his voice over theirs. <b> MCCONE (CONT'D) </b> -- because it's wishful thinking! It's the same wishful thinking that blinded us all these months while the Soviets were sneaking those missiles in under our noses! McNamara shakes his head, intrigued but skeptical. <b> MCNAMARA </b> Ignore the second letter, agree to the conditions of the first... <b> GENERAL TAYLOR </b> There's no reason to believe the Soviets will let it go. <b> RUSK </b> Max is right. Why will they accept it? <b> MCNAMARA </b> It can work. If, IF they believe we'll hit them. Kenny, Bobby and Sorensen look at McNamara, grateful. <b> MCNAMARA (CONT'D) </b> We've only got time for one more round of diplomacy. The first airstrikes start in less than 36 hours. <b> RUSK </b> But we have to make them agree to it. So how do we do that? The President leans forward. Sensing he's about to speak, all eyes turn to him. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> We give them something. We tell them we'll remove the missiles from Turkey say, six months from now so that there appears to be no linkage. We also tell them if they go public about it, we deny it and the deal is off. <b> KENNY </b> And we do it under the table so we can disavow any knowledge of it. <b> MCCONE </b> It's transparent. The press'll be all over it. <b> KENNY </b> Six months from now, I'm not going to care. Are you? We'll deal with it. <b> MCNAMARA </b> At least it will expose whether Khruschev has been overthrown. We'll know what we're dealing with. <b> KENNY </b> And if this is a move to appease the hard line, then it may just be the bone he needs to regain control of his own house. Most EXCOM is nodding, agreeing. McCone shakes his head in disgust. Taylor sits in silence. <b> RUSK </b> Whoever carries the message has to hit the nail on the head. Come across as too soft, they'll push us. Too hard, they'll be cornered and even more dangerous. <b> MCCONE </b> They could pre-empt. It's a terrible responsibility to bear. The room is silent. At last Bobby looks up from his folded hands to his brother. The President stares back. There is nobody else who can do this. Only Bobby. His brother. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Bobby. You know Dobrynin best. Bobby nods, taking up the gauntlet. <b> THE PRESIDENT (CONT'D) </b> Ted, you get working on the draft. Sorensen and Bobby rise as one, head for the doors. <b> THE PRESIDENT (CONT'D) </b> And make sure he knows we have to have an answer tomorrow. (beat, final) Because on Monday we begin military action against Cuba. Bobby and Kenny exchange a look. <b> EXT. WEST WING DRIVEWAY - NIGHT </b> A LONG SHOT: Bobby emerges from the West Wing in his overcoat, briefcase in hand. He pauses, tiny, alone. The West Wing - and all its imposing spotlit power behind him - reduced to this insignificant man on his eleventh-hour mission. And then, out of the shadows, in the f.g., steps Kenny in his own coat, his breath frosting in the late-night air. Bobby sees him, and knows he is not so alone anymore. <b> ON THE DRIVEWAY </b> They meet in front of the limo. Bobby stops, shuffles his things, awkward. <b> BOBBY </b> What do you want? A good-bye kiss? Kenny opens the driver's side door. The Secret Service LIMO DRIVER peers out. <b> LIMO DRIVER </b> Hey, Kenny. <b> KENNY </b> Hey, Joe. Listen, I'll take care of him. Go ahead in, grab some coffee. We'll be back pretty quick. <b> LIMO DRIVER </b> You sure? Kenny's nod and look -- there's no arguing. The Limo Driver hops out, and Kenny gets in. Bobby stands there outside for a beat. He tries to hide how touched he is, but can't completely. <b> KENNY </b> What's the matter with you? Forget how to open a car door? <b> INT. BOBBY'S LIMO - NIGHT </b> Bobby recovers, opens his own door, gets in the front seat next to Kenny. <b> KENNY </b> Jesus, you rich people. Kenny starts up the engine. Bobby smiles a twisted smile. As the car pulls away, the two men sit in silence, neither willing to admit how glad the other is there. <b> EXT. PENNSYLVANIA AVE. - NIGHT </b> The limo wheels out into the street, carrying the two friends into the darkness. <b> INT. BOBBY'S LIMO - NIGHT </b> Bobby stares out the window at the passing city, the lights the lives behind those windows. As the car drives on and on, the tension returns. Bobby feels the weight of all those lives. On him. A long beat. He gazes at Kenny, the only man he could ever admit this to: <b> BOBBY </b> I don't know if I can do this. Kenny glances over at him. Bobby stares back. <b> KENNY </b> There's nobody else I'd rather have going in there. Bobby looks at him. <b> KENNY (CONT'D) </b> Nobody else I'd trust Helen and the kids' lives to. Kenny means it. He looks away. Bobby shifts, awkward. <b> BOBBY </b> Take a left. Kenny looks him. This isn't the way to the Justice Department. But he complies. <b> BOBBY (CONT'D) </b> We gave so much to get here. I don't know. Sometimes I think what the hell did we do it for? <b> KENNY </b> Because we knew we could do a better job than everyone else. And Bobby, in the silence and closeness of the car, turns on Kenny - anguished, knowing his life is at its climax. <b> BOBBY </b> You know... I hate being called the brilliant one. The ruthless one. They guy who does the dirty work. The one everybody's afraid of. Kenny looks to him, moved, not knowing what to say. <b> BOBBY (CONT'D) </b> I hate it. I'm not smart, you know. And I'm not so ruthless. He looks to Kenny, searching his face, then away, embarrassed. <b> KENNY </b> You're right about the smart part, but ruthless, well... That breaks the tension as they arrive at the scene: <b> THROUGH THE WINDOW </b> Appears the grim, square lines of the SOVIET EMBASSY. Police cars line the streets outside it. All the windows are dark. A cordon of KGB GUARDS in plainclothes stand by the gated entrance. On the opposite side of the street lounge two dozen WASHINGTON D.C. POLICE. <b> RESUME </b> Kenny gives Bobby a look. Bobby rolls down his window. <b> BOBBY </b> Slow down. Smell that? <b> KENNY </b> Smoke. <b> BOBBY </b> Just wanted to see for myself. (beat) They're burning their documents. The final duty of an embassy before war... <b> BOBBY (CONT'D) </b> They think we're going to war. G-d help us, Ken. <b> EXT. SOVIET EMBASSY - NIGHT </b> THE CAMERA lifts away from the limo, turning toward the Embassy, past the Guards, past the brass plate which reads EMBASSY OF THE UNITED SOVIET SOCIALIST REPUBLICS, up and up to the roof where black, reeking SMOKE billows from all of the Embassy's several chimneys. The CAMERA races into it. It engulfs us all. <b> EXT. JUSTICE DEPARTMENT - NIGHT </b> Kenny squeals the limo up to the curb in front of the Justice Department. The doors fly open, and Kenny and Bobby jump out, head up the steps to the building. <b> INT. HALL OUTSIDE BOBBY'S OFFICE - NIGHT </b> Bobby's STAFFERS greet them as they stride down the hall, Staffer #1 taking Bobby's coat. <b> STAFFER #1 </b> Sir, Ambassador Dobrynin is already here. We have him waiting in your office. They reach the double oak doors to Bobby's suite and stop. Bobby faces Kenny. <b> KENNY </b> I'll whistle up some luck for you. And before Kenny's eyes, all of Bobby's doubt vanishes. In its place, a severe confidence. A grandeur Kenny has never seen. It makes Kenny pause. He beholds his best friend become a man of the ages. And then Bobby SMOOTHLY opens the door. <b> INT. BOBBY'S WAITING ROOM - NIGHT </b> And a DOOR SHUTS OC like a threshold of history. HOLD ON Bobby's waiting room. Silent. Cavernous. Dim. Plush carpet. Heavy drapes framing dark windows. And abandoned secretary's desk. A row of sofas and chairs on either side of the room. Two doorways, one at either end of the room. A WOMAN sits in one of the chairs for visitors. Dressed in gray. Prim. But beautiful. A secretary of some sort. One of the double doors to the hall swings silently open. Kenny glides in. He sees the other door shut at the far end of the room. Kenny crashes in one of the chairs to wait. HOLD ON THE SCENE, motionless, silent. Kenny WHISTLES two notes. Stops. And then he begins to WHISTLE the Irish tune, O'Donnell Aboo. He gets a bar into it -- and there's a polite, soft COUGH. Kenny stops. Then notices the Woman in gray across the room. He didn't see her. It's dim over there. She looks at him, expressionless. The CAMERA FINDS: a pin on her lapel. A RED HAMMER AND <b> SICKLE. </b> Kenny reacts. Dobrynin's assistant? His opposite number? A friend? Or more than a friend? Here is the face of the enemy. Not a smile between them. Kenny resumes his ease. And begins to WHISTLE again. The haunting Irish song echoes in the vaulted ceiling, filling the dim room. Strange, sad, beautiful. The woman listens. And her face begins to soften. Kenny stares at the dark, lonely windows, his SONG striving to fill the empty room. Kenny sinks deeper in the chair, his tune all-consuming... and the Woman's voice breaks in. Kenny stops, looks over. Her voice is tremulous and beautiful. Just a snatch of some song in Russian. She stops, awkward. Kenny stares. The Woman stares back. No smiles. But in their eyes, they each see the other's fear, the other's beauty, the other's humanity. So this is the enemy. <b> THE WOMAN </b> Who are you? Kenny glances to the door. He considers for a long moment. <b> KENNY </b> The friend. Kenny breaks the gaze. He begins to whistle again. The CAMERA drifts away, finding the far DOOR to the inner office, Kenny's tune stronger, carrying with it hope... <b> INT. BOBBY'S OFFICE - NIGHT </b> ... to the other side of that DOOR. Dobrynin sits in a chair opposite Bobby behind his desk. The room is equally dim. And far more tense. Silence. And then the FAINTEST STRAIN of O'Donnell Aboo. Dobrynin glances briefly over his shoulder at the door. But Bobby, unseen by Dobrynin, can't help the flicker of a private smile. It's Kenny's presence, and Bobby is the stronger for it. And then the tune is gone. Bobby leans forward, cool, controlled, masterful. <b> BOBBY </b> Ambassador Dobrynin, we are aware that at this moment your missiles in Cuba are at the brink of operational readiness... <b> SMASH CUT TO: </b> <b> EXT. MISSILE SITE - CUBA - CONTINUOUS </b> Floodlights illuminate MISSILES, vertical on their erectors, support VEHICLES, clustered across the man-made clearing. Mask-wearing Technicians wave a FUEL TRUCK back to the nearest missile. Clouds of toxic VAPOR rise from the others. They've already been fueled. <b> BOBBY (V.O.) </b> They are a vital threat to my country. If launched, they would kill 80 million Americans. <b> SMASH CUT TO: </b> <b> INT. BOBBY'S OFFICE - CONTINUOUS </b> Dobrynin listens impassively, as is his professional duty. <b> BOBBY </b> My brother, my friends, my countrymen and I cannot and will not permit those missiles to become operational. (beat) I promise you that. Dobrynin looks out the window. And then, pained, looks back at Bobby. <b> DOBRYNIN </b> Then I fear our two nations will go to war. And I fear where war will lead us. Bobby acknowledges him with a nod. <b> BOBBY </b> If the missiles do not become operational, if you remove the missiles, then there will be no war. (beat) At this moment, the President is accepting the terms of Secretary Khruschev's letter of Friday night. If the Soviet Union halts construction immediately, removes the missiles, and submits to U.N. inspection, the United States will pledge to never invade Cuba or aid others in that enterprise. Dobrynin stares at Bobby. Stares hard. <b> DOBRYNIN </b> If your Jupiter missiles in Turkey were removed also, such an accommodation could be reached. The two men move their argument forward with the deliberation and formality of chess masters. <b> BOBBY </b> (tired sounding) The United States cannot agree to such terms under threat. Any belief to the contrary -- (beat) -- was in error. Dobrynin reels internally. The only sign on his face is a slight tremor. Bobby looks up, registers the calculated effect. And to Dobrynin's horror, the Russian believes: <b> DOBRYNIN </b> You want war... But not so fast. Bobby folds his hands. And he smoothly goes from hard-ass brinksman to sensitive deal-maker. <b> BOBBY </b> However, while there can be no quid pro quo on this issue, the United States can offer a private assurance. Dobrynin holds his breath. <b> BOBBY (CONT'D) </b> Our Jupiter missiles in Turkey are obsolete, and have been scheduled for withdrawal for some time. This withdrawal should be completed within, say, six months. Dobrynin lets out his breath. <b> BOBBY (CONT'D) </b> Of course, any public disclosure of this assurance would negate the deal and produce the most stringent denials from our government. Dobrynin grasps the move immediately, understanding the ramifications. Still he hesitates a moment. <b> DOBRYNIN </b> This private assurance represents the word of the Highest Authority? <b> BOBBY </b> Yes. <b> DOBRYNIN </b> And it can be relayed beyond Comrade Khruschev's ears to the top circles of my government <b> BOBBY </b> Of course. Our pledge can be relayed to any government official Secretary Khruschev sees fit to satisfy. Meaning this is the bone he can show the hard line. Dobrynin struggles internally, knowing what Bobby has done, wanting to hug him. It comes across as agitation. <b> BOBBY (CONT'D) </b> With the caveat that it is not made public in any way, shape or form. (beat) And we must have an answer tomorrow at the latest. I cannot stress this point enough. <b> DOBRYNIN </b> Tomorrow... <b> BOBBY </b> Tomorrow... Dobrynin rises from his chair. Bobby rises with him. <b> DOBRYNIN </b> Then you must excuse me and permit me to relay the substance of our discussion to my superiors. Dobrynin heads for the door. Half way there he turns back to Bobby, deeply moved. Deeply grateful. <b> DOBRYNIN (CONT'D) </b> We have heard stories that some among your military men wish for war. (beat) You are a good man. Your brother is a good man. I assure you there are other good men. Let us hope the will of good men is enough to counter the terrible strength of this thing which has been put in motion. <b> INT. OVAL OFFICE - NIGHT </b> Kenny enters the Oval Office through his side door. The office is dark, only the desk lamp on. Kenny's gaze moves over the trappings of power: the carpet with the Presidential Seal, the rocking chair by the fireplace, the desk. And on the desk, tucked almost out of sight, sits a small, humble wooden plaque. It's turned to face the occupant of the chair behind the desk. Kenny reaches out, turns it around. It is the Breton's Fisherman's Prayer. It reads: OH LORD, THY SEA IS GREAT, MY BOAT SO SMALL. <b> BOBBY (O.S.) </b> We're out here. Kenny holds on the plaque a beat, and looks up at the open French door to the Rose Garden. The curtains swirl around him in the wind as he goes through the door and out -- <b> EXT. PORTICO - CONTINUOUS </b> -- onto the portico. Standing there in the dark, by the white neoclassical pillars of the cloister, are Bobby and the President. They're holding drinks. Kenny joins them. The President gestures out across the South Lawn to the gleaming Washington Monument. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> We were just debating who had it worse, us or George Washington and his guys. <b> BOBBY </b> He didn't have to worry about nuclear weapons. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Yeah, but the country didn't even exist as a country yet. It was a mess, and he didn't have a leg to stand on. <b> KENNY </b> All he had was his character. The President and Bobby nod at the justice of that remark. <b> BOBBY </b> How does a guy get a rep like that? <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Doesn't matter to me. If I went down in history like Adams, I'd die happy. All they say about him today is -- <b> KENNY </b> -- he kept the peace. Kenny looks at the President. The President feels it, and gazes back to him. The three of them stare out at the glittering city. The grandness of the world lies before them, and they are deciding its fate, and are humbled by the awfulness of it. The silence is beyond power. And for a long moment, they know not to disturb it. There is nothing left to say. The President, at last, finishes his drink. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> You know, we never did control it. Not really. Not like we think. He looks at Kenny. Kenny nods. He knows that now too. <b> THE PRESIDENT (CONT'D) </b> But we did our best. Now it's up to them. <b> EXT. O'DONNELL DRIVEWAY - NIGHT </b> Kenny's limo pulls away, leaving Kenny, coat in hand, at the bottom of his driveway. He watches it go, silently urging it to return for him with some call from the President telling him he's desperately needed. But it doesn't. He turns to his house. The lights are all out. He notices he's CLUTCHING the handle of his briefcase. His knuckles are white. With conscious effort, he unfolds his hand, letting the briefcase drop on the driveway. He stands alone, stripped of his friends, his family, his job... and in that moment, mute, impotent in the shadow of Armageddon, Kenny is our Everyman of the Nuclear Age. <b> INT. O'DONNELL KITCHEN - CONTINUOUS </b> Helen stands in the kitchen, a ghostly white figure in her robe, the windows open and curtain flapping as she breathes the air. Kenny enters. He stands in the doorway. <b> HELEN </b> I saw you out there. You want him to call you back, need you. <b> KENNY </b> No. I'm glad I'm home. And she knows the worst. <b> HELEN </b> How long do we have? Kenny's voice breaks. <b> KENNY </b> If the sun rises in the morning, it is only because of men of goodwill. (beat) And that's all there is between us and the Devil. They take each other in their arms, the wisdom of the atomic age so simple, so tenuous, every human life hanging by such a thread... yet a thread so powerful. The CAMERA RISES FROM THEM, finding the OPEN WINDOW and the DARKNESS. <b> INT. O'DONNELL BEDROOM - DAWN </b> The RED DOME OF NUCLEAR FIRE rising over Washington. It roils the air in its expanding, blood-red glory. It is the sun. The dawn in the East. <b> PULL BACK THROUGH THE OPEN WINDOW. </b> <b> SUPER: SUNDAY, OCTOBER 28TH. DAY 13 </b> into Kenny and Helen's bedroom. And silence. Kenny and Helen lie together on the bed. The light burns into Kenny's half-shut eye. Kenny is only dimly conscious of the light's meaning. Until the PHONE SHRILLS downstairs. Kenny is instantly up, launched out of the room. <b> INT. O'DONNELL KITCHEN - CONTINUOUS </b> Kenny snatches the RED PHONE from its hook. <b> KENNY </b> Yeah? <b> BOBBY (O.S.) </b> Kenny. It's over. <b> EXT. ST. STEPHEN'S CHURCH - DAY </b> THE CHURCH BELLS TOLL in raucous celebration. Kenny, Helen and the five O'DONNELL KIDS join the throng packing through the doors to the church. They're all smiling except Kenny who searches fro faces in the CROWD. And then he spots Bobby with his FAMILY. Bobby grins at him. That makes Kenny grin back. <b> RADIO MOSCOW (O.S.) </b> This is Radio Moscow. Moscow calling. But Kenny keeps looking. <b> RADIO MOSCOW (O.S.) (CONT'D) </b> The following statement is the text of a letter from General Secretary Khruschev to President Kennedy. Kenny spots him emerging from the Presidential limo, surrounded by Secret Service Agents - John Kennedy. His FAMILY also is with him. <b> RADIO MOSCOW (O.S.) (CONT'D) </b> ...I regard with respect and trust the statement you made in your message of 27 October 1962 that there would be no attack, no invasion of Cuba, and not only the part of the United States, but also on the part of the Western Hemisphere, as you said in your same message. Then the motives which induced us to render assistance of such a kind to Cuba disappear... Kennedy, greeting well-wishers, a brilliant smile on his face, is carried through the crowd toward Kenny and the doors of the church. <b> RADIO MOSCOW (O.S.) (CONT'D) </b> ...it is for this reason that we have instructed our officers - these missiles, as I already informed you are in the hands of Soviet officers to take appropriate measures to discontinue construction, dismantle them, and return them to the Soviet Union. <b> EXT. MISSILE SITE - CUBA - DAY </b> the base has been half-dismantled over night. Fuel trucks pull away, lumping down the makeshift dirt road. Across the site missiles are lowered, their nose cones being removed. A MISSILE on its transporter, Technicians crawling all over it, COVERING IT with a tarp. A massive Soviet Helicopter's rotors thunder as it lifts off, cargo crates swaying under it, a CLOUD OF DUST FROM ITS WASH <b> FILLING THE SCREEN, WIPING US TO: </b> <b> INT. CABINET ROOM - DAY </b> EXCOM laughing, celebrating, half-drunk already this Sunday morning. The President shushes the group. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Hey! Hey. Okay, that's enough. The group quiets down. The Presidents stares at them, calm, firm. They sober up quickly. Kenny listens, expectant. <b> THE PRESIDENT (CONT'D) </b> I don't want any gloating. This is not a victory over the Soviets. It's a victory with the Soviets. (beat) I want everyone to remember that. <b> INT. WEST WING HALLWAY - DAY </b> Kenny rounds a corner. McNamara, Bundy and McCone are talking, excited, hushed, standing to one side, down the hall. Kenny eyes them as he draws closer, and then they notice he's approaching. Bundy nods him over, confidential. <b> BUNDY </b> We've been talking. We can play this big in '64. It's the foreign policy trophy we've been waiting. Kenny sickens. He tries to listen, but it all begins to blur. <b> BUNDY (CONT'D) </b> I think we can ride it all the way home next election. Bet you're way ahead of us, eh? Bundy slaps Kenny on the back. Kenny is pale. Is what they're saying possible? But Bundy and McCone are too wrapped up in their schemes to notice Kenny's distress. <b> MCCONE </b> We've ordered crash reassessment of our major geopolitical hotspots. We've got a lot of new clout, and we can run the table on the Soviets. Middle East, Southeast Asia... And Kenny, sad, moved beyond all pity and loathing, realizes it is possible. They haven't gotten it. He is speechless, helplessly shaking his head. Bundy finally sees something isn't right with him. <b> MCNAMARA </b> What's wrong, O'Donnell? Kenny can't speak. Can't find the words. But tongue-tied finally manages: <b> KENNY </b> Don't you understand? McNamara and Bundy look at him funny. <b> BUNDY </b> Understand what? Kenny just looks at them, eyes filled with sorrow. They begin to feel uncomfortable. <b> KENNY </b> The sun came up today. <b> BUNDY </b> Yeah. <b> KENNY </b> It shouldn't have. But it did. <b> MCCONE </b> We were lucky we were able to keep it under control. Kenny looks away, unable to bear it. <b> KENNY </b> Every day the sun comes up... says something about us. <b> BUNDY </b> Says what, Kenny? Kenny looks back at them. <b> KENNY </b> Something... amazing. They just stare at him. And with secret smiles, superior smiles, they nod. <b> MCNAMARA </b> Sure, Ken. I understand. Feels good to win, doesn't it? But they don't understand, and together turn away. <b> BUNDY </b> See you later, Kenny. Kenny watches them, heads bowed in discussion, disappear into the labyrinth of the West Wing. Kenny turns his back on them. <b> INT. PRESIDENT'S BEDROOM - DAY </b> The President stands at his mirror, tying a bow tie to a tux for some Sunday special event. Kenny gathers up his folder from nearby breakfast table. Kenny meets the President's gaze in the mirror, and the two men know they have been to the same mountaintop. <b> THE PRESIDENT </b> Kenny... A beat. Kenny stands straight, ready for action, ready for some necessary thing. Ready to go back into the game. <b> THE PRESIDENT (CONT'D) </b> ...never mind. See you around, Kenny. Kenny starts to leave, but at the door, turns back. <b> KENNY </b> You know... The President looks at him in the mirror. <b> KENNY (CONT'D) </b> ...this was what we're here for. The President smiles an ever-so-faint smile. Kenny turns and leaves the room, vanishing, and as we HOLD on the empty doorway, the simple, whistled melody of O'DONNELL ABOO drifts from the hallway beyond, becoming our END MUSIC. <b> FADE OUT </b> <b> SUPER: </b> Shortly after the crisis President Kennedy ordered a reassessment of U.S.-Soviet relations, ushering a brief thaw in the Cold War. During this time, the Washington-Moscow hotline was installed to ensure that in a future crisis, miscommunication would not lead to nuclear war. The President was assassinated on November 22nd, a year after the crisis ended. <b> THE SUPER: </b> Bobby Kennedy ran for president in 1968. After winning the California primary, he called Kenny from the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles and told him, "I finally feel like I'm out from under my brother's shadow." Bobby was assassinated minutes later. <b> THEN SUPER: </b> The members of EXCOM continued to serve with distinction in government in various capacities over the next three decades. As Lyndon Johnson's Secretary of Defense, Robert McNamara urged containment of the Soviet threat in every theatre of conflict around the world. He ultimately advised President Johnson to increase the U.S. military commitment to one of these minor backwater conflicts: Vietnam. <b> AND FINALLY SUPER: </b> Kenny O'Donnell witnessed the President's assassination from the car behind. He went on to head the Peace Platform at the 1968 Democratic National Convention, fighting to end the Vietnam War. He died in 1977. </pre> </pre><br> <table width="85%" border="0" align="center" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" class="body" style="BORDER-TOP: #000000 1px solid; BORDER-RIGHT: #000000 1px solid; BORDER-LEFT: #000000 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #000000 1px solid;"> <tr> <td align=center> <td><h1>Thirteen Days</h1><br><br> <b>Writers</b> : &nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="/writer.php?w=David Self" title="Scripts by David Self">David Self</a><br> <b>Genres</b> : &nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="/genre/Drama" title="Drama Scripts">Drama</a><br><br><br> <a href="/Movie Scripts/Thirteen Days Script.html#comments" title="Thirteen Days comments">User Comments</a> </td> </table> <br><br> <div align="center"> <a href="https://www.imsdb.com" title="Internet Movie Script Database"><img src="/images/lilbutton.gif" style="border: 1px solid black;" alt="Internet Movie Script Database" border=1><br> Back to IMSDb</a> </div><br> <br><br> </tr> </table> <br><br> </table> <table width="99%" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" class="body"> <tr> <td background="/images/reel.gif" height="13" colspan="2"> </table> <div align="center"> <a href="https://www.imsdb.com" title="Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb)">Index</a> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;|&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <a href="/submit" title="Submit scripts">Submit</a> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;|&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <a href="/links" title="Other sites">Links</a> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;|&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <a href="/link to us" title="Link to IMSDb">Link to us</a> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;|&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <a href="/feeds" title="IMSDb RSS Feeds">RSS Feeds</a> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;|&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <a href="/disclaimer">Disclaimer</a> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;|&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <a href="/privacy">Privacy policy</a> </div> <br /> </body> </html> Question: Who advise immediate U.S. Military strikes against the missiles? Answer: Joint Chief of Staff.
{ "task_name": "narrativeqa" }
/* * Copyright 2000-2009 JetBrains s.r.o. * * Licensed under the Apache License, Version 2.0 (the "License"); * you may not use this file except in compliance with the License. * You may obtain a copy of the License at * * http://www.apache.org/licenses/LICENSE-2.0 * * Unless required by applicable law or agreed to in writing, software * distributed under the License is distributed on an "AS IS" BASIS, * WITHOUT WARRANTIES OR CONDITIONS OF ANY KIND, either express or implied. * See the License for the specific language governing permissions and * limitations under the License. */ package git4idea.checkout; import com.intellij.openapi.project.Project; import com.intellij.openapi.ui.DialogWrapper; import com.intellij.openapi.vcs.VcsException; import com.intellij.openapi.vfs.VirtualFile; import com.intellij.ui.DocumentAdapter; import git4idea.GitBranch; import git4idea.GitTag; import git4idea.GitVcs; import git4idea.commands.GitHandler; import git4idea.commands.GitLineHandler; import git4idea.commands.GitSimpleHandler; import git4idea.config.GitVcsSettings; import git4idea.i18n.GitBundle; import git4idea.ui.GitReferenceValidator; import git4idea.ui.GitUIUtil; import git4idea.validators.GitBranchNameValidator; import org.jetbrains.annotations.Nullable; import javax.swing.*; import javax.swing.event.DocumentEvent; import java.awt.event.ActionEvent; import java.awt.event.ActionListener; import java.util.ArrayList; import java.util.Collections; import java.util.HashSet; import java.util.List; /** * Checkout dialog. It also allows checking out a new branch. */ public class GitCheckoutDialog extends DialogWrapper { /** * The root panel */ private JPanel myPanel; /** * Git root field */ private JComboBox myGitRoot; /** * Branch/tag to check out */ private JComboBox myBranchToCkeckout; /** * Current branch */ private JLabel myCurrentBranch; /** * Checkbox that specifies whether tags are included into drop down */ private JCheckBox myIncludeTagsCheckBox; /** * The name of new branch */ private JTextField myNewBranchName; /** * The delete branch before checkout flag */ private JCheckBox myOverrideCheckBox; /** * The create reference log checkbox */ private JCheckBox myCreateRefLogCheckBox; /** * The track branch checkbox */ private JCheckBox myTrackBranchCheckBox; /** * The validator for branch to checkout */ private final GitReferenceValidator myBranchToCkeckoutValidator; /** * The validate button */ private JButton myValidateButton; /** * The context project */ private final Project myProject; /** * The Git setting for the project */ private final GitVcsSettings mySettings; /** * Existing branches for the currently selected root */ private final HashSet<String> existingBranches = new HashSet<String>(); /** * A constructor * * @param project the context project * @param roots the git roots for the project * @param defaultRoot the default root */ public GitCheckoutDialog(Project project, List<VirtualFile> roots, VirtualFile defaultRoot) { super(project, true); setTitle(GitBundle.getString("checkout.branch")); myProject = project; mySettings = GitVcsSettings.getInstance(myProject); GitUIUtil.setupRootChooser(myProject, roots, defaultRoot, myGitRoot, myCurrentBranch); setupIncludeTags(); setupBranches(); setOKButtonText(GitBundle.getString("checkout.branch")); myBranchToCkeckoutValidator = new GitReferenceValidator(project, myGitRoot, getBranchToCheckoutTextField(), myValidateButton, new Runnable() { public void run() { checkOkButton(); } }); setupNewBranchName(); init(); checkOkButton(); } /** * Validate if ok button should be enabled and set appropriate error */ private void checkOkButton() { final String sourceRev = getSourceBranch(); if (sourceRev == null || sourceRev.length() == 0) { setErrorText(null); setOKActionEnabled(false); return; } if (myBranchToCkeckoutValidator.isInvalid()) { setErrorText(GitBundle.getString("checkout.validation.failed")); setOKActionEnabled(false); return; } final String newBranchName = myNewBranchName.getText(); if (newBranchName.length() != 0 && !GitBranchNameValidator.INSTANCE.checkInput(newBranchName)) { setErrorText(GitBundle.getString("checkout.invalid.new.branch.name")); setOKActionEnabled(false); return; } if (existingBranches.contains(newBranchName) && !myOverrideCheckBox.isSelected()) { setErrorText(GitBundle.getString("checkout.branch.name.exists")); setOKActionEnabled(false); return; } setErrorText(null); setOKActionEnabled(true); } /** * Setup {@link #myNewBranchName} */ private void setupNewBranchName() { myOverrideCheckBox.addActionListener(new ActionListener() { public void actionPerformed(final ActionEvent e) { checkOkButton(); } }); final DocumentAdapter l = new DocumentAdapter() { protected void textChanged(final DocumentEvent e) { checkOkButton(); final String text = myNewBranchName.getText(); if (text.length() == 0) { disableCheckboxes(); } else { if (GitBranchNameValidator.INSTANCE.checkInput(text)) { if (existingBranches.contains(text)) { myOverrideCheckBox.setEnabled(true); } else { myOverrideCheckBox.setEnabled(false); myOverrideCheckBox.setSelected(false); } if (existingBranches.contains(getSourceBranch())) { if (!myTrackBranchCheckBox.isEnabled()) { myTrackBranchCheckBox.setSelected(true); myTrackBranchCheckBox.setEnabled(true); } } else { myTrackBranchCheckBox.setSelected(false); myTrackBranchCheckBox.setEnabled(false); } myCreateRefLogCheckBox.setEnabled(true); } else { disableCheckboxes(); } } } private void disableCheckboxes() { myOverrideCheckBox.setSelected(false); myOverrideCheckBox.setEnabled(false); myTrackBranchCheckBox.setSelected(false); myTrackBranchCheckBox.setEnabled(false); myCreateRefLogCheckBox.setSelected(false); myCreateRefLogCheckBox.setEnabled(false); } }; myNewBranchName.getDocument().addDocumentListener(l); final JTextField text = getBranchToCheckoutTextField(); text.getDocument().addDocumentListener(l); } /** * @return text field for branch to checkout */ private JTextField getBranchToCheckoutTextField() { return (JTextField)myBranchToCkeckout.getEditor().getEditorComponent(); } /** * @return the branch, tag, or expression to checkout */ public String getSourceBranch() { return GitUIUtil.getTextField(myBranchToCkeckout).getText(); } /** * Setup {@link #myBranchToCkeckout} */ private void setupBranches() { ActionListener l = new ActionListener() { public void actionPerformed(final ActionEvent e) { try { List<String> branchesAndTags = new ArrayList<String>(); // get branches GitBranch.listAsStrings(myProject, gitRoot(), true, true, branchesAndTags); existingBranches.clear(); existingBranches.addAll(branchesAndTags); Collections.sort(branchesAndTags); // get tags if (myIncludeTagsCheckBox.isSelected()) { int mark = branchesAndTags.size(); GitTag.listAsStrings(myProject, gitRoot(), branchesAndTags); Collections.sort(branchesAndTags.subList(mark, branchesAndTags.size())); } myBranchToCkeckout.removeAllItems(); for (String item : branchesAndTags) { myBranchToCkeckout.addItem(item); } myBranchToCkeckout.setSelectedItem(""); } catch (VcsException ex) { GitVcs.getInstance(myProject) .showErrors(Collections.singletonList(ex), GitBundle.getString("checkout.retrieving.branches.and.tags")); } } }; myGitRoot.addActionListener(l); l.actionPerformed(null); myIncludeTagsCheckBox.addActionListener(l); } /** * @return a handler that creates branch or null if branch creation is not needed. */ @Nullable public GitSimpleHandler createBranchHandler() { final String branch = myNewBranchName.getText(); if (branch.length() == 0) { return null; } GitSimpleHandler h = new GitSimpleHandler(myProject, gitRoot(), GitHandler.BRANCH); h.setNoSSH(true); if (myTrackBranchCheckBox.isSelected()) { h.addParameters("--track"); } if (myCreateRefLogCheckBox.isSelected()) { h.addParameters("-l"); } if (myOverrideCheckBox.isSelected()) { h.addParameters("-f"); } h.addParameters(branch, getSourceBranch()); return h; } /** * @return a handler that checkouts branch */ public GitLineHandler checkoutHandler() { GitLineHandler h = new GitLineHandler(myProject, gitRoot(), GitHandler.CHECKOUT); h.setNoSSH(true); final String newBranch = myNewBranchName.getText(); if (newBranch.length() == 0) { h.addParameters(getSourceBranch()); } else { h.addParameters(newBranch); } return h; } /** * @return a currently selected git root */ public VirtualFile gitRoot() { return (VirtualFile)myGitRoot.getSelectedItem(); } /** * Setup {@link #myIncludeTagsCheckBox} */ private void setupIncludeTags() { Boolean tagsIncluded = mySettings.CHECKOUT_INCLUDE_TAGS; if (tagsIncluded == null) { tagsIncluded = Boolean.FALSE; } myIncludeTagsCheckBox.setSelected(tagsIncluded.booleanValue()); myIncludeTagsCheckBox.addActionListener(new ActionListener() { public void actionPerformed(final ActionEvent e) { mySettings.CHECKOUT_INCLUDE_TAGS = myIncludeTagsCheckBox.isSelected(); } }); } /** * {@inheritDoc} */ protected JComponent createCenterPanel() { return myPanel; } /** * {@inheritDoc} */ @Override protected String getDimensionServiceKey() { return getClass().getName(); } /** * {@inheritDoc} */ @Override protected String getHelpId() { return "reference.VersionControl.Git.CheckoutBranch"; } }
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
using System; using System.Collections.Generic; using System.Net; using System.Net.Http; using System.Threading.Tasks; using System.Web; using FluentAssertions; using Humanizer; using JsonApiDotNetCore.Configuration; using JsonApiDotNetCore.Queries.Expressions; using JsonApiDotNetCore.Serialization.Objects; using Microsoft.Extensions.DependencyInjection; using TestBuildingBlocks; using Xunit; namespace JsonApiDotNetCoreTests.IntegrationTests.QueryStrings.Filtering { public sealed class FilterOperatorTests : IClassFixture<IntegrationTestContext<TestableStartup<FilterDbContext>, FilterDbContext>> { private readonly IntegrationTestContext<TestableStartup<FilterDbContext>, FilterDbContext> _testContext; public FilterOperatorTests(IntegrationTestContext<TestableStartup<FilterDbContext>, FilterDbContext> testContext) { _testContext = testContext; testContext.UseController<FilterableResourcesController>(); var options = (JsonApiOptions)testContext.Factory.Services.GetRequiredService<IJsonApiOptions>(); options.EnableLegacyFilterNotation = false; } [Fact] public async Task Can_filter_equality_on_special_characters() { // Arrange var resource = new FilterableResource { SomeString = "This, that & more" }; await _testContext.RunOnDatabaseAsync(async dbContext => { await dbContext.ClearTableAsync<FilterableResource>(); dbContext.FilterableResources.AddRange(resource, new FilterableResource()); await dbContext.SaveChangesAsync(); }); string route = $"/filterableResources?filter=equals(someString,'{HttpUtility.UrlEncode(resource.SomeString)}')"; // Act (HttpResponseMessage httpResponse, Document responseDocument) = await _testContext.ExecuteGetAsync<Document>(route); // Assert httpResponse.Should().HaveStatusCode(HttpStatusCode.OK); responseDocument.Data.ManyValue.Should().HaveCount(1); responseDocument.Data.ManyValue[0].Attributes["someString"].Should().Be(resource.SomeString); } [Fact] public async Task Can_filter_equality_on_two_attributes_of_same_type() { // Arrange var resource = new FilterableResource { SomeInt32 = 5, OtherInt32 = 5 }; var otherResource = new FilterableResource { SomeInt32 = 5, OtherInt32 = 10 }; await _testContext.RunOnDatabaseAsync(async dbContext => { await dbContext.ClearTableAsync<FilterableResource>(); dbContext.FilterableResources.AddRange(resource, otherResource); await dbContext.SaveChangesAsync(); }); const string route = "/filterableResources?filter=equals(someInt32,otherInt32)"; // Act (HttpResponseMessage httpResponse, Document responseDocument) = await _testContext.ExecuteGetAsync<Document>(route); // Assert httpResponse.Should().HaveStatusCode(HttpStatusCode.OK); responseDocument.Data.ManyValue.Should().HaveCount(1); responseDocument.Data.ManyValue[0].Attributes["someInt32"].Should().Be(resource.SomeInt32); responseDocument.Data.ManyValue[0].Attributes["otherInt32"].Should().Be(resource.OtherInt32); } [Fact] public async Task Can_filter_equality_on_two_attributes_of_same_nullable_type() { // Arrange var resource = new FilterableResource { SomeNullableInt32 = 5, OtherNullableInt32 = 5 }; var otherResource = new FilterableResource { SomeNullableInt32 = 5, OtherNullableInt32 = 10 }; await _testContext.RunOnDatabaseAsync(async dbContext => { await dbContext.ClearTableAsync<FilterableResource>(); dbContext.FilterableResources.AddRange(resource, otherResource); await dbContext.SaveChangesAsync(); }); const string route = "/filterableResources?filter=equals(someNullableInt32,otherNullableInt32)"; // Act (HttpResponseMessage httpResponse, Document responseDocument) = await _testContext.ExecuteGetAsync<Document>(route); // Assert httpResponse.Should().HaveStatusCode(HttpStatusCode.OK); responseDocument.Data.ManyValue.Should().HaveCount(1); responseDocument.Data.ManyValue[0].Attributes["someNullableInt32"].Should().Be(resource.SomeNullableInt32); responseDocument.Data.ManyValue[0].Attributes["otherNullableInt32"].Should().Be(resource.OtherNullableInt32); } [Fact] public async Task Can_filter_equality_on_two_attributes_with_nullable_at_start() { // Arrange var resource = new FilterableResource { SomeInt32 = 5, SomeNullableInt32 = 5 }; var otherResource = new FilterableResource { SomeInt32 = 5, SomeNullableInt32 = 10 }; await _testContext.RunOnDatabaseAsync(async dbContext => { await dbContext.ClearTableAsync<FilterableResource>(); dbContext.FilterableResources.AddRange(resource, otherResource); await dbContext.SaveChangesAsync(); }); const string route = "/filterableResources?filter=equals(someNullableInt32,someInt32)"; // Act (HttpResponseMessage httpResponse, Document responseDocument) = await _testContext.ExecuteGetAsync<Document>(route); // Assert httpResponse.Should().HaveStatusCode(HttpStatusCode.OK); responseDocument.Data.ManyValue.Should().HaveCount(1); responseDocument.Data.ManyValue[0].Attributes["someInt32"].Should().Be(resource.SomeInt32); responseDocument.Data.ManyValue[0].Attributes["someNullableInt32"].Should().Be(resource.SomeNullableInt32); } [Fact] public async Task Can_filter_equality_on_two_attributes_with_nullable_at_end() { // Arrange var resource = new FilterableResource { SomeInt32 = 5, SomeNullableInt32 = 5 }; var otherResource = new FilterableResource { SomeInt32 = 5, SomeNullableInt32 = 10 }; await _testContext.RunOnDatabaseAsync(async dbContext => { await dbContext.ClearTableAsync<FilterableResource>(); dbContext.FilterableResources.AddRange(resource, otherResource); await dbContext.SaveChangesAsync(); }); const string route = "/filterableResources?filter=equals(someInt32,someNullableInt32)"; // Act (HttpResponseMessage httpResponse, Document responseDocument) = await _testContext.ExecuteGetAsync<Document>(route); // Assert httpResponse.Should().HaveStatusCode(HttpStatusCode.OK); responseDocument.Data.ManyValue.Should().HaveCount(1); responseDocument.Data.ManyValue[0].Attributes["someInt32"].Should().Be(resource.SomeInt32); responseDocument.Data.ManyValue[0].Attributes["someNullableInt32"].Should().Be(resource.SomeNullableInt32); } [Fact] public async Task Can_filter_equality_on_two_attributes_of_compatible_types() { // Arrange var resource = new FilterableResource { SomeInt32 = 5, SomeUnsignedInt64 = 5 }; var otherResource = new FilterableResource { SomeInt32 = 5, SomeUnsignedInt64 = 10 }; await _testContext.RunOnDatabaseAsync(async dbContext => { await dbContext.ClearTableAsync<FilterableResource>(); dbContext.FilterableResources.AddRange(resource, otherResource); await dbContext.SaveChangesAsync(); }); const string route = "/filterableResources?filter=equals(someInt32,someUnsignedInt64)"; // Act (HttpResponseMessage httpResponse, Document responseDocument) = await _testContext.ExecuteGetAsync<Document>(route); // Assert httpResponse.Should().HaveStatusCode(HttpStatusCode.OK); responseDocument.Data.ManyValue.Should().HaveCount(1); responseDocument.Data.ManyValue[0].Attributes["someInt32"].Should().Be(resource.SomeInt32); responseDocument.Data.ManyValue[0].Attributes["someUnsignedInt64"].Should().Be(resource.SomeUnsignedInt64); } [Fact] public async Task Cannot_filter_equality_on_two_attributes_of_incompatible_types() { // Arrange const string route = "/filterableResources?filter=equals(someDouble,someTimeSpan)"; // Act (HttpResponseMessage httpResponse, Document responseDocument) = await _testContext.ExecuteGetAsync<Document>(route); // Assert httpResponse.Should().HaveStatusCode(HttpStatusCode.BadRequest); responseDocument.Errors.Should().HaveCount(1); ErrorObject error = responseDocument.Errors[0]; error.StatusCode.Should().Be(HttpStatusCode.BadRequest); error.Title.Should().Be("Query creation failed due to incompatible types."); error.Detail.Should().Be("No coercion operator is defined between types 'System.TimeSpan' and 'System.Double'."); error.Source.Should().BeNull(); } [Theory] [InlineData(19, 21, ComparisonOperator.LessThan, 20)] [InlineData(19, 21, ComparisonOperator.LessThan, 21)] [InlineData(19, 21, ComparisonOperator.LessOrEqual, 20)] [InlineData(19, 21, ComparisonOperator.LessOrEqual, 19)] [InlineData(21, 19, ComparisonOperator.GreaterThan, 20)] [InlineData(21, 19, ComparisonOperator.GreaterThan, 19)] [InlineData(21, 19, ComparisonOperator.GreaterOrEqual, 20)] [InlineData(21, 19, ComparisonOperator.GreaterOrEqual, 21)] public async Task Can_filter_comparison_on_whole_number(int matchingValue, int nonMatchingValue, ComparisonOperator filterOperator, double filterValue) { // Arrange var resource = new FilterableResource { SomeInt32 = matchingValue }; var otherResource = new FilterableResource { SomeInt32 = nonMatchingValue }; await _testContext.RunOnDatabaseAsync(async dbContext => { await dbContext.ClearTableAsync<FilterableResource>(); dbContext.FilterableResources.AddRange(resource, otherResource); await dbContext.SaveChangesAsync(); }); string route = $"/filterableResources?filter={filterOperator.ToString().Camelize()}(someInt32,'{filterValue}')"; // Act (HttpResponseMessage httpResponse, Document responseDocument) = await _testContext.ExecuteGetAsync<Document>(route); // Assert httpResponse.Should().HaveStatusCode(HttpStatusCode.OK); responseDocument.Data.ManyValue.Should().HaveCount(1); responseDocument.Data.ManyValue[0].Attributes["someInt32"].Should().Be(resource.SomeInt32); } [Theory] [InlineData(1.9, 2.1, ComparisonOperator.LessThan, 2.0)] [InlineData(1.9, 2.1, ComparisonOperator.LessThan, 2.1)] [InlineData(1.9, 2.1, ComparisonOperator.LessOrEqual, 2.0)] [InlineData(1.9, 2.1, ComparisonOperator.LessOrEqual, 1.9)] [InlineData(2.1, 1.9, ComparisonOperator.GreaterThan, 2.0)] [InlineData(2.1, 1.9, ComparisonOperator.GreaterThan, 1.9)] [InlineData(2.1, 1.9, ComparisonOperator.GreaterOrEqual, 2.0)] [InlineData(2.1, 1.9, ComparisonOperator.GreaterOrEqual, 2.1)] public async Task Can_filter_comparison_on_fractional_number(double matchingValue, double nonMatchingValue, ComparisonOperator filterOperator, double filterValue) { // Arrange var resource = new FilterableResource { SomeDouble = matchingValue }; var otherResource = new FilterableResource { SomeDouble = nonMatchingValue }; await _testContext.RunOnDatabaseAsync(async dbContext => { await dbContext.ClearTableAsync<FilterableResource>(); dbContext.FilterableResources.AddRange(resource, otherResource); await dbContext.SaveChangesAsync(); }); string route = $"/filterableResources?filter={filterOperator.ToString().Camelize()}(someDouble,'{filterValue}')"; // Act (HttpResponseMessage httpResponse, Document responseDocument) = await _testContext.ExecuteGetAsync<Document>(route); // Assert httpResponse.Should().HaveStatusCode(HttpStatusCode.OK); responseDocument.Data.ManyValue.Should().HaveCount(1); responseDocument.Data.ManyValue[0].Attributes["someDouble"].Should().Be(resource.SomeDouble); } [Theory] [InlineData("2001-01-01", "2001-01-09", ComparisonOperator.LessThan, "2001-01-05")] [InlineData("2001-01-01", "2001-01-09", ComparisonOperator.LessThan, "2001-01-09")] [InlineData("2001-01-01", "2001-01-09", ComparisonOperator.LessOrEqual, "2001-01-05")] [InlineData("2001-01-01", "2001-01-09", ComparisonOperator.LessOrEqual, "2001-01-01")] [InlineData("2001-01-09", "2001-01-01", ComparisonOperator.GreaterThan, "2001-01-05")] [InlineData("2001-01-09", "2001-01-01", ComparisonOperator.GreaterThan, "2001-01-01")] [InlineData("2001-01-09", "2001-01-01", ComparisonOperator.GreaterOrEqual, "2001-01-05")] [InlineData("2001-01-09", "2001-01-01", ComparisonOperator.GreaterOrEqual, "2001-01-09")] public async Task Can_filter_comparison_on_DateTime(string matchingDateTime, string nonMatchingDateTime, ComparisonOperator filterOperator, string filterDateTime) { // Arrange var resource = new FilterableResource { SomeDateTime = DateTime.ParseExact(matchingDateTime, "yyyy-MM-dd", null) }; var otherResource = new FilterableResource { SomeDateTime = DateTime.ParseExact(nonMatchingDateTime, "yyyy-MM-dd", null) }; await _testContext.RunOnDatabaseAsync(async dbContext => { await dbContext.ClearTableAsync<FilterableResource>(); dbContext.FilterableResources.AddRange(resource, otherResource); await dbContext.SaveChangesAsync(); }); string route = $"/filterableResources?filter={filterOperator.ToString().Camelize()}(someDateTime," + $"'{DateTime.ParseExact(filterDateTime, "yyyy-MM-dd", null)}')"; // Act (HttpResponseMessage httpResponse, Document responseDocument) = await _testContext.ExecuteGetAsync<Document>(route); // Assert httpResponse.Should().HaveStatusCode(HttpStatusCode.OK); responseDocument.Data.ManyValue.Should().HaveCount(1); responseDocument.Data.ManyValue[0].Attributes["someDateTime"].As<DateTime>().Should().BeCloseTo(resource.SomeDateTime); } [Theory] [InlineData("The fox jumped over the lazy dog", "Other", TextMatchKind.Contains, "jumped")] [InlineData("The fox jumped over the lazy dog", "the fox...", TextMatchKind.Contains, "The")] [InlineData("The fox jumped over the lazy dog", "The fox jumped", TextMatchKind.Contains, "dog")] [InlineData("The fox jumped over the lazy dog", "Yesterday The fox...", TextMatchKind.StartsWith, "The")] [InlineData("The fox jumped over the lazy dog", "over the lazy dog earlier", TextMatchKind.EndsWith, "dog")] public async Task Can_filter_text_match(string matchingText, string nonMatchingText, TextMatchKind matchKind, string filterText) { // Arrange var resource = new FilterableResource { SomeString = matchingText }; var otherResource = new FilterableResource { SomeString = nonMatchingText }; await _testContext.RunOnDatabaseAsync(async dbContext => { await dbContext.ClearTableAsync<FilterableResource>(); dbContext.FilterableResources.AddRange(resource, otherResource); await dbContext.SaveChangesAsync(); }); string route = $"/filterableResources?filter={matchKind.ToString().Camelize()}(someString,'{filterText}')"; // Act (HttpResponseMessage httpResponse, Document responseDocument) = await _testContext.ExecuteGetAsync<Document>(route); // Assert httpResponse.Should().HaveStatusCode(HttpStatusCode.OK); responseDocument.Data.ManyValue.Should().HaveCount(1); responseDocument.Data.ManyValue[0].Attributes["someString"].Should().Be(resource.SomeString); } [Theory] [InlineData("two", "one two", "'one','two','three'")] [InlineData("two", "nine", "'one','two','three','four','five'")] public async Task Can_filter_in_set(string matchingText, string nonMatchingText, string filterText) { // Arrange var resource = new FilterableResource { SomeString = matchingText }; var otherResource = new FilterableResource { SomeString = nonMatchingText }; await _testContext.RunOnDatabaseAsync(async dbContext => { await dbContext.ClearTableAsync<FilterableResource>(); dbContext.FilterableResources.AddRange(resource, otherResource); await dbContext.SaveChangesAsync(); }); string route = $"/filterableResources?filter=any(someString,{filterText})"; // Act (HttpResponseMessage httpResponse, Document responseDocument) = await _testContext.ExecuteGetAsync<Document>(route); // Assert httpResponse.Should().HaveStatusCode(HttpStatusCode.OK); responseDocument.Data.ManyValue.Should().HaveCount(1); responseDocument.Data.ManyValue[0].Attributes["someString"].Should().Be(resource.SomeString); } [Fact] public async Task Can_filter_on_has() { // Arrange var resource = new FilterableResource { Children = new List<FilterableResource> { new() } }; await _testContext.RunOnDatabaseAsync(async dbContext => { await dbContext.ClearTableAsync<FilterableResource>(); dbContext.FilterableResources.AddRange(resource, new FilterableResource()); await dbContext.SaveChangesAsync(); }); const string route = "/filterableResources?filter=has(children)"; // Act (HttpResponseMessage httpResponse, Document responseDocument) = await _testContext.ExecuteGetAsync<Document>(route); // Assert httpResponse.Should().HaveStatusCode(HttpStatusCode.OK); responseDocument.Data.ManyValue.Should().HaveCount(1); responseDocument.Data.ManyValue[0].Id.Should().Be(resource.StringId); } [Fact] public async Task Can_filter_on_has_with_nested_condition() { // Arrange var resources = new List<FilterableResource> { new() { Children = new List<FilterableResource> { new() { SomeBoolean = false } } }, new() { Children = new List<FilterableResource> { new() { SomeBoolean = true } } } }; await _testContext.RunOnDatabaseAsync(async dbContext => { await dbContext.ClearTableAsync<FilterableResource>(); dbContext.FilterableResources.AddRange(resources); await dbContext.SaveChangesAsync(); }); const string route = "/filterableResources?filter=has(children,equals(someBoolean,'true'))"; // Act (HttpResponseMessage httpResponse, Document responseDocument) = await _testContext.ExecuteGetAsync<Document>(route); // Assert httpResponse.Should().HaveStatusCode(HttpStatusCode.OK); responseDocument.Data.ManyValue.Should().HaveCount(1); responseDocument.Data.ManyValue[0].Id.Should().Be(resources[1].StringId); } [Fact] public async Task Can_filter_on_count() { // Arrange var resource = new FilterableResource { Children = new List<FilterableResource> { new(), new() } }; await _testContext.RunOnDatabaseAsync(async dbContext => { await dbContext.ClearTableAsync<FilterableResource>(); dbContext.FilterableResources.AddRange(resource, new FilterableResource()); await dbContext.SaveChangesAsync(); }); const string route = "/filterableResources?filter=equals(count(children),'2')"; // Act (HttpResponseMessage httpResponse, Document responseDocument) = await _testContext.ExecuteGetAsync<Document>(route); // Assert httpResponse.Should().HaveStatusCode(HttpStatusCode.OK); responseDocument.Data.ManyValue.Should().HaveCount(1); responseDocument.Data.ManyValue[0].Id.Should().Be(resource.StringId); } [Theory] [InlineData("and(equals(someString,'ABC'),equals(someInt32,'11'))")] [InlineData("and(equals(someString,'ABC'),equals(someInt32,'11'),equals(someEnum,'Tuesday'))")] [InlineData("or(equals(someString,'---'),lessThan(someInt32,'33'))")] [InlineData("not(equals(someEnum,'Saturday'))")] public async Task Can_filter_on_logical_functions(string filterExpression) { // Arrange var resource1 = new FilterableResource { SomeString = "ABC", SomeInt32 = 11, SomeEnum = DayOfWeek.Tuesday }; var resource2 = new FilterableResource { SomeString = "XYZ", SomeInt32 = 99, SomeEnum = DayOfWeek.Saturday }; await _testContext.RunOnDatabaseAsync(async dbContext => { await dbContext.ClearTableAsync<FilterableResource>(); dbContext.FilterableResources.AddRange(resource1, resource2); await dbContext.SaveChangesAsync(); }); string route = $"/filterableResources?filter={filterExpression}"; // Act (HttpResponseMessage httpResponse, Document responseDocument) = await _testContext.ExecuteGetAsync<Document>(route); // Assert httpResponse.Should().HaveStatusCode(HttpStatusCode.OK); responseDocument.Data.ManyValue.Should().HaveCount(1); responseDocument.Data.ManyValue[0].Id.Should().Be(resource1.StringId); } } }
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
Passage 1: Etan Boritzer Etan Boritzer( born 1950) is an American writer of children ’s literature who is best known for his book" What is God?" first published in 1989. His best selling" What is?" illustrated children's book series on character education and difficult subjects for children is a popular teaching guide for parents, teachers and child- life professionals. Boritzer gained national critical acclaim after" What is God?" was published in 1989 although the book has caused controversy from religious fundamentalists for its universalist views. The other current books in the" What is?" series include What is Love?, What is Death?, What is Beautiful?, What is Funny?, What is Right?, What is Peace?, What is Money?, What is Dreaming?, What is a Friend?, What is True?, What is a Family?, What is a Feeling?" The series is now also translated into 15 languages. Boritzer was first published in 1963 at the age of 13 when he wrote an essay in his English class at Wade Junior High School in the Bronx, New York on the assassination of John F. Kennedy. His essay was included in a special anthology by New York City public school children compiled and published by the New York City Department of Education. Boritzer now lives in Venice, California and maintains his publishing office there also. He has helped numerous other authors to get published through" How to Get Your Book Published!" programs. Boritzer is also a yoga teacher who teaches regular classes locally and guest- teaches nationally. He is also recognized nationally as an erudite speaker on" The Teachings of the Buddha." Passage 2: Sir Samuel Lennard, 3rd Baronet Sir Samuel Lennard, 3rd Baronet (2 October 1672 – 8 October 1727) of Wickham Court, Bromley, Kent was a British army officer and politician who sat in the House of Commons from 1715 to 1727. Lennard was the only son of Sir Stephen Lennard, 2nd Baronet of West Wickham and his wife Elizabeth Hussey, daughter of Delalynd Hussey of Shapwick, Dorset. He was admitted at Middle Temple in 1689 and matriculated at Trinity College, Oxford on 4 April 1690. Lennard joined the army and was a Captain in the Earl of Denbigh ’s Dragoons from 1696 to 1697. He went onto half-pay in 1698 and became a captain in Viscount Shannon’s Regiment of Marines in 1702 and a captain in the Life Guards in 1704. In 1709 he became aide-de-camp to Prince George of Denmark and was guidon and major and then cornet and major. He succeeded his father in the baronetcy on 15 December 1709. In 1713 he was lieutenant and lieutenant-colonel and in 1714 appointed groom of the bedchamber to the Prince of Wales, a post he held until 1717. At the 1715 general election Lennard was returned as Whig Member of Parliament for Hythe on the interest of the Lord Warden. He was knighted for standing proxy for Prince Frederick at his installation as Knight of the Garter in April 1718. Also in 1718, he was made Captain of Sandgate Castle, a position he held until death. He was elected again as MP for Hythe at the 1722 general election and at the 1727 general election. Lennard died shortly after the last election on 8 October 1727. He was unmarried, but had two illegitimate daughters. The baronetcy became extinct on his death. His alleged illegitimate son Samuel was born by Mary Johnson at Maskell's house in Great Ormond Street, London on 10 September 1720. Passage 3: Moffat Sinkala Moffat Sinkala( date of birth unknown, died June 2004) was a Zambian footballer. He competed in the men's tournament at the 1980 Summer Olympics. Passage 4: Terence Robinson Terence D. Robinson( date of birth and death unknown) was a male wrestler who competed for England. Passage 5: Mark Kenneth Woods Mark Kenneth Woods( date of birth unknown) is a Canadian comedy writer, actor, producer, director and TV host. Passage 6: Pamela Jain Pamela Jain is an Indian playback singer. Date of Birth:16th March. Passage 7: Sir Stephen Lennard, 2nd Baronet Sir Stephen Lennard, 2nd Baronet (2 March 1637 – 15 December 1709) of Wickham Court, West Wickham, Kent was an English landowner and Whig politician who sat in the House of Commons of England in two periods between 1681 and 1701 and in the House of Commons of Great Britain from 1708 to 1709. Lennard was the son of Sir Stephen Lennard, 1st Baronet of West Wickham and his third wife Anne Oglander, daughter of John Oglander of Nunwell House, Nunwell, Isle of Wight. He married Elizabeth Roy, widow of John Roy of Woodlands, Dorset, and daughter of Delalyne Hussey of Shapwick, Dorset after a settlement of 30 December 1671. He was Commissioner for assessment for Kent and Surrey from 1677 to 1680, and appointed deputy lieutenant for Kent in 1679. On 29 January 1680, he succeeded to the baronetcy on the death of his father and was subsequently appointed a JP. Lennard was returned as Member of Parliament (MP) for Winchelsea in a contest at the 1681 English general election but took little part in proceedings. He was a colonel of the militia by 1683. He did not stand at the 1685 English general election. He was dismissed from all his local offices in February 1688 because he failed to answer the three questions, on account of ‘illness’. However he was restored as JP and colonel of militia in October 1688 and was Commissioner of Assessment for Kent from 1689 to 1690 and deputy lieutenant from 1689 for the rest of his life. . At the 1698 English general election, Lennard was returned unopposed as MP for Kent. He did not stand again in the 1701 elections. He was next returned for Kent again as a Whig in a contest at the 1708 British general election. He supported the naturalization of the Palatines in 1709 and, on 12 December 1709, he was added to a committee drafting a local turnpike bill. On 14 December the House of Commons voted to impeach Dr Sacheverell, and he was heard to comment that they were going ‘to roast a parson’. Lennard dropped dead of apoplexy aged 72 on 15 December 1709, the day after his comment, while walking in Drury Lane, London. He was buried at West Wickham. He had three daughters, and a son Samuel, who succeeded to the baronetcy. Passage 8: Brian Saunders (weightlifter) Brian Saunders( date of birth and death unknown) was a male weightlifter who competed for England. Passage 9: Les Richards Les Richards( date of birth unknown) was an Australian rules footballer who played with North Melbourne in the Victorian Football League( VFL). Passage 10: Theodred II (Bishop of Elmham) Theodred II was a medieval Bishop of Elmham. The date of Theodred's consecration unknown, but the date of his death was sometime between 995 and 997. Question: When is Sir Samuel Lennard, 3Rd Baronet's father's birthday? Answer: 2 March 1637
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Passage 1: Andreyevsky, Sakha Republic Andreyevsky is a rural locality( a" selo") and the administrative center of Yedyugeysky Rural Okrug of Verkhnevilyuysky District in the Sakha Republic, Russia, located from Verkhnevilyuysk, the administrative center of the district. Its population as of the 2010 Census was 2,229, up from 1,992 recorded during the 2002 Census. Passage 2: Sayylyk, Verkhnevilyuysky District, Sakha Republic Sayylyk is a rural locality( a" selo") and the administrative center of Meyiksky Rural Okrug of Verkhnevilyuysky District in the Sakha Republic, Russia, located from Verkhnevilyuysk, the administrative center of the district. Its population as of the 2010 Census was 621; down from 657 recorded in the 2002 Census. Passage 3: Chengere Chengere is a rural locality( a" selo"), one of two settlements, in addition to Kharbala, in Magassky Rural Okrug of Verkhnevilyuysky District in the Sakha Republic, Russia. It is located from Verkhnevilyuysk, the administrative center of the district and from Kharbala. Its population as of the 2010 Census was 0, the same as recorded during the 2002 Census. Passage 4: Orgyot Orgyot is a rural locality( a" selo"), the only inhabited locality, and the administrative center of Orgyotsky Rural Okrug of Verkhnevilyuysky District in the Sakha Republic, Russia, located from Verkhnevilyuysk, the administrative center of the district. down from 613 recorded during the 2002 Census. Passage 5: Khomustakh, Namsky Rural Okrug, Verkhnevilyuysky District, Sakha Republic Khomustakh is a rural locality( a" selo"), the only inhabited locality, and the administrative center of Namsky Rural Okrug of Verkhnevilyuysky District in the Sakha Republic, Russia, located from Verkhnevilyuysk, the administrative center of the district. Its population as of the 2010 Census was 1,328, up from 1,311 recorded during the 2002 Census. Passage 6: Keng-Kyuyol, Verkhnevilyuysky District, Sakha Republic Keng- Kyu yol is a rural locality( a" selo"), one of two settlements, in addition to Bagadya, in Botulunsky Rural Okrug of Verkhnevilyuysky District in the Sakha Republic, Russia. It is located from Verkhnevilyuysk, the administrative center of the district and from Bagadya. Its population as of the 2010 Census was 0, the same as recorded during the 2002 Census. Passage 7: Kalhorabad Kalhorabad( also Romanized as Kalhorābād; also known as Kalhūrābād and Khalrāwa) is a village in Hoseynabad- e Shomali Rural District, Saral District, Divandarreh County, Kurdistan Province, Iran. At the 2006 census, its population was 370, in 76 families. Passage 8: Bychchagdan Bychchagdan is a rural locality( a" selo") in Dalyrsky Rural Okrug of Verkhnevilyuysky District in the Sakha Republic, Russia, located from Verkhnevilyuysk, the administrative center of the district and from Dalyr, the administrative center of the rural okrug. Its population as of the 2010 Census was 95, of whom 54 were male and 41 female, down from 101 as recorded during the 2002 Census. Passage 9: Kulusunnakh Kulusunnakh is a rural locality( a" selo") in Dalyrsky Rural Okrug of Verkhnevilyuysky District in the Sakha Republic, Russia, located from Verkhnevilyuysk, the administrative center of the district and from Dalyr, the administrative center of the rural okrug. Its population as of the 2010 Census was 19, of whom 12 were male and 7 female, up from 13 as recorded during the 2002 Census. Passage 10: Kyotyordyokh Kyotyordyokh is a rural locality( a" selo") in Botulunsky Rural Okrug of Verkhnevilyuysky District in the Sakha Republic, Russia, located from Verkhnevilyuysk, the administrative center of the district, and from Botulu, the administrative center of the rural okrug. Its population as of the 2010 Census was 102, of whom 55 were male and 47 female, down from 129 as recorded during the 2002 Census. Question: Are Khomustakh, Namsky Rural Okrug, Verkhnevilyuysky District, Sakha Republic and Kalhorabad both located in the same country? Answer: no
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Passage: How Safe is Yale University? Learn About Campus Crime Ratings Badges How Safe is Yale University? Learn About Campus Crime Ratings How safe is the student body at Yale? Find info and statistics on crime on college campuses and surrounding areas. Poor Overall Crime Rating at Yale University Means it is Potentially Less Safe Than Average The overall crime rating is based on reported crime on campus and in surrounding areas. Colleges with low amounts of reported crime are valued as being safer. Yale University earns an overall crime rating of D+ when we compare reported on-campus, city, and regional crime against all other schools nationwide. Campus ADVERTISEMENT Poor On Campus Crime Rating at Yale University Means This School is Worse Than Average On campus crime statistics reported by Yale carry the most importance in our overall estimation of campus crime. When all violations are totalled and weighed by both severity and the number of students at the school, Yale has more than the average reported crime. Can High Reported Crime Be A Good Sign? We base our ratings on reported crime, as there is no way to know how much unreported crime goes on. Does a high amount of reported crime mean the school is dangerous, or does it mean that it is safe due to its stricter law enforcement and reporting? Areas with low amounts of reported crime could just be more lax on enforcement. New Haven Crime Rating is Worse Than Most Yale University is located in New Haven, CT. When compared with other towns and cities nationwide, New Haven ranks far above average in overall crime, making it potentially unsafe and more likely students at Yale may fall victim to a crime when venturing off campus. How Relevant is Off Campus Crime Data? Be sure to ask the admissions office about crime both on and off campus. Regional Crime Rating Near New Haven is Worse Than Average Beyond New Haven, other nearby towns and cities include West Haven, East Haven, and Woodbridge. Altogether, these locations have an overall above average amount of crime when compared to other areas nationwide, meaning the area could be somewhat unsafe. Important Questions to Ask About Safety Even in low-crime areas, students still run the risk of encountering violence and unsafe situations. What kind of policies does the college have in place to protect students or help students who are victims of crimes? How secure are the dorm rooms and other buildings? Would it be easy for an intruder to break in? What kind of punishments or penalties are in place for students who are accused or convicted of crimes? One way to make a student feel more comfortable may be to take a self-defense or safety class. Are there classes like this offered at the college? Question: What notable University is located in New Haven, Connecticut? Answer: {'aliases': ['Yale College, Connecticut', 'Elis (students)', 'Yale Law Tech', 'Yale university', 'Yale Law and Technology', 'YaleNews', 'Yale Univ.', 'Collegiate School of Connecticut', 'Association of Yale Alumni', 'Department of University Health', 'Yale psychology', 'Yale.edu', 'Undergraduate organizing committee', 'YALE', 'Yale Italian Poetry', 'Yale Law and Tech', 'Educational background of George W. Bush', 'University of Yale', 'Yale College Council', 'Yale', 'Bulldog Productions', 'Yale Law & Tech', 'Yale uni', 'Yale Law & Technology', 'History of Yale University', 'Yale University', 'Undergraduate Organizing Committee', 'New blue', 'Yale Sustainability', 'Yale University Department of Psychology'], 'normalized_aliases': ['yalenews', 'collegiate school of connecticut', 'yale law technology', 'yale uni', 'yale', 'yale law and technology', 'yale psychology', 'yale law and tech', 'bulldog productions', 'undergraduate organizing committee', 'yale law tech', 'yale univ', 'association of yale alumni', 'department of university health', 'elis students', 'history of yale university', 'university of yale', 'new blue', 'yale sustainability', 'yale edu', 'yale college council', 'educational background of george w bush', 'yale italian poetry', 'yale university', 'yale university department of psychology', 'yale college connecticut'], 'matched_wiki_entity_name': '', 'normalized_matched_wiki_entity_name': '', 'normalized_value': 'yale', 'type': 'WikipediaEntity', 'value': 'Yale'} Passage: Newport Mansions Reviews - Newport, Rhode Island Newport, Rhode Island Apr 13, 2016 The Breakers, Elms, RoseCliff, and Marble House are all within a 10-15 minute walk of the rental property. Recommended for:History Buffs Mary Kate & Frank F Mar 08, 2016 Great tours daily during the summer. Famous summer "cottages" of the wealthy gilded-age. And Check out "Rough Point" which was the home of Doris Duke, one of the richest women of her day. My mom is gives a fantastic tour there and at the Samuel Whitehorn House. Ask for Mary Jane! Comment. Burns, Kansas Dec 19, 2015 A tour through the Newport mansions is a fun and informative trip back through time and a peek into the lives of the unimaginably wealthy. The Breakers is the cream of the crop and the largest on the tour. See http://www.newportmansions.org/ for more information. Recommended for:Local CultureBudget TravelersBackpackersArt & Design Lovers Comment. Newport, Rhode Island Nov 24, 2015 There are many historic Newport "Cottages" [Mansions!] in town, which are open to the public. Many are completely restored, and offer guided tours. Recommended for:Local CultureFamily TravelersHistory BuffsArt & Design Lovers Comment. Newport is best known for its splendid mansions, located mainly along Bellevue Avenue, Ocean Drive, and Harrison Avenue; the area is known as Historic Hill, a living museum of history and architecture. Kingscote, one of the more modest structures, was built in 1839 in the Gothic Revival style. It features a mahogany and cherry dining room illuminated by natural light shining through a wall of Tiffany glass. The most opulent structure is Breakers, built in 1895 for Cornelius Vanderbilt in the style of a sixteenthcentury Italian palace. The firm of Frederick Law Olmsted designed the landscape. Perhaps the most extravagant of the mansions is Marble House, commissioned by William Vanderbilt for his wife. The house cost $2 million to build and $9 million to furnish; it was awarded to Mrs. Vanderbilt in a divorce settlement. Other mansions include the Astors’ Beechwood, where the Gilded Age is recreated through live theatrical performances, and Belcourt Castle, a French castle built in 1894 for Oliver Hazard Perry Belmont and his wife, the former Mrs. William Vanderbilt. Cliff Walk, a three-mile path winding along the coast, offers views of the mansions and of Rhode Island Sound. In 2000, Rough Point on Bellevue Avenue, the summer home of the late heiress Doris Duke, was opened to the public and allows viewers to see one of the finest private art collections in the area. Newport boasts more pre-1830 buildings still standing than any city in the country. Many are open to the public, such as Colony House—built of English bricks, the structure was a rarity in 1739 and was the scene of a reading of the Declaration of Independence and a Newport visit by George Washington. Touro Synagogue, the oldest Jewish house of worship in the country, was built in 1763. Hunter House, considered one of the most beautiful eighteenth-century mansions in the country, displays porcelain, silver, paintings, and furniture. Both President Eisenhower and President Kennedy maintained a Summer White House in Newport; the Eisenhower House, used by the president from 1958 to 1960, is located within the bounds of Fort Adams State Park. Fort Adams itself deserves a visit; the fortification was created between the Revolutionary War and the War of 1812, undergoing frequent revisions as theories of coastal defense revised over time. The Museum of Yachting features a small crafts collection, the America’s Cup Gallery, and a Single-Handed Hall of Fame. Science and technology are the focus of the Thames Science Center, while the art and science of tennis are celebrated at the International Tennis Hall of Fame and Museum at the Newport Casino. For a real taste of the local flavor, a visit to the Newport Vineyard provides samples of homegrown wines aged in French oak barrels. The vineyard is about 10 minutes outside of Newport along Route 138. Question: What city in Rhode Island is famous for its many mansions built during the late 1800's? Answer: {'aliases': ['Newport (disambiguation)', 'Newport, England', 'New Port (disambiguation)', 'Newport, United Kingdom', 'New Port', 'Newport, England (disambiguation)', 'Newport', 'Newport (England)', 'Newport (UK Parliament constituency)', 'Newport, Wales (disambiguation)'], 'normalized_aliases': ['newport wales disambiguation', 'new port disambiguation', 'newport united kingdom', 'new port', 'newport disambiguation', 'newport', 'newport england', 'newport england disambiguation', 'newport uk parliament constituency'], 'matched_wiki_entity_name': '', 'normalized_matched_wiki_entity_name': '', 'normalized_value': 'newport', 'type': 'WikipediaEntity', 'value': 'Newport'} Passage: U.S. government formally agrees to pay Navajos $554 mil FacebookEmail Twitter Google+ LinkedIn Pinterest U.S. government formally agrees to pay Navajos $554 mil Federal officials formally agreed Friday to pay the Navajo Nation $554 million to resolve a lawsuit claiming the federal government mismanaged the tribe's funds and natural resources for decades. Post to Facebook U.S. government formally agrees to pay Navajos $554 mil Federal officials formally agreed Friday to pay the Navajo Nation $554 million to resolve a lawsuit claiming the federal government mismanaged the tribe's funds and natural resources for decades. Check out this story on azcentral.com: http://azc.cc/1szw9j2 CancelSend A link has been sent to your friend's email address. Posted! A link has been posted to your Facebook feed. 5 Grijalva, Arizona conservationists disappointed Obama apparently won't create monument U.S. government formally agrees to pay Navajos $554 mil Paul Giblin , The Republic | azcentral.com Published 2:54 p.m. MT Sept. 26, 2014 | Updated 10:07 p.m. MT Sept. 26, 2014 Posted! A link has been posted to your Facebook feed. Navajo Nation President Ben Shelly presents Secretary of the Interior Sally Jewell with a blanket after signing the $554 million settlement on Sept. 26, 2014, at Window Rock Veterans Memorial Park in Window Rock.  Mark Henle/The Republic Navajo Nation President Ben Shelly.  Mark Henle/The Republic Fullscreen The singed $554 million settlement is shown. The dispute stems from charges that the federal government failed to manage, invest and account for tribal funds and resources in relation to the exploitation of oil, gas and other minerals. The tribe has more than 14 million acres of trust lands used to produce revenue.  Mark Henle/The Republic Miis Navajo McKeon Dempsey at the $554 million settlement signing ceremony on Sept. 26, 2014, at Window Rock.  Mark Henle/The Republic Nora James attends the settlement ceremony Sept. 26, 2014, at Window Rock.  Mark Henle/The Republic Fullscreen Navajo Nation Attorney General Harrison Tsosie (from left, sitting), Navajo Nation Delegate Lorenzo Curley, Secretary of the Interior Sally Jewell, Navajo Nation President Ben Shelly, Assistant Secretary of Bureau of Indian Affairs Kevin Washburn and acting Assistant Attorney General Sam Hirsch sign the $554 million settlement on Sept. 26, 2014, at Window Rock.  Mark Henle/The Republic Secretary of the Interior Sally Jewell (left sitting) and Navajo Nation President Ben Shelly (center) shake hands after signing the $554 million settlement on Sept. 26, 2014, at Window Rock.  Mark Henle/The Republic Secretary of the Interior Sally Jewell speaks before the signing of the $554 million settlement on Sept. 26, 2014, at Window Rock.  Mark Henle/The Republic Like this topic? You may also like these photo galleries: Replay Secretary of the Interior Sally Jewell (left sitting) and Navajo Nation President Ben Shelly (center) shake hands after signing the $554 million settlement on Sept. 26, 2014, at Window Rock. (Photo: Mark Henle/The Republic) Story Highlights Federal and tribal officials sign $554 million agreement, ending an eight-year lawsuit. The agreement marks a new era for the federal government and the Navajo Nation, both sides say. The deal pays the tribe for mismanaging funds derived from natural resources. The federal government formally agreed Friday to pay $554million to resolve a lawsuit claiming it mismanaged the Navajo Nation's funds and natural resources for decades. U.S. Secretary of the Interior Sally Jewell, who headed a delegation of federal officials at a signing ceremony at tribal headquarters in Window Rock, said afterward that the funds will be transferred to the Navajo Nation within weeks. "By the end of the year, we believe the check will actually be here and in the bank and earning interest," Jewell said. "In our bank," tribal President Ben Shelly interjected. RELATED: 6 things to know about Navajo settlement The landmark settlement , which concluded an eight-year court battle, is the most paid by the federal government to a single Indian tribe. The Navajos charged that federal officials failed to manage, invest and account for tribal funds and resources derived from the tribe's 14million acres of trust lands, which are leased for various purposes, including farming, grazing, mining and timber harvesting. The agreement does not fully compensate the tribe for the loss of revenue and the harm caused by the federal government's action over decades, Shelly said, but it marks a turning point in the government's relationship with the tribe. The pact fully recognizes the Navajo Nation as its own entity, he said. The funds will allow the tribe to determine its own course and give it the ability to provide hope for its members, he said. "The way forward for the Navajo Nation — as with all Indian country — is to develop our ability to stand on our own and rely less on the federal government to provide for our people," Shelly said. Acting Assistant Attorney General Sam Hirsch said the agreement has historic implications. For generations, broken promises by the federal government created a cycle of distrust, disenfranchisement and disappointment among American Indians, he said. "Today, we come together to move beyond the worst parts of that history and to embrace the future," he said. The agreement benefits all Americans because it settles the claims in a manner that is fair and avoids possible costs associated with future litigation, Hirsch said. “The way forward for the Navajo Nation ... is to develop our ability to stand on our own and rely less on the federal government.” Ben Shelly, Navajo Nation president The agreement also lays the groundwork for improved relationships between the federal government and all American Indian tribes, Jewell said. President Barack Obama has directed that future interactions with Native American tribes be based on a government-to-government status, recognizing that tribes should exercise self-governance and self-determination, she said. "Our job with 21/2 years remaining is to make sure that we deepen the relationship with Indian country, so no president coming after President Obama — Republican, Democrat or independent — can undo the good work that we've started, because we need to move forward in this next generation," Jewell said. The Navajo Nation is the most populous Native American tribe in the U.S., with more than 300,000 members. It also has the largest reservation in the country, encompassing more than 27,000 square miles in Arizona, New Mexico and Utah. It's larger than 10 of the 50 states. Shelly said he plans to hold a series of town-hall meetings with tribal members to get direction on how to use the money. He anticipated that some would be used for long-term infrastructure projects, such as roads and water systems on the mostly rural reservation, plus scholarships. "We'd like to look at the future. Maybe invest in something that will make money. Maybe something in business or maybe another stock or whatever it is we need to do," he said during a press conference after the formal signing. Shelly encouraged the tribe's younger members in particular to become more involved in tribal leadership and share their opinions concerning possible options for development, education and job training. "They need to speak up," Shelly said. "Quit standing in the back and complaining behind closed doors. Get out in the open and start making noise." According to the agreement, the Navajo Nation will dismiss its lawsuit against the federal government and will forgo further litigation regarding the federal government's past management and accounting of Navajo funds and resources held in trust. The Navajo Nation and the federal government also pledged to improve communication concerning funds and resources. The settlement is part of a series of similar actions by the Obama administration to reach settlements with Indian tribes on outstanding court actions concerning trust accounts. The government reached settlements with 41 tribes for about $1billion in April 2012 and with almost 40 other tribes for a combined $1.5billion since then. The federal government currently is involved in discussions with other tribes on cases that are still pending. In an unrelated case, the Justice Department announced in April that a private mining concern would pay the Navajo Nation nearly $1billion to clean up roughly 50 abandoned uranium mines on tribal lands. Facts about the settlement: It is the largest settlement ever paid by the federal government to an Indian tribe. The dispute stems from charges that the federal government failed to manage, invest and account for tribal funds and resources from oil, gas and other mineral rights. The Navajo Nation will dismiss its lawsuit against the federal government and forgo further litigation over the government's past management and accounting of Navajo funds and resources held in trust by the United States. Tribal President Ben Shelly plans to hold reservation town-hall meetings to get direction on how to use the settlement money. The federal government reached settlements with 41 tribes for about $1billion in April 2012 and with almost 40 other tribes for a combined $1.5billion since then. 151 CONNECT TWEET LINKEDIN 5 COMMENTEMAILMORE Read or Share this story: http://azc.cc/1szw9j2 TOP VIDEOS Question: What tribe has the largest reservation in the U.S. - bigger than 10 states? Answer: {'aliases': ['Navajo (disambiguation)', 'Navajo', 'Navaho', 'Navahu˙'], 'normalized_aliases': ['navahu˙', 'navaho', 'navajo', 'navajo disambiguation'], 'matched_wiki_entity_name': '', 'normalized_matched_wiki_entity_name': '', 'normalized_value': 'navajo', 'type': 'WikipediaEntity', 'value': 'Navajo'} Passage: O'Hare-Midway Airport Transportation | OML Blog Courteous & Reliable O’Hare-Midway Airport Transportation Service Arranging travel to and from Chicago Midway International Airport or Chicago O’Hare International Airport can be incredibly stressful, especially when it comes to traveling during rush hour or catching that red-eye. You need a car service that you can rely on to drop you off and pick you up on time, so you can relax and get ready for your vacation or business trip. O’Hare-Midway Limousine Service (OML Worldwide) can provide you with the level of reliability and luxury that you need and want in a car service. We’ll Get You Where You Need To Be On Time & In Comfort Our chauffeurs are trained and ready to help you with your luggage and make you as comfortable as possible, whether you’re on your way to the airport, on your way to a business meeting, or on your way back home. We also track flights, ensuring that we’re there when you need us, not a minute before or a minute after. Private Airports (FBOs) Taking a private flight? We’re familiar with all of the local private airports, and can get you where you need to be when you need to be there. Read more here . Taking The Entire Family On Vacation? Nothing’s more stressful or more rewarding than a family vacation. But with our fleet of vehicles and experienced chauffeurs, no matter how big your family, we’ll get you all to the airport in comfort, and without the added stress and frustration. Find out more here ! Baggage Claim Meet & Greet Service When you need someone to pick up your visiting guests with the same level of care and courtesy that you would show them, you can count on OML Worldwide. We’ll show up at your guests gate with an easy-to-read sign, take them to pick up their luggage, and deliver them where they need to be in style and comfort. Find out more about our Baggage Claim Meet & Greet service here . Curbside Pickup After a long flight, the last thing you want to do is stand around at the airport waiting for your ride. Now, all you have to do is grab your luggage and give us a call or use our new app — we’ll let you know which exit to use and we’ll be there waiting. Learn more about Curbside Pickup here. We Provide Airport Travel Throughout The Nation & The World Whether you need airport transportation here in Chicago or in another major city in the States or another country, we offer service all over! To view a complete list of cities and countries served, please visit our Airports Serviced page. When style, professionalism and punctuality count, call on O’Hare-Midway Limousine Service! Question: What city is served by O'Hare and Midway airports? Answer: {'aliases': ['Chi-Beria', 'Sayre language academy', 'Chicago', 'Chicago, Illinois', 'Hog Butcher for the World', 'Land of smelly onions', 'Ariel Community Academy', 'The weather in Chicago', 'Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.', 'Chicago, Illionis', 'Near North Montessori', 'Religion in Chicago', 'Chicago Finance Committee', 'The Paris of America', 'The city of Chicago', 'City of Chicago', 'List of sister cities of Chicago', 'UN/LOCODE:USCHI', 'Chicago theatre scene', 'Chicago, WI', 'The City of Broad Shoulders', 'City of Broad Shoulders', 'Sister Cities of Chicago', 'Chicago il', 'Chicago, Illinois, USA', 'Performing arts in Chicago', 'Chicago Transportation Committee', 'Chicago, Wisconsin', 'City of chicago', 'Chicago theater scene', 'Chicago, Il', 'Chicago, IL.', 'Chicago, Ill.', 'City of Chicago, Illinois', 'Chi town', 'Chicago, United States', 'Chicago (Ill.)', 'Transport in Chicago', 'Chicago, Illinois, United States', 'Chicago (IL)', 'USCHI', 'Chichago', 'Chcago', 'Chicago, Illinois, U.S.', 'Sister Cities Chicago', 'Chicago, USA', 'Chi City', 'Chicago, IL', 'Chi-Town', 'Chicago theatre', 'Paris of America', 'Chicago, Illinois, US', 'Chicago Illinois', 'The city of Chicago, Illinois', 'Sister cities of Chicago'], 'normalized_aliases': ['sayre language academy', 'chicago transportation committee', 'chicago illinois u s', 'sister cities of chicago', 'sister cities chicago', 'transport in chicago', 'chicago illinois', 'chicago illinois usa', 'chi town', 'hog butcher for world', 'religion in chicago', 'chicago', 'chicago wi', 'near north montessori', 'un locode uschi', 'city of broad shoulders', 'chicago theatre', 'chicago usa', 'uschi', 'chicago il', 'city of chicago', 'chicago finance committee', 'list of sister cities of chicago', 'chi beria', 'weather in chicago', 'chicago wisconsin', 'land of smelly onions', 'ariel community academy', 'chicago theater scene', 'chicago united states', 'paris of america', 'chicago illionis', 'chicago illinois united states', 'chcago', 'chi city', 'chicago illinois us', 'performing arts in chicago', 'chicago theatre scene', 'chichago', 'chicago ill', 'city of chicago illinois'], 'matched_wiki_entity_name': '', 'normalized_matched_wiki_entity_name': '', 'normalized_value': 'chicago', 'type': 'WikipediaEntity', 'value': 'Chicago'} Passage: Kentucky - Mammoth Cave National Park - Travel 50 States with Kids   Nevada – Sand Harbor State Park » Kentucky – Mammoth Cave National Park Mammoth Cave, the longest cave system known in the world, is located in Southwest Kentucky’s Cave Country. It has over 400 miles of surveyed passageways! That distinction definitely makes it worth a visit. As with most national parks, the place to start is the Visitor Center. Inside you can watch an orientation film and explore exhibits that educate visitors about the geology of the area, types of cave passages, and animals found within the caves. I really liked the 3D model of the cave passages. The Visitor Center is also the starting point for cave tours . I strongly recommend making tour reservations in advance so that you are able to take the tour that is best suited for your family. Tours DO sell out. As you can see from this photo, by the time we arrived that morning, the Frozen Niagara Tour was completely sold out for the day. The park’s website has descriptions of the different tour options that include the duration, distance, total number of stairs, difficulty rating, tour capacity, price, and times. Look at this ahead of time and consider what your family will be able to handle. We took the two-hour Historic Tour which covers two miles, has a moderate difficulty rating, and includes 440 stairs. There were very young kids on our tour who were completely miserable and screaming. I’m guessing their parents were wishing they had taken one of the shorter, easier tours. (Please know that I am trying to be helpful not judgmental. On my first visit to Mammoth Cave 10+ years ago, I was the parent with the screaming child.) The Frozen Niagara Tour lasts an hour and 15 minutes, covers a quarter mile, has an Easy rating, and only 12 required steps (98 more are optional).  While that tour was sold out the day of our visit, the Mammoth Passage Tour (which is not available by reservation) is also an easy, hour and 15 minute tour. For more adventurous spelunkers, longer, more strenuous tours are offered. The Historic Tour was interesting and the park ranger who led the tour was funny and entertaining. You won’t see stalactites and stalagmites on this tour, but you will see huge cave “rooms” and interesting rock formations. Flash photography is not permitted on the tour, so you have to rely on the lighting provided in the cave. This was one of the big rooms. At one point during the tour, our guide turned off all the lights so that we could experience complete darkness. My kids found that very interesting. There are a few places that have head-bonkers, so they do not permit backpacks, including child carriers. While some recommend wearing a jacket in the caves, note the variety of what my kids wore. Two had jackets; the other wore a t-shirt. Two had long pants; one had shorts. I found that I was comfortable without a jacket. As I stated above, don’t expect to see stalactites on the Historic Tour, but that doesn’t mean the formations aren’t interesting. DO expect lots of stairs on the Historic Tour. There were a lot of stairs at the end of the tour. By the time we finished this tour we were ready to sit down and relax for a little while. It was lunch time and the Mammoth Cave Hotel proved to be the perfect place to enjoy a leisurely meal. The Travertine Restaurant provided a sit-down meal at a very reasonable price. It was a nice meal in a relaxing setting without being too formal. Even though there were tablecloths and cloth napkins, casual attire was the norm. The lunch menu offered a variety of sandwiches and salads, including some Kentucky specialties like a Kentucky Hot Brown sandwich (which I had and thought was very good). A sandwich platter with fries costs around $8. If you’ve eaten at many other national parks, you’ll recognize that as a bargain. Other dining options include a coffee shop and a fast food restaurant. While the big draw at Mammoth Cave National Park is the cave tours, there are other ranger-led programs on the surface, including walking tours, a Junior Ranger program, and campfire programs. These programs do not require reservations. There are also many other caves and attractions in the area. You can easily turn a trip to Mammoth Cave into a week-long vacation. I will be writing about several of those in the weeks to come. While there is a hotel, cabins, and campground at the park, I recommend Jellystone Park for families because of the additional family activities it offers. Ready to visit? Question: What cave, located in Kentucky, has over 400 miles of passages? Answer: {'aliases': ['Sand Cave, Kentucky', 'Flint Ridge Cave System', 'Mammoth cave', 'Mammoth Cave National Park', 'Crystal Cave (Kentucky)', 'Mammoth Caves', 'Mammoth Cave System', 'Sand Cave, KY', 'Mammoth-Flint Ridge Cave System', 'Kentucky Cave Wars', 'Mamoth cave', 'Mammoth Cave, Kentucky', 'Mammouth Cave', 'Franklin Gorin', 'Floyd Collins Crystal Cave', 'Mamouth Cave', 'Mammoth Cave'], 'normalized_aliases': ['mammoth cave national park', 'mammoth cave system', 'mammoth flint ridge cave system', 'mammoth cave kentucky', 'mammoth cave', 'mamoth cave', 'kentucky cave wars', 'sand cave ky', 'mammoth caves', 'crystal cave kentucky', 'franklin gorin', 'floyd collins crystal cave', 'mamouth cave', 'sand cave kentucky', 'mammouth cave', 'flint ridge cave system'], 'matched_wiki_entity_name': '', 'normalized_matched_wiki_entity_name': '', 'normalized_value': 'mammoth cave', 'type': 'WikipediaEntity', 'value': 'Mammoth Cave'}
{ "task_name": "trivia_qa" }
import os import pytest import requests from requests.packages.urllib3.exceptions import InsecureRequestWarning from imagesoup import ImageSoup, ImageResult from imagesoup.utils import Blacklist from imagesoup.reverse_search import * def test_creating_soup(): soup = ImageSoup() assert isinstance(soup, ImageSoup) def test_search_query_only_returns_100_images(): soup = ImageSoup() images = soup.search('python') assert len(images) == 100 def test_search_n_images_set_by_user(): N_IMAGES = 20 soup = ImageSoup() images = soup.search('python', n_images=N_IMAGES) assert len(images) == N_IMAGES def test_search_with_image_size_parameter(): soup = ImageSoup() images = soup.search('python site:python.org', image_size='large') im = images[0] width, height = im.size assert width > 500 and height > 500 def test_search_image_exact_size(): soup = ImageSoup() size = (400, 400) images = soup.search('python', image_size=size) im = images[0] assert im.size == size def test_search_image_aspect_ratio(): soup = ImageSoup() images = soup.search('python site:python.org', aspect_ratio='tall') im = images[0] assert im.height > im.width def test_search_image_returns_fewer_results_than_n_images(capsys): soup = ImageSoup() images = soup.search('python', n_images=2000) out, err = capsys.readouterr() assert out.startswith('Search query "python" returned only') def test_imageresult_url(): soup = ImageSoup() images = soup.search('python site:python.org') im = images[0] assert im.URL.startswith('http') def test_imageresult_show_image(): soup = ImageSoup() images = soup.search('python logo png') try: images[0].show() except: pytest.fail('Cant show image') def test_imageresult_resize(): soup = ImageSoup() images = soup.search('python logo PNG') im = images[0] new_size = (400, 400) new_image = im.resize(new_size) assert new_image.size == new_size def test_get_image_main_color(): soup = ImageSoup() images = soup.search('python logo PNG') im = images[0] main_color = im.main_color(reduce_size=True) assert len(main_color) == 1 assert main_color[0][0] == 'white' def test_imageresult_tofile(): soup = ImageSoup() images = soup.search('pyhon site:python.org') im = images[0] im.to_file() STANDARD_NAME = 'image' assert os.path.isfile(STANDARD_NAME + '.png') is True os.remove(STANDARD_NAME + '.png') USER_INPUT_NAME = 'pythonlogo.png' im.to_file(USER_INPUT_NAME) assert os.path.isfile(USER_INPUT_NAME) is True os.remove(USER_INPUT_NAME) def test_imageresult_verify_valid_file(): soup = ImageSoup() images = soup.search('python site:python.org') im = images[0] assert im.verify() is True def test_imageresult_verify_invalid_file(): URL = 'https://httpstat.us/200' im = ImageResult(URL) assert im.verify() is False def test_blacklist(): bl = Blacklist() assert isinstance(bl, Blacklist) assert os.path.isfile(bl.filename) is True os.remove(bl.filename) def test_blacklist_add(): bl = Blacklist() bl.add('http://www.python.org') assert len(bl.domains) == 1 assert bl.domains == ['python.org'] def test_blacklist_delete(): bl = Blacklist() bl.delete('python.org') assert bl.domains == [] def test_blacklist_reset(): bl = Blacklist() bl.add('http://www.python.org') bl.reset() assert bl.domains == [] def test_blacklist_query_string(): bl = Blacklist() bl.add('http://www.python.org') bl.add('https://github.com/') query = '-site:python.org -site:github.com' assert bl.query_string() == query os.remove(bl.filename) # |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||# @pytest.fixture @pytest.mark.reverse_search def image_filepath(): TEST_IMAGE_FILE = 'test_image1.png' here = os.path.abspath(os.path.dirname(__file__)) filepath = os.path.join(here, TEST_IMAGE_FILE) assert os.path.isfile(filepath) is True return filepath @pytest.mark.reverse_search def test_reverse_search_init(): revsoup = ReverseSearch() assert isinstance(revsoup, ReverseSearch) @pytest.mark.reverse_search def test_reverse_search_post_search(image_filepath): revsoup = ReverseSearch() HTML = revsoup.post_image_search_on_google(image_filepath) assert isinstance(HTML, str) is True assert 'python' in HTML @pytest.mark.reverse_search def test_reverse_search_search(image_filepath): revsoup = ReverseSearch() search_result = revsoup.search(image_filepath) assert isinstance(search_result, ReverseSearchResult) is True @pytest.mark.reverse_search def test_reverse_search_result_label(image_filepath): revsoup = ReverseSearch() search_result = revsoup.search(image_filepath) expected_label = 'python 3 logo' assert search_result.label == expected_label @pytest.mark.reverse_search def test_rev_search_result_similar_images(image_filepath): revsoup = ReverseSearch() search_result = revsoup.search(image_filepath) assert isinstance(search_result.similar_images, list) assert len(search_result.similar_images) == 100 assert all(isinstance(i, ImageResult) for i in search_result.similar_images)
{ "task_name": "lcc" }
Passage 1: Henry Moore (cricketer) Henry Walter Moore( 1849 – 20 August 1916) was an English- born first- class cricketer who spent most of his life in New Zealand. Passage 2: Ringo-en no shōjo The art director was Tomoo Shimogawara. Passage 3: Deepak Sareen Deepak Sareen is a Bollywood film director and assistant director. His first film as director was" Ranbhoomi" and last film as director was" Albela". Passage 4: Hartley Lobban Hartley W Lobban (9 May 1926 – 15 October 2004) was a Jamaican-born first-class cricketer who played 17 matches for Worcestershire in the early 1950s. Passage 5: El desencanto El desencanto( The Disenchantment) is a 1976 Spanish documentary film written and directed by Jaime Chávarri about the family of famous poetry writer Leopoldo Panero. It tells the story of the Panero's family told by themselves twelve years after the death of patriarch Leopoldo Panero, poet of Francoist Spain. The documentary is based on the testimony of the remaining four members: the poet's widow, Felicidad Blanc, and the couple's three sons: Juan Luis, Leopoldo Maria and Michi. In their intertwined testimonies, they deal with family relations, the weight of their share past and about themselves. " El desencanto" was made towards the end of Francoist Spain and was released during the Spanish transition to democracy becoming a symbol of the decadence of the Francoist family. " El Desecanto" is considered a seminal work among Spanish documentaries and has achieved cult status. Twenty years later Ricardo Franco made a second part," Después de tantos años( After so many years)"( 2004). By then the mother has already died, but the three brothers were interviewed. Passage 6: Giuliano Montaldo Giuliano Montaldo( born 22 February 1930 in Genoa) is an Italian film director. While he was still a young student, Montaldo was recruited by the director Carlo Lizzani for the role of leading actor in the film" Achtung! Banditi!"( 1951). Following this experience he began an apprenticeship as an assistant director of Lizzani and Gillo Pontecorvo, as well as appearing in the 1955" Gli Sbandati". In 1960 he made his debut as a director with" Tiro al piccione", a film about the partisan resistance, which entered for a competition in Venice Film Festival in 1961. In 1965 he wrote and directed" Una bella grinta", a cynical representation of the economic boom of Italy, winning the Special Prize of the Jury at 15th Berlin International Film Festival. He then directed the production" Grand Slam"( 1967) which starred an international cast including Edward G. Robinson, Klaus Kinski, and Janet Leigh. His cinema career continued with" Gott mit uns"( 1969)," Sacco and Vanzetti"( 1971)," Giordano Bruno"( 1973), a trilogy about the abuses of the military, judicial and religious power;" Tempo di uccidere"( 1989 – 1991), with actor Nicolas Cage. In 1982 he directed the television miniseries" Marco Polo", which won the Emmy Award for Outstanding Miniseries. In 1971 he was a member of the jury at the 7th Moscow International Film Festival. Passage 7: The Entrepreneur The Entrepreneur is a 2011 Italian drama film directed by Giuliano Montaldo. The film premiered out of competition at the 2011 Rome Film Festival. It won three Italian Golden Globes for best film, cinematography and best music and the special jury prize to Pierfrancesco Favino. It was also nominated to four Nastro d'Argento Awards( for best script, best actress, best cinematography and best scenography). Passage 8: Wale Adebanwi Wale Adebanwi( born 1969) is a Nigerian- born first Black Rhodes Professor at St Antony's College, Oxford. Passage 9: John McMahon (Surrey and Somerset cricketer) John William Joseph McMahon( 28 December 1917 – 8 May 2001) was an Australian- born first- class cricketer who played for Surrey and Somerset in England from 1947 to 1957. Passage 10: Jaime Chávarri Jaime Chávarri de la Mora( born 20 March 1943) is a Spanish film director and screenwriter. Best known for his films" Las bicicletas son para el verano" and musical film" Las cosas del querer". Question: Which film whose director was born first, The Entrepreneur or El Desencanto? Answer: The Entrepreneur
{ "task_name": "2WikiMultihopQA" }
Passage 1: Theodred II (Bishop of Elmham) Theodred II was a medieval Bishop of Elmham. The date of Theodred's consecration unknown, but the date of his death was sometime between 995 and 997. Passage 2: Terence Robinson Terence D. Robinson( date of birth and death unknown) was a male wrestler who competed for England. Passage 3: Etan Boritzer Etan Boritzer( born 1950) is an American writer of children ’s literature who is best known for his book" What is God?" first published in 1989. His best selling" What is?" illustrated children's book series on character education and difficult subjects for children is a popular teaching guide for parents, teachers and child- life professionals. Boritzer gained national critical acclaim after" What is God?" was published in 1989 although the book has caused controversy from religious fundamentalists for its universalist views. The other current books in the" What is?" series include What is Love?, What is Death?, What is Beautiful?, What is Funny?, What is Right?, What is Peace?, What is Money?, What is Dreaming?, What is a Friend?, What is True?, What is a Family?, What is a Feeling?" The series is now also translated into 15 languages. Boritzer was first published in 1963 at the age of 13 when he wrote an essay in his English class at Wade Junior High School in the Bronx, New York on the assassination of John F. Kennedy. His essay was included in a special anthology by New York City public school children compiled and published by the New York City Department of Education. Boritzer now lives in Venice, California and maintains his publishing office there also. He has helped numerous other authors to get published through" How to Get Your Book Published!" programs. Boritzer is also a yoga teacher who teaches regular classes locally and guest- teaches nationally. He is also recognized nationally as an erudite speaker on" The Teachings of the Buddha." Passage 4: Peter Levin Peter Levin is an American director of film, television and theatre. Passage 5: Kinka Usher Kinka Usher is a director of television commercials. He also directed the 1999 feature film" Mystery Men". Passage 6: John Sturges John Eliot Sturges (January 3, 1910 – August 18, 1992) was an American film director. His movies include "Bad Day at Black Rock" (1955), " Gunfight at the O.K. Corral" (1957), "The Magnificent Seven" (1960), "The Great Escape" (1963), and "Ice Station Zebra" (1968). In 2013, "The Magnificent Seven" was selected for preservation in the United States National Film Registry by the Library of Congress as being "culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant". He was not related to director Preston Sturges. Passage 7: Ian Barry (director) Ian Barry is an Australian director of film and TV. Passage 8: Mystery Street Mystery Street is a 1950 black-and-white film noir directed by John Sturges with cinematography by cinematographer John Alton. The film features Ricardo Montalban, Sally Forrest, Bruce Bennett, Elsa Lanchester, and Marshall Thompson. The MGM film was shot on location in Boston and Cape Cod; according to one critic, it was "the first commercial feature to be predominantly shot" on location in Boston. Also featured are Harvard Medical School in Roxbury, Massachusetts and Harvard University in nearby Cambridge. The film's story earned Leonard Spigelgass a nomination as Best Story for the 23rd Academy Awards. Passage 9: Brian Saunders (weightlifter) Brian Saunders( date of birth and death unknown) was a male weightlifter who competed for England. Passage 10: The Lookout Girl The Lookout Girl is a surviving 1928 silent film mystery directed by Dallas M. Fitzgerald and starring Jacqueline Logan. Question: When is the director of film Mystery Street 's birthday? Answer: January 3, 1910
{ "task_name": "2WikiMultihopQA" }