With brain in a daze
I cried and I sighed.
With head in a blaze,
Like a heifer half fried,
In a barb wire maze,
I thought I'd have died.
But I didn't

            There was no moon. All was dark. I stumbled from the scene, reached the edge of the steep descent and started down. My only idea was to reach the bottom of the Craig, jump in a boat and get away to the main shore. I plunged down the hill and had only taken a few steps when I took a fall, went down taking a sort of involuntary somersault. I came to a short stop and found I had landed on a flat rock. I got out my flashlight. I was safe enough. On one side of the flat surface there was a small structure. It looked very much like a dog kennel. Upon further scrutiny it turned out to be an Egyptian sepulchre. I entered, holding my flash light in front of me.

            The place was empty, and gloomy, but it was a protection from the rain, so I resolved to spend the night here in this strange lodging. I lay down, but being in a bad state of mind could not sleep for some hours. I could see a small object shimmering in the moonlight. I grabbed at it. Eureka! A bottle of Bushmills whisky. One long deep glorious swig. Oh joy, oh, rapture! Another glorious swig. And then ditto, ditto, ditto. Then I half fainted away into a sort of a fuddlesome dream. Yet sleep I did—tired nature forced that. I first slept, then half slept—then woke with a weight on my chest. It was a human hand all bone pressing me down. I grasped the hand. I lifted up the hand—it was a withered hand, attached to a forearm, and—nothing more. I flung the hand away. The hand struck against the wall of the sepulchre, broke into pieces. The pieces scattered about—then fell clattering over the floor. One small piece actually clattered into my mouth. I blew it out.

            With queer uncanny creeps I staggered from the sepulchre. The bright sunshine dazzled me. All creeps—one crumpled crooked crab I slinked away. So I crept out. All ready for my trip down the Craig. I started down at once. By hanging on to the bushes I managed very well. I had gone but a short time when I found myself stumbling along one side of a ravine that ran down the Craig for some distance. On the other side of the ravine there was a small cottage, and seated before the door were two old gentlemen. They looked at me with malignant expressions of countenance. I recognized them as the two gents who had upset the beehive two days before. They evidently blamed me for the mishap. One of the dear old gentlemen gathered rocks and began to heave them at yours truly. I ran away down the path lickerty splickerty, but before I could gain a safety zone, one sharp stone got in its work; gave me a nasty little clip on the side of the chin. I got away O.K. The path soon became zigzag. The trees now grew thinner. I could see the beach far below, and I could also see the boat at anchor. The very same boat that had brought me here two days since. I hurried on. There was a seven hundred foot trip still ahead. I rushed down the zigzag path and in a few moments reached the edge of the rock basin, the pocket of the bump. I sat down to get my breath. Just then I observed on the opposite side of the rocky basin—could I believe my eyes? There as plain as the daylight was the Hoff Marshall, bathing suit and all. But he was not alone. He was in company with the mandrill ape. They were going through a performance. The big monkey held the man firmly with one hand. With the other hand he was stuffing poison ivy down the man's throat. The man did not like to have the poison ivy stuffed into his mouth. But the mandrill ape persevered, and got in his work. Just then a rumbling sound. I knew what it meant. The huge ape knew what it meant. I stepped back to give the falling rock its right of way. But did the monkey budge? Not a bit. The mandrill ape remained on the spot. He held on firmly to the collar of the Hoff Marshall. Look—that five ton rock—there just above and shooting down on him—but look—the monkey monster—gauges his time. Look, he swings on high the struggling Hoff Marshall—then swift as lightning he flings his victim down—down to the bottom of the stone basin. The Hoff Marshall lies quivering face down. The five ton rock descends, striking its prostrate  victim full between the shoulders, crash——crunch, various dismembered parts of the human anatomy protruded out from all sides of the big rock. Whiz go poppo! What's that red object? It is a shattered bleeding human liver. The Pocket of the Tumbling Bump had claimed its living victim—all cut to pieces. The mandrill ape had gotten in his vengeance. I turned and fled in sickening horror. I tore down the slopes of the Craig like some wounded frenzied wild beast. I ran faster and faster till I fell fainting from sheer exhaustion. I lay panting, helpless. I had taken no food since the evening before. I had a hip flask. Brandy. I slowly got out the flask. One good swig—two good swigs. I felt better though my head was all in a whirl. From where I sat I could look below, about six hundred feet down. The boat was still at anchor. I could see the faithful black dog, seated at the bow—waiting—waiting for me. The events of the last few days had so confused me—I hardly think I thought at all. I simply had a general idea that I must get down the hill as soon as possible. I floundered along. The path was now not so steep. After one of the turns in the path I found myself on the banks of a stream all bubbling. The stream went bubbling down the hill at a great rate. I could see the entire course of the stream which ended in a waterfall which dashed into the sea far below. Once more I started on my downward trip —was feeling my way carefully. I heard a human voice. One word. "Hello!" I looked in the proper direction—across the stream. A solitary stranger stood there leaning on his staff, one regular old man of the mountain. I thought I had seen the old codger before. Upon closer scrutiny I recognized my boatman of two days ago. I says to him, "Neighbour, can't you take me over to the mainland. I see your boat is all ready down below at anchor." To my dismay the boatman answered, with a grin. "Nothing doing, I remember the tip you failed to give me. I don't want your trade." I tried hard to remonstrate—No use. The man refused. "Well then," says I. "I am going to use your boat, hog or no hog. I will get to your boat before you can. I will help myself to your boat. Your boat will take me to the mainland."

            Then began the race. I rushed down the road on my side of the stream. The boatman rushed down the other side. Whoever got to the shore first would take the boat. As far as speed was concerned, the boatman and I were about equal, what they call a fair match. I thought quick. There lay a big log on the bank of the stream. Half in and half out of the water. I seized the log, pushed it out into the stream, jumped in myself, got astride of the log and away we went sailing at a great rate. The boatman on the other side of the stream seeing that he was getting the worst of it gathered rocks and began pelting me. His shots went wild. The log carried me away from him down down that stream that went foaming down to the sea. We were now nearing the bottom of the hill. We were just over the waterfall. Down we went, splashing, turning round and round, and at last bumping against a boulder. I hung on to the rock. I was wrenched away from the rock. I sank to the bottom. I felt I was losing consciousness. I opened my eyes. What is that dark object floating in the water? It draws nearer. I am seized and dragged up, then dragged to the boat and then pulled into the boat. It is the big black dog. The dog that works the ferry boat. I lay panting at the bottom of the boat. The dog springs to the machine. The paddles begin to turn and the boat starts away on my return trip. In a few moments I recovered my equilibrium. I sat up on the seat and looked about, after making sure the boat was going in the proper direction. I now looked at the receding shore. High up on one of the crags of the Craig I could see the ancient boatman. I think things must have irritated the gentleman. He went through all sorts of gyrations. Perhaps he thought I might annex the boat permanently. The dog seemed happy, continually wagging his tail while he worked the boat. We arrived at the landing. I wrapped the exact fare in a handkerchief—no tip—and I tied the same about the dog's neck. I then left. The black dog yelped, licked my face, and howled in disappointment. He wanted to adopt me. I gave the dog a lamb chop that I happened to have in my pocket. One more lick from the dog. But I could not linger. My driver stood waiting at the landing stage. There was no help for it. One more pat for the dog—one more lick for myself. Then I—jumped into the ox cart. After a three hours' trip to Greenock just two miles distant, I put up at the sign of the Sprightly Ibex.

            Last chapters are always supposed to be exciting, a sort of climax. I have just received a letter from the benevolent ironmonger. He informs me, that all the retainers of the late Landgrave have been handsomely pensioned. He then informs me that "all the cats are well." He encloses an essay on cats which I enclose for the benefit of those who love cats.

From your old friend,
Guy Barnabas Bone.

Letter from Ironmonger to G. Barnabas Bone.

            Sad news. Big black dog died. Went to Heaven yesterday. Dog thought he needed a bath. He took a bath. I never do. Dog jumped in river. Dog good swimmer. Trouble! Dog attacked by hellbender. Nasty hellbender. Dog died hard. Dog tried to escape—no use. Hellbender held on like Hell. Soon all was over. Hellbender swam away licking lips. Remains of dog floated about—in two parts. The parts sunk. Am convinced the dog must have died. How sad! But, the cats are well.
            Yours truly,
            The Ironmonger.

From Ironmonger to Guy Barnabas Bone.

Elsa Craig, May One.

            Dr. Mr. Bone,
            Uncle John to be hanged Wednesday. Execution private. How sad! Was in hopes we might have taken in the ceremony. It will be a fine execution. John is an ideal subject for a hanging. Thin body. Thick neck. His contortions are sure to be wonderful. It inspires me. I have given orders that all the servants are to receive fifty strokes of the kanchuka.
            Yours truly,
            The Ironmonger.

From Guy Barnabas Bone to Ironmonger.

May Third.

            Mr. Ironmonger,
            Dear Sir:
            Received yours. Am glad you are not troubled with apprehension. Am sorry about the poor dog. I might have expected it. Whilst crossing the straights yesterday I noticed many hellbenders on the lookout. It is too bad that execution cannot be public. I know an old lady in Glasgow. She tells me that when she was quite young, her Popper often said to her, "Now Maggie listen, if you are a good little girl Mommer and I will take you to see the hanging Friday." Then, when Friday arrived little Maggie would be all dressed up. Little Maggie would be taken to see the hanging as a reward for being a good girl. I remember when quite a small child being given a present of a martyr being roasted alive on a gridiron. They gave me the picture as a reward for being a good boy. The picture frightened me into a fit. Regarding public executions, the idea is good. As I have observed before, the public are entitled to some measure of happiness.
            Yours truly,
            Guy Barnabas Bone.

From Ironmonger to Guy Barnabas Bone.

May six.

            Dear Bone:
            Yours received. Glad you are sensible. Have common sense myself. Remains of dog floated ashore, two parts. Pitiful! They all wept. Wept myself. New job—next week. Cake bakery. Clean work tho' sticky. Sifting powdered sugar on doughnuts. Next month another chance. Want to join me? Head Keeper in a bug house. Nice job. Violent ward, dangerous cases. Sad news. Cats all died. The kanchuka has been a success. I notice that all the chairs in the servants' quarters are unoccupied. Yes the kanchuka has been a success. Not enough mantelpieces to go around. And to pacify me they clubbed together and sent me a flute box and I don't play the flute. hell, HELL, HELL!
            The Ironmonger.

Guy Barnabas Bone to Ironmonger.

May nine.

            Dear Sir:
            They call me a grumbler. Well—what of it? I have to grumble or else I'll stumble. What do you think happened while I was away on my visit? The doctor next door called. He brought six lepers along with him. He gave those lepers a bath in my bathroom. He scrubbed down those six lepers with my scrub brush, scraped off their scales with my safety blade, sponged them with my sponge and then gave them a rubbing down with my bath towel. When I returned home, without knowing of the doctor's visit, I took a bath, using the brush, safety blade, sponge and towel. I now begin to itch, or is it only imagination. I'll let you know later if I catch it. In the meantime, for your own safety—burn this letter and then—go wash yourself. Enclose treatise on cats.
            Yours truly,
            Guy Barnabas Bone.

Letter from the cook to Guy Barnabas Bone.

May thirteen.

            Mister Bone, kind Sir:
            Write to inform you news. Old boatman, erstwhile owner of white dog—old enemy—new business—sells fish. Made a sale—to us. Hellbender steak. Poor man—old guy—hard work. Arrived here O.K. Climbed cliff—climbed up—Never climbed down—You know—took a tumble. You can guess—Monkey ape—wicked mandrill—Unlucky man. Poor boatman—you know. Same old story. Man took a tumble—pocket—Tumbling Bump. Great excitement—Whose turn next? Heart too full for utterance. Porcupine missing. Pray for us. The two Housemaids acting queer. Have not been themselves since they received the fifty strokes of the kanchuka.
            The Cook, Berdie Goodgut.

IronMonger to Guy Barnabas Bone.

May fifteen.

            Kind Sir:
            We are in a terrible state of mind. Last evening six of the retainers disappeared. Horribly scared. The mandrill acting strangely. All the time stealing bits of rope. What can it all mean? Mandrill no longer friendly. The two housemaids. You know—Laudanum Liz and Morphine Maggie, walk the floor nightly. All they do is to howl. Food giving out. Nothing but half grown turnips. The crashing and the grumbling worse than ever. Am afraid to go near cliff. During last hour have heard strange noises. Two housemaids can't be found.
            In sorrow, the Ironmonger.

Sequel
By Guy Barnabas Bone

            I have escaped from many past horrors. I am enjoying a well-earned tranquillity. Have settled down in my own little shanty on the summit of the "Divil's Bit Mountain." I consider it my duty to inform the reader of the concluding events which clear up the foggy filament of my story. I left Glasgow on the first of last June. I was seated in cabin of the steamer "Adder." It was late in the afternoon. We had just left the mouth of the Clyde. On the larboard bow the high cliffs of the "Elsa Craig" rose up out of the sea in majestic dignity. In the cabin all was luxury, gaiety and pathos. The young German Indian princess was seated at the Piano. She warbled forth a lullaby. Her song ran something like this.

The Queen of Patagonia
Is troubled with pneumonia.
The Doctor from Pavonia
Revives that Queen, much bonier
Than any skinny—

            Look, look look! Voices were out on the deck. The "Elsa Craig," the "Elsa Craig." We all rushed to the deck. Sharks and sea serpents! Everything was hurry scurry. The Captain stumbled over the first mate's wooden leg. The powder monkey tripped up the lobscouse boy, sending him scooting into the scupper. The barber fell down the air shaft. The stoker threw the cook overboard. The headwaiter took a tumble and landed in his own slop bucket. I beat it quick. I reached the deck. The view over the port bow set my heart all a flutter. The "Elsa Craig" rose out of the sea in all its grandeur. The sea gulls flew high above. And next—the wild geese flew in droves from the mountain to feed from my hand. I supplied them with left-over pancakes from the lazaretto. Then came the turkey buzzards. Such buzzards! I could hear their screeches of triumph as they scooped down to the surface of the sea and then scooped up again. Each bird had captured a large eel. The eels were squirming and squeaking. No wonder everybody yelled "sea serpents." The steamer now drew nearer to the mighty rock. The soft slopes of the "Elsa Craig" are covered with a beautiful growth of grapevines, intermingled with another growth, the clink arbutus of Memnon. The air was impregnated with the mysterious aroma of baccharis and nard. About midway up the slope I could see a moving object. I got out my field glasses. All was clear. I could see a camel plodding up the slopes of the "Elsa Craig." I rubbed my eyes. I looked again. Yes—sure enough—a real live camel. The camel seemed all wrapped in ecstasy. The camel's gaze was fixed, bent on six weird objects. I dusted my field glass. I took one look. Six dark objects hanging from a cliff. See them Wiggle! All was now clear. Those dark objects were six human bodies hanging by their necks. Horrible! A black murky mist seemed to flop before my gaze like flaps from many bats. The pungent aroma from the baccharis and nard deprived me of all consciousness.

            I found myself fettered in darkness: riveted to a pillar of contrariness. As I slowly came to my senses, I heard a voice which spake. "Stir him up, give him a poke in the ribs." I felt a poke. It was no joke. Yelps of brutal laughter. Another poke! This time with a sharp object. Next came a kick accompanied with more yelps of brutal laughter. Another poke. Oh my slats! My slats! One jump and one yell—one gasp. I opened my eyes. I found myself lying on the front platform of an abandoned tram car on the outskirts of Port Rush. I was surrounded by a mob all laughing and poking me with their walking sticks and umbrellas. Well—the whole affair amounted to this. A big policeman burst through the crowd, looked down on me, and blew a whistle. The prisoner's van arrived, or rather a substitute—a wheelbarrow. I was tumbled into an ash can—the ash can was tumbled on board the wheelbarrow. Then we started off—quite a parade! The cavalcade was led by the policeman. Next came a conscripted chimney sweep trundling the wheel barrow. We were followed by a yelling crowd of street cleaners, early risers and all night bums. We arrived at the jail. Such a nice large fat comfortable jail. I was locked in a cell. The cell was furnished with one stool, one loaf of bread, one jug of water, and one not over clean bed with a million fleas. That afternoon I was taken to the courthouse. The Judge was my grandfather's law partner. He gave me a lecture. He said I was a disgrace to an honourable line. I was fined three pounds. To raise the tin I had to pawn my watch. I had to pay a big tip to the court attendant who followed me to the hock shop to see that I did not abscond without paying my fine. I was in a terrible mess. I sank down in the gutter in despair. I heard a voice exclaim. "Hello! Hi there you Guy." I looked up. I recognized the speaker. He was the pound keeper from my native village. I was carted to the pound, the refuge for lost dogs. The keepers took great interest in me. After I had washed up and slept up and dressed up, everything was O.K. I am now settled in my cute little hovel on the summit of the Divils Bit mountain. And now I have news. We will read this last letter together.
            Guy Barnabas Bone.

Mayor of Scone to Guy Barnabas Bone.

            Dear Bone.
            Am writing to inform you of several most extraordinary mishaps. Last week I thought I would visit my old friend the Laird of Nax. I read in the society news columns that the Laird was still at his country residence. I embarked in my yacht early in the morning. The wind was fresh from the north. My boat pitched ahead at a great rate and in about two hours we landed at the base of the Elsa Craig. Dismissing my boatman with instructions to call for me later I proceeded up the steep slopes. When half way up I heard a crunching in the bushes far below me. From a rocky eminence I could see the path far below where I stood. I was being followed up the cliff by a large camel. I rubbed my eyes. I looked again. Yes, as sure as I live, a camel was plodding up the hill at a snail's pace. After refreshing myself from my hip flask I continued up the path. I now stood on the ledge just below the cliff top that crowns the summit. On the cliff above were six trees. Each tree thrust one branch over the edge of the cliff. From the end of each branch hung a rope. At the end of each rope dangled a human form. Hanged by the neck. From the open mouth of each victim protruded a long red tongue. Just think of it—Six human forms hanging by the neck, six open mouths with six long red protruding tongues. The sight fascinated me. I felt a nudge. I looked over my shoulder. Lo and behold! The camel. I drew aside and flung myself into a small cave—too small for the camel to enter. That did not faze the camel—not much. With a disdainful snort the camel turned right about face and proceeded up the cliff. Filled with curiosity I kept my mind on that beast of the desert. The camel was now standing on a level with the six men hanging by their necks. The camel looked at the six hanging victims with the six protruding tongues. The camel walked up to the nearest hanging victim. The camel thrust forward his head—one sniff, one bite. The camel had bit off the tongue. One gulp. The camel swallowed the tongue. The camel snorted with delight. The camel took one step nearer the next victim. Snap—chew—How nice it must taste. Gulp—one more tongue is disposed of. By this time the camel is actually cackling with glee. The camel advances one more step. Crunch! The last tongue is bitten, the last tongue is swallowed. My eyes are glued to the sight. What a sight! Six swinging victims. Six bleeding mouths. I shrank in horror from the sight. I staggered up the mountain. I arrived at the summit. I sank exhausted in the clump of bushes. I heard the gurgling of water falling. I turned my head in the proper direction. One bubbling spring—one tin cup. One gulp. I felt refreshed. I heard a sound—a slight rustle on the other side of the bushes. I thrust my head through the bushes.

            What a spectacle! Eureka!

            I had a full view of the entire surface of the valley of Nax. Oh what a beautiful valley. In the centre of the valley stood a large rock. One large flat rock. On this rock stood the Camel. The camel stood erect, but only for a moment. With one convulsive shudder, the camel let out one piercing wail. The camel sank down. The camel lay flat upon the rock. One more convulsion. And then—the camel lifted his head. The camel looked sadly about. The camel gave one gasp, bowed his head and died. His ending was like the falling of a mighty oak.
            (Signed) J. Brixton Scrubb,
            Mayor of Scone.

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