Some Classic Literature

[Myckaal]

The Most Dangerous Game

by Richard Connell (1893-1949)

Word Count: 8426


"OFF THERE to the right--somewhere--is a large island," said Whitney." It's rather a mystery--"

"What island is it?" Rainsford asked.

"The old charts call it `Ship-Trap Island,"' Whitney replied." A suggestive name, isn't it? Sailors have a curious

dread of the place. I don't know why. Some superstition--"

"Can't see it," remarked Rainsford, trying to peer through the dank tropical night that was palpable as it

pressed its thick warm blackness in upon the yacht.

"You've good eyes," said Whitney, with a laugh," and I've seen you pick off a moose moving in the brown fall

bush at four hundred yards, but even you can't see four miles or so through a moonless Caribbean night."

"Nor four yards," admitted Rainsford. "Ugh! It's like moist black velvet."

"It will be light enough in Rio," promised Whitney. "We should make it in a few days. I hope the jaguar guns

have come from Purdey's. We should have some good hunting up the Amazon. Great sport, hunting."

"The best sport in the world," agreed Rainsford.

"For the hunter," amended Whitney. "Not for the jaguar."

"Don't talk rot, Whitney," said Rainsford. "You're a big-game hunter, not a philosopher. Who cares how a

jaguar feels?"

"Perhaps the jaguar does," observed Whitney.

"Bah! They've no understanding."

"Even so, I rather think they understand one thing--fear. The fear of pain and the fear of death."

"Nonsense," laughed Rainsford. "This hot weather is making you soft, Whitney. Be a realist. The world is made

up of two classes--the hunters and the huntees. Luckily, you and I are hunters. Do you think we've passed that

island yet?"

"I can't tell in the dark. I hope so."

"Why? " asked Rainsford.

"The place has a reputation--a bad one."

"Cannibals?" suggested Rainsford.

"Hardly. Even cannibals wouldn't live in such a God-forsaken place. But it's gotten into sailor lore, somehow.

Didn't you notice that the crew's nerves seemed a bit jumpy today?"

"They were a bit strange, now you mention it. Even Captain Nielsen--"

"Yes, even that tough-minded old Swede, who'd go up to the devil himself and ask him for a light. Those fishy

blue eyes held a look I never saw there before. All I could get out of him was `This place has an evil name

among seafaring men, sir.' Then he said to me, very gravely, `Don't you feel anything?'--as if the air about us

was actually poisonous. Now, you mustn't laugh when I tell you this--I did feel something like a sudden chill.

"There was no breeze. The sea was as flat as a plate-glass window. We were drawing near the island then.

What I felt was a--a mental chill; a sort of sudden dread."

"Pure imagination," said Rainsford.

"One superstitious sailor can taint the whole ship's company with his fear."

"Maybe. But sometimes I think sailors have an extra sense that tells them when they are in danger. Sometimes

I think evil is a tangible thing--with wave lengths, just as sound and light have. An evil place can, so to speak,

broadcast vibrations of evil. Anyhow, I'm glad we're getting out of this zone. Well, I think I'll turn in now,

Rainsford."

"I'm not sleepy," said Rainsford. "I'm going to smoke another pipe up on the afterdeck."

"Good night, then, Rainsford. See you at breakfast."

"Right. Good night, Whitney."

There was no sound in the night as Rainsford sat there but the muffled throb of the engine that drove the

yacht swiftly through the darkness, and the swish and ripple of the wash of the propeller.

Rainsford, reclining in a steamer chair, indolently puffed on his favorite brier. The sensuous drowsiness of the

night was on him." It's so dark," he thought, "that I could sleep without closing my eyes; the night would be my

eyelids--"

An abrupt sound startled him. Off to the right he heard it, and his ears, expert in such matters, could not be

mistaken. Again he heard the sound, and again. Somewhere, off in the blackness, someone had fired a gun three

times.

Rainsford sprang up and moved quickly to the rail, mystified. He strained his eyes in the direction from which

the reports had come, but it was like trying to see through a blanket. He leaped upon the rail and balanced

himself there, to get greater elevation; his pipe, striking a rope, was knocked from his mouth. He lunged for it;

a short, hoarse cry came from his lips as he realized he had reached too far and had lost his balance. The cry

was pinched off short as the blood-warm waters of the Caribbean Sea dosed over his head.

He struggled up to the surface and tried to cry out, but the wash from the speeding yacht slapped him in the

face and the salt water in his open mouth made him gag and strangle. Desperately he struck out with strong

strokes after the receding lights of the yacht, but he stopped before he had swum fifty feet. A certain

coolheadedness had come to him; it was not the first time he had been in a tight place. There was a chance that

his cries could be heard by someone aboard the yacht, but that chance was slender and grew more slender as

the yacht raced on. He wrestled himself out of his clothes and shouted with all his power. The lights of the

yacht became faint and ever-vanishing fireflies; then they were blotted out entirely by the night.

Rainsford remembered the shots. They had come from the right, and doggedly he swam in that direction,

swimming with slow, deliberate strokes, conserving his strength. For a seemingly endless time he fought the sea.

He began to count his strokes; he could do possibly a hundred more and then--

Rainsford heard a sound. It came out of the darkness, a high screaming sound, the sound of an animal in an

extremity of anguish and terror.

He did not recognize the animal that made the sound; he did not try to; with fresh vitality he swam toward the

sound. He heard it again; then it was cut short by another noise, crisp, staccato.

"Pistol shot," muttered Rainsford, swimming on.

Ten minutes of determined effort brought another sound to his ears--the most welcome he had ever

heard--the muttering and growling of the sea breaking on a rocky shore. He was almost on the rocks before he

saw them; on a night less calm he would have been shattered against them. With his remaining strength he

dragged himself from the swirling waters. Jagged crags appeared to jut up into the opaqueness; he forced

himself upward, hand over hand. Gasping, his hands raw, he reached a flat place at the top. Dense jungle came

down to the very edge of the cliffs. What perils that tangle of trees and underbrush might hold for him did not

concern Rainsford just then. All he knew was that he was safe from his enemy, the sea, and that utter

weariness was on him. He flung himself down at the jungle edge and tumbled headlong into the deepest sleep of

his life.

When he opened his eyes he knew from the position of the sun that it was late in the afternoon. Sleep had given

him new vigor; a sharp hunger was picking at him. He looked about him, almost cheerfully.

"Where there are pistol shots, there are men. Where there are men, there is food," he thought. But what kind

of men, he wondered, in so forbidding a place? An unbroken front of snarled and ragged jungle fringed the

shore.

He saw no sign of a trail through the closely knit web of weeds and trees; it was easier to go along the shore,

and Rainsford floundered along by the water. Not far from where he landed, he stopped.

Some wounded thing--by the evidence, a large animal--had thrashed about in the underbrush; the jungle weeds

were crushed down and the moss was lacerated; one patch of weeds was stained crimson. A small, glittering

object not far away caught Rainsford's eye and he picked it up. It was an empty cartridge.

"A twenty-two," he remarked. "That's odd. It must have been a fairly large animal too. The hunter had his

nerve with him to tackle it with a light gun. It's clear that the brute put up a fight. I suppose the first three

shots I heard was when the hunter flushed his quarry and wounded it. The last shot was when he trailed it here

and finished it."

He examined the ground closely and found what he had hoped to find--the print of hunting boots. They pointed

along the cliff in the direction he had been going. Eagerly he hurried along, now slipping on a rotten log or a

loose stone, but making headway; night was beginning to settle down on the island.

Bleak darkness was blacking out the sea and jungle when Rainsford sighted the lights. He came upon them as he

turned a crook in the coast line; and his first thought was that be had come upon a village, for there were many

lights. But as he forged along he saw to his great astonishment that all the lights were in one enormous

building--a lofty structure with pointed towers plunging upward into the gloom. His eyes made out the shadowy

outlines of a palatial chateau; it was set on a high bluff, and on three sides of it cliffs dived down to where the

sea licked greedy lips in the shadows.

"Mirage," thought Rainsford. But it was no mirage, he found, when he opened the tall spiked iron gate. The

stone steps were real enough; the massive door with a leering gargoyle for a knocker was real enough; yet

above it all hung an air of unreality.

He lifted the knocker, and it creaked up stiffly, as if it had never before been used. He let it fall, and it

startled him with its booming loudness. He thought he heard steps within; the door remained closed. Again

Rainsford lifted the heavy knocker, and let it fall. The door opened then--opened as suddenly as if it were on a

spring--and Rainsford stood blinking in the river of glaring gold light that poured out. The first thing

Rainsford's eyes discerned was the largest man Rainsford had ever seen--a gigantic creature, solidly made and

black bearded to the waist. In his hand the man held a long-barreled revolver, and he was pointing it straight at

Rainsford's heart.

Out of the snarl of beard two small eyes regarded Rainsford.

"Don't be alarmed," said Rainsford, with a smile which he hoped was disarming. "I'm no robber. I fell off a

yacht. My name is Sanger Rainsford of New York City."

The menacing look in the eyes did not change. The revolver pointing as rigidly as if the giant were a statue. He

gave no sign that he understood Rainsford's words, or that he had even heard them. He was dressed in

uniform--a black uniform trimmed with gray astrakhan.

"I'm Sanger Rainsford of New York," Rainsford began again. "I fell off a yacht. I am hungry."

The man's only answer was to raise with his thumb the hammer of his revolver. Then

Rainsford saw the man's free hand go to his forehead in a military salute, and he saw him click his heels

together and stand at attention. Another man was coming down the broad marble steps, an erect, slender man

in evening clothes. He advanced to Rainsford and held out his hand.

In a cultivated voice marked by a slight accent that gave it added precision and deliberateness, he said, "It is a

very great pleasure and honor to welcome Mr. Sanger Rainsford, the celebrated hunter, to my home."

Automatically Rainsford shook the man's hand.

"I've read your book about hunting snow leopards in Tibet, you see," explained the man. "I am General Zaroff."

Rainsford's first impression was that the man was singularly handsome; his second was that there was an

original, almost bizarre quality about the general's face. He was a tall man past middle age, for his hair was a

vivid white; but his thick eyebrows and pointed military mustache were as black as the night from which

Rainsford had come. His eyes, too, were black and very bright. He had high cheekbones, a sharpcut nose, a

spare, dark face--the face of a man used to giving orders, the face of an aristocrat. Turning to the giant in

uniform, the general made a sign. The giant put away his pistol, saluted, withdrew.

"Ivan is an incredibly strong fellow," remarked the general, "but he has the misfortune to be deaf and dumb. A

simple fellow, but, I'm afraid, like all his race, a bit of a savage."

"Is he Russian?"

"He is a Cossack," said the general, and his smile showed red lips and pointed teeth. "So am I."

"Come," he said, "we shouldn't be chatting here. We can talk later. Now you want clothes, food, rest. You shall

have them. This is a most-restful spot."

Ivan had reappeared, and the general spoke to him with lips that moved but gave forth no sound.

"Follow Ivan, if you please, Mr. Rainsford," said the general. "I was about to have my dinner when you came.

I'll wait for you. You'll find that my clothes will fit you, I think."

It was to a huge, beam-ceilinged bedroom with a canopied bed big enough for six men that Rainsford followed

the silent giant. Ivan laid out an evening suit, and Rainsford, as he put it on, noticed that it came from a London

tailor who ordinarily cut and sewed for none below the rank of duke.

The dining room to which Ivan conducted him was in many ways remarkable. There was a medieval magnificence

about it; it suggested a baronial hall of feudal times with its oaken panels, its high ceiling, its vast refectory

tables where twoscore men could sit down to eat. About the hall were mounted heads of many animals--lions,

tigers, elephants, moose, bears; larger or more perfect specimens Rainsford had never seen. At the great table

the general was sitting, alone.

"You'll have a cocktail, Mr. Rainsford," he suggested. The cocktail was surpassingly good; and, Rainsford noted,

the table apointments were of the finest--the linen, the crystal, the silver, the china.

They were eating borsch, the rich, red soup with whipped cream so dear to Russian palates. Half apologetically

General Zaroff said, "We do our best to preserve the amenities of civilization here. Please forgive any lapses.

We are well off the beaten track, you know. Do you think the champagne has suffered from its long ocean

trip?"

"Not in the least," declared Rainsford. He was finding the general a most thoughtful and affable host, a true

cosmopolite. But there was one small trait of .the general's that made Rainsford uncomfortable. Whenever he

looked up from his plate he found the general studying him, appraising him narrowly.

"Perhaps," said General Zaroff, "you were surprised that I recognized your name. You see, I read all books on

hunting published in English, French, and Russian. I have but one passion in my life, Mr. Rains. ford, and it is the

hunt."

"You have some wonderful heads here," said Rainsford as he ate a particularly well-cooked filet mignon. " That

Cape buffalo is the largest I ever saw."

"Oh, that fellow. Yes, he was a monster."

"Did he charge you?"

"Hurled me against a tree," said the general. "Fractured my skull. But I got the brute."

"I've always thought," said Rains{ord, "that the Cape buffalo is the most dangerous of all big game."

For a moment the general did not reply; he was smiling his curious red-lipped smile. Then he said slowly, "No.

You are wrong, sir. The Cape buffalo is not the most dangerous big game." He sipped his wine. "Here in my

preserve on this island," he said in the same slow tone, "I hunt more dangerous game."

Rainsford expressed his surprise. "Is there big game on this island?"

The general nodded. "The biggest."

"Really?"

"Oh, it isn't here naturally, of course. I have to stock the island."

"What have you imported, general?" Rainsford asked. "Tigers?"

The general smiled. "No," he said. "Hunting tigers ceased to interest me some years ago. I exhausted their

possibilities, you see. No thrill left in tigers, no real danger. I live for danger, Mr. Rainsford."

The general took from his pocket a gold cigarette case and offered his guest a long black cigarette with a

silver tip; it was perfumed and gave off a smell like incense.

"We will have some capital hunting, you and I," said the general. "I shall be most glad to have your society."

"But what game--" began Rainsford.

"I'll tell you," said the general. "You will be amused, I know. I think I may say, in all modesty, that I have done

a rare thing. I have invented a new sensation. May I pour you another glass of port?"

"Thank you, general."

The general filled both glasses, and said, "God makes some men poets. Some He makes kings, some beggars. Me

He made a hunter. My hand was made for the trigger, my father said. He was a very rich man with a quarter

of a million acres in the Crimea, and he was an ardent sportsman. When I was only five years old he gave me a

little gun, specially made in Moscow for me, to shoot sparrows with. When I shot some of his prize turkeys with

it, he did not punish me; he complimented me on my marksmanship. I killed my first bear in the Caucasus when I

was ten. My whole life has been one prolonged hunt. I went into the army--it was expected of noblemen's

sons--and for a time commanded a division of Cossack cavalry, but my real interest was always the hunt. I have

hunted every kind of game in every land. It would be impossible for me to tell you how many animals I have

killed."

The general puffed at his cigarette.

"After the debacle in Russia I left the country, for it was imprudent for an officer of the Czar to stay there.

Many noble Russians lost everything. I, luckily, had invested heavily in American securities, so I shall never have

to open a tearoom in Monte Carlo or drive a taxi in Paris. Naturally, I continued to hunt--grizzliest in your

Rockies, crocodiles in the Ganges, rhinoceroses in East Africa. It was in Africa that the Cape buffalo hit me

and laid me up for six months. As soon as I recovered I started for the Amazon to hunt jaguars, for I had

heard they were unusually cunning. They weren't." The Cossack sighed. "They were no match at all for a hunter

with his wits about him, and a high-powered rifle. I was bitterly disappointed. I was lying in my tent with a

splitting headache one night when a terrible thought pushed its way into my mind. Hunting was beginning to bore

me! And hunting, remember, had been my life. I have heard that in America businessmen often go to pieces

when they give up the business that has been their life."

"Yes, that's so," said Rainsford.

The general smiled. "I had no wish to go to pieces," he said. "I must do something. Now, mine is an analytical

mind, Mr. Rainsford. Doubtless that is why I enjoy the problems of the chase."

"No doubt, General Zaroff."

"So," continued the general, "I asked myself why the hunt no longer fascinated me. You are much younger than

I am, Mr. Rainsford, and have not hunted as much, but you perhaps can guess the answer."

"What was it?"

"Simply this: hunting had ceased to be what you call `a sporting proposition.' It had become too easy. I always

got my quarry. Always. There is no greater bore than perfection."

The general lit a fresh cigarette.

"No animal had a chance with me any more. That is no boast; it is a mathematical certainty. The animal had

nothing but his legs and his instinct. Instinct is no match for reason. When I thought of this it was a tragic

moment for me, I can tell you."

Rainsford leaned across the table, absorbed in what his host was saying.

"It came to me as an inspiration what I must do," the general went on.
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"And that was?"

The general smiled the quiet smile of one who has faced an obstacle and surmounted it with success. "I had to

invent a new animal to hunt," he said.

"A new animal? You're joking." "Not at all," said the general. "I never joke about hunting. I needed a new

animal. I found one. So I bought this island built this house, and here I do my hunting. The island is perfect for

my purposes--there are jungles with a maze of traits in them, hills, swamps--"

"But the animal, General Zaroff?"

"Oh," said the general, "it supplies me with the most exciting hunting in the world. No other hunting compares

with it for an instant. Every day I hunt, and I never grow bored now, for I have a quarry with which I can

match my wits."

Rainsford's bewilderment showed in his face.

"I wanted the ideal animal to hunt," explained the general. "So I said, `What are the attributes of an ideal

quarry?' And the answer was, of course, `It must have courage, cunning, and, above all, it must be able to

reason."'

"But no animal can reason," objected Rainsford.

"My dear fellow," said the general, "there is one that can."

"But you can't mean--" gasped Rainsford.

"And why not?"

"I can't believe you are serious, General Zaroff. This is a grisly joke."

"Why should I not be serious? I am speaking of hunting."

"Hunting? Great Guns, General Zaroff, what you speak of is murder."

The general laughed with entire good nature. He regarded Rainsford quizzically. "I refuse to believe that so

modern and civilized a young man as you seem to be harbors romantic ideas about the value of human life.

Surely your experiences in the war--"

"Did not make me condone cold-blooded murder," finished Rainsford stiffly.

Laughter shook the general. "How extraordinarily droll you are!" he said. "One does not expect nowadays to

find a young man of the educated class, even in America, with such a naive, and, if I may say so, mid-Victorian

point of view. It's like finding a snuffbox in a limousine. Ah, well, doubtless you had Puritan ancestors. So many

Americans appear to have had. I'll wager you'll forget your notions when you go hunting with me. You've a

genuine new thrill in store for you, Mr. Rainsford."

"Thank you, I'm a hunter, not a murderer."

"Dear me," said the general, quite unruffled, "again that unpleasant word. But I think I can show you that your

scruples are quite ill founded."

"Yes?"

"Life is for the strong, to be lived by the strong, and, if needs be, taken by the strong. The weak of the world

were put here to give the strong pleasure. I am strong. Why should I not use my gift? If I wish to hunt, why

should I not? I hunt the scum of the earth: sailors from tramp ships--lassars, blacks, Chinese, whites,

mongrels--a thoroughbred horse or hound is worth more than a score of them."

"But they are men," said Rainsford hotly.

"Precisely," said the general. "That is why I use them. It gives me pleasure. They can reason, after a fashion.

So they are dangerous."

"But where do you get them?"

The general's left eyelid fluttered down in a wink. "This island is called Ship Trap," he answered. "Sometimes

an angry god of the high seas sends them to me. Sometimes, when Providence is not so kind, I help Providence a

bit. Come to the window with me."

Rainsford went to the window and looked out toward the sea.

"Watch! Out there!" exclaimed the general, pointing into the night. Rainsford's eyes saw only blackness, and

then, as the general pressed a button, far out to sea Rainsford saw the flash of lights.

The general chuckled. "They indicate a channel," he said, "where there's none; giant rocks with razor edges

crouch like a sea monster with wide-open jaws. They can crush a ship as easily as I crush this nut." He dropped

a walnut on the hardwood floor and brought his heel grinding down on it. "Oh, yes," he said, casually, as if in

answer to a question, "I have electricity. We try to be civilized here."

"Civilized? And you shoot down men?"

A trace of anger was in the general's black eyes, but it was there for but a second; and he said, in his most

pleasant manner, "Dear me, what a righteous young man you are! I assure you I do not do the thing you

suggest. That would be barbarous. I treat these visitors with every consideration. They get plenty of good food

and exercise. They get into splendid physical condition. You shall see for yourself tomorrow."

"What do you mean?"

"We'll visit my training school," smiled the general. "It's in the cellar. I have about a dozen pupils down there

now. They're from the Spanish bark San Lucar that had the bad luck to go on the rocks out there. A very

inferior lot, I regret to say. Poor specimens and more accustomed to the deck than to the jungle." He raised his

hand, and Ivan, who served as waiter, brought thick Turkish coffee. Rainsford, with an effort, held his tongue

in check.

"It's a game, you see," pursued the general blandly. "I suggest to one of them that we go hunting. I give him a

supply of food and an excellent hunting knife. I give him three hours' start. I am to follow, armed only with a

pistol of the smallest caliber and range. If my quarry eludes me for three whole days, he wins the game. If I

find him "--the general smiled--" he loses."

"Suppose he refuses to be hunted?"

"Oh," said the general, "I give him his option, of course. He need not play that game if he doesn't wish to. If he

does not wish to hunt, I turn him over to Ivan. Ivan once had the honor of serving as official knouter to the

Great White Czar, and he has his own ideas of sport. Invariably, Mr. Rainsford, invariably they choose the

hunt."

"And if they win?"

The smile on the general's face widened. "To date I have not lost," he said. Then he added, hastily: "I don't

wish you to think me a braggart, Mr. Rainsford. Many of them afford only the most elementary sort of

problem. Occasionally I strike a tartar. One almost did win. I eventually had to use the dogs."

"The dogs?"

"This way, please. I'll show you."

The general steered Rainsford to a window. The lights from the windows sent a flickering illumination that

made grotesque patterns on the courtyard below, and Rainsford could see moving about there a dozen or so

huge black shapes; as they turned toward him, their eyes glittered greenly.

"A rather good lot, I think," observed the general. "They are let out at seven every night. If anyone should try

to get into my house--or out of it--something extremely regrettable would occur to him." He hummed a snatch

of song from the Folies Bergere.

"And now," said the general, "I want to show you my new collection of heads. Will you come with me to the

library?"

"I hope," said Rainsford, "that you will excuse me tonight, General Zaroff. I'm really not feeling well."

"Ah, indeed?" the general inquired solicitously. "Well, I suppose that's only natural, after your long swim. You

need a good, restful night's sleep. Tomorrow you'll feel like a new man, I'll wager. Then we'll hunt, eh? I've

one rather promising prospect--" Rainsford was hurrying from the room.

"Sorry you can't go with me tonight," called the general. "I expect rather fair sport--a big, strong, black. He

looks resourceful--Well, good night, Mr. Rainsford; I hope you have a good night's rest."

The bed was good, and the pajamas of the softest silk, and he was tired in every fiber of his being, but

nevertheless Rainsford could not quiet his brain with the opiate of sleep. He lay, eyes wide open. Once he

thought he heard stealthy steps in the corridor outside his room. He sought to throw open the door; it would

not open. He went to the window and looked out. His room was high up in one of the towers. The lights of the

chateau were out now, and it was dark and silent; but there was a fragment of sallow moon, and by its wan

light he could see, dimly, the courtyard. There, weaving in and out in the pattern of shadow, were black,

noiseless forms; the hounds heard him at the window and looked up, expectantly, with their green eyes.

Rainsford went back to the bed and lay down. By many methods he tried to put himself to sleep. He had

achieved a doze when, just as morning began to come, he heard, far off in the jungle, the faint report of a

pistol.

General Zaroff did not appear until luncheon. He was dressed faultlessly in the tweeds of a country squire. He

was solicitous about the state of Rainsford's health.

"As for me," sighed the general, "I do not feel so well. I am worried, Mr. Rainsford. Last night I detected

traces of my old complaint."

To Rainsford's questioning glance the general said, "Ennui. Boredom."

Then, taking a second helping of crêpes Suzette, the general explained: "The hunting was not good last night.

The fellow lost his head. He made a straight trail that offered no problems at all. That's the trouble with these

sailors; they have dull brains to begin with, and they do not know how to get about in the woods. They do

excessively stupid and obvious things. It's most annoying. Will you have another glass of Chablis, Mr.

Rainsford?"

"General," said Rainsford firmly, "I wish to leave this island at once."

The general raised his thickets of eyebrows; he seemed hurt. "But, my dear fellow," the general protested,

"you've only just come. You've had no hunting--"

"I wish to go today," said Rainsford. He saw the dead black eyes of the general on him, studying him. General

Zaroff's face suddenly brightened.

He filled Rainsford's glass with venerable Chablis from a dusty bottle.

"Tonight," said the general, "we will hunt--you and I."

Rainsford shook his head. "No, general," he said. "I will not hunt."

The general shrugged his shoulders and delicately ate a hothouse grape. "As you wish, my friend," he said. "The

choice rests entirely with you. But may I not venture to suggest that you will find my idea of sport more

diverting than Ivan's?"

He nodded toward the corner to where the giant stood, scowling, his thick arms crossed on his hogshead of

chest.

"You don't mean--" cried Rainsford.

"My dear fellow," said the general, "have I not told you I always mean what I say about hunting? This is really

an inspiration. I drink to a foeman worthy of my steel--at last." The general raised his glass, but Rainsford sat

staring at him.

"You'll find this game worth playing," the general said enthusiastically." Your brain against mine. Your woodcraft

against mine. Your strength and stamina against mine. Outdoor chess! And the stake is not without value, eh?"

"And if I win--" began Rainsford huskily.

"I'll cheerfully acknowledge myself defeat if I do not find you by midnight of the third day," said General

Zaroff. "My sloop will place you on the mainland near a town." The general read what Rainsford was thinking.

"Oh, you can trust me," said the Cossack. "I will give you my word as a gentleman and a sportsman. Of course

you, in turn, must agree to say nothing of your visit here."

"I'll agree to nothing of the kind," said Rainsford.

"Oh," said the general, "in that case--But why discuss that now? Three days hence we can discuss it over a

bottle of Veuve Cliquot, unless--"

The general sipped his wine.

Then a businesslike air animated him. "Ivan," he said to Rainsford, "will supply you with hunting clothes, food, a

knife. I suggest you wear moccasins; they leave a poorer trail. I suggest, too, that you avoid the big swamp in

the southeast corner of the island. We call it Death Swamp. There's quicksand there. One foolish fellow tried

it. The deplorable part of it was that Lazarus followed him. You can imagine my feelings, Mr. Rainsford. I loved

Lazarus; he was the finest hound in my pack. Well, I must beg you to excuse me now. I always' take a siesta

after lunch. You'll hardly have time for a nap, I fear. You'll want to start, no doubt. I shall not follow till dusk.

Hunting at night is so much more exciting than by day, don't you think? Au revoir, Mr. Rainsford, au revoir."

General Zaroff, with a deep, courtly bow, strolled from the room.

From another door came Ivan. Under one arm he carried khaki hunting clothes, a haversack of food, a leather

sheath containing a long-bladed hunting knife; his right hand rested on a cocked revolver thrust in the crimson

sash about his waist.

Rainsford had fought his way through the bush for two hours. "I must keep my nerve. I must keep my nerve,"

he said through tight teeth.

He had not been entirely clearheaded when the chateau gates snapped shut behind him. His whole idea at first

was to put distance between himself and General Zaroff; and, to this end, he had plunged along, spurred on by

the sharp rowers of something very like panic. Now he had got a grip on himself, had stopped, and was taking

stock of himself and the situation. He saw that straight flight was futile; inevitably it would bring him face to

face with the sea. He was in a picture with a frame of water, and his operations, clearly, must take place within

that frame.

"I'll give him a trail to follow," muttered Rainsford, and he struck off from the rude path he had been

following into the trackless wilderness. He executed a series of intricate loops; he doubled on his trail again and

again, recalling all the lore of the fox hunt, and all the dodges of the fox. Night found him leg-weary, with

hands and face lashed by the branches, on a thickly wooded ridge. He knew it would be insane to blunder on

through the dark, even if he had the strength. His need for rest was imperative and he thought, "I have played

the fox, now I must play the cat of the fable." A big tree with a thick trunk and outspread branches was near

by, and, taking care to leave not the slightest mark, he climbed up into the crotch, and, stretching out on one of

the broad limbs, after a fashion, rested. Rest brought him new confidence and almost a feeling of security.

Even so zealous a hunter as General Zaroff could not trace him there, he told himself; only the devil himself

could follow that complicated trail through the jungle after dark. But perhaps the general was a devil--

An apprehensive night crawled slowly by like a wounded snake and sleep did not visit Rainsford, although the

silence of a dead world was on the jungle. Toward morning when a dingy gray was varnishing the sky, the cry of

some startled bird focused Rainsford's attention in that direction. Something was coming through the bush,

coming slowly, carefully, coming by the same winding way Rainsford had come. He flattened himself down on

the limb and, through a screen of leaves almost as thick as tapestry, he watched. . . . That which was

approaching was a man.

It was General Zaroff. He made his way along with his eyes fixed in utmost concentration on the ground

before him. He paused, almost beneath the tree, dropped to his knees and studied the ground. Rainsford's

impulse was to hurl himself down like a panther, but he saw that the general's right hand held something

metallic--a small automatic pistol.

The hunter shook his head several times, as if he were puzzled. Then he straightened up and took from his case

one of his black cigarettes; its pungent incenselike smoke floated up to Rainsford's nostrils.

Rainsford held his breath. The general's eyes had left the ground and were traveling inch by inch up the tree.

Rainsford froze there, every muscle tensed for a spring. But the sharp eyes of the hunter stopped before they

reached the limb where Rainsford lay; a smile spread over his brown face. Very deliberately he blew a smoke

ring into the air; then he turned his back on the tree and walked carelessly away, back along the trail he had

come. The swish of the underbrush against his hunting boots grew fainter and fainter.

The pent-up air burst hotly from Rainsford's lungs. His first thought made him feel sick and numb. The general

could follow a trail through the woods at night; he could follow an extremely difficult trail; he must have

uncanny powers; only by the merest chance had the Cossack failed to see his quarry.

Rainsford's second thought was even more terrible. It sent a shudder of cold horror through his whole being.

Why had the general smiled? Why had he turned back?

Rainsford did not want to believe what his reason told him was true, but the truth was as evident as the sun

that had by now pushed through the morning mists. The general was playing with him! The general was saving

him for another day's sport! The Cossack was the cat; he was the mouse. Then it was that Rainsford knew the

full meaning of terror.

"I will not lose my nerve. I will not."

He slid down from the tree, and struck off again into the woods. His face was set and he forced the machinery

of his mind to function. Three hundred yards from his hiding place he stopped where a huge dead tree leaned

precariously on a smaller, living one. Throwing off his sack of food, Rainsford took his knife from its sheath

and began to work with all his energy.

The job was finished at last, and he threw himself down behind a fallen log a hundred feet away. He did not

have to wait long. The cat was coming again to play with the mouse.

Following the trail with the sureness of a bloodhound came General Zaroff. Nothing escaped those searching

black eyes, no crushed blade of grass, no bent twig, no mark, no matter how faint, in the moss. So intent was

the Cossack on his stalking that he was upon the thing Rainsford had made before he saw it. His foot touched

the protruding bough that was the trigger. Even as he touched it, the general sensed his danger and leaped back

with the agility of an ape. But he was not quite quick enough; the dead tree, delicately adjusted to rest on the

cut living one, crashed down and struck the general a glancing blow on the shoulder as it fell; but for his

alertness, he must have been smashed beneath it. He staggered, but he did not fall; nor did he drop his

revolver. He stood there, rubbing his injured shoulder, and Rainsford, with fear again gripping his heart, heard

the general's mocking laugh ring through the jungle.

"Rainsford," called the general, "if you are within sound of my voice, as I suppose you are, let me congratulate

you. Not many men know how to make a Malay mancatcher. Luckily for me I, too, have hunted in Malacca. You

are proving interesting, Mr. Rainsford. I am going now to have my wound dressed; it's only a slight one. But I

shall be back. I shall be back."

When the general, nursing his bruised shoulder, had gone, Rainsford took up his flight again. It was flight now, a

desperate, hopeless flight, that carried him on for some hours. Dusk came, then darkness, and still he pressed

on. The ground grew softer under his moccasins; the vegetation grew ranker, denser; insects bit him savagely.

Then, as he stepped forward, his foot sank into the ooze. He tried to wrench it back, but the muck sucked

viciously at his foot as if it were a giant leech. With a violent effort, he tore his feet loose. He knew where he

was now. Death Swamp and its quicksand.

His hands were tight closed as if his nerve were something tangible that someone in the darkness was trying to

tear from his grip. The softness of the earth had given him an idea. He stepped back from the quicksand a

dozen feet or so and, like some huge prehistoric beaver, he began to dig.

Rainsford had dug himself in in France when a second's delay meant death. That had been a placid pastime

compared to his digging now. The pit grew deeper; when it was above his shoulders, he climbed out and from

some hard saplings cut stakes and sharpened them to a fine point. These stakes he planted in the bottom of the

pit with the points sticking up. With flying fingers he wove a rough carpet of weeds and branches and with it he

covered the mouth of the pit. Then, wet with sweat and aching with tiredness, he crouched behind the stump of

a lightning-charred tree.

He knew his pursuer was coming; he heard the padding sound of feet on the soft earth, and the night breeze

brought him the perfume of the general's cigarette. It seemed to Rainsford that the general was coming with

unusual swiftness; he was not feeling his way along, foot by foot. Rainsford, crouching there, could not see the

general, nor could he see the pit. He lived a year in a minute. Then he felt an impulse to cry aloud with joy, for

he heard the sharp crackle of the breaking branches as the cover of the pit gave way; he heard the sharp

scream of pain as the pointed stakes found their mark. He leaped up from his place of concealment. Then he

cowered back. Three feet from the pit a man was standing, with an electric torch in his hand.

"You've done well, Rainsford," the voice of the general called. "Your Burmese tiger pit has claimed one of my

best dogs. Again you score. I think, Mr. Rainsford, Ill see what you can do against my whole pack. I'm going

home for a rest now. Thank you for a most amusing evening."

At daybreak Rainsford, lying near the swamp, was awakened by a sound that made him know that he had new

things to learn about fear. It was a distant sound, faint and wavering, but he knew it. It was the baying of a

pack of hounds.

Rainsford knew he could do one of two things. He could stay where he was and wait. That was suicide. He could

flee. That was postponing the inevitable. For a moment he stood there, thinking. An idea that held a wild chance

came to him, and, tightening his belt, he headed away from the swamp.

The baying of the hounds drew nearer, then still nearer, nearer, ever nearer. On a ridge Rainsford climbed a

tree. Down a watercourse, not a quarter of a mile away, he could see the bush moving. Straining his eyes, he

saw the lean figure of General Zaroff; just ahead of him Rainsford made out another figure whose wide

shoulders surged through the tall jungle weeds; it was the giant Ivan, and he seemed pulled forward by some

unseen force; Rainsford knew that Ivan must be holding the pack in leash.

They would be on him any minute now. His mind worked frantically. He thought of a native trick he had learned

in Uganda. He slid down the tree. He caught hold of a springy young sapling and to it he fastened his hunting

knife, with the blade pointing down the trail; with a bit of wild grapevine he tied back the sapling. Then he ran

for his life. The hounds raised their voices as they hit the fresh scent. Rainsford knew now how an animal at

bay feels.

He had to stop to get his breath. The baying of the hounds stopped abruptly, and Rainsford's heart stopped

too. They must have reached the knife.

He shinned excitedly up a tree and looked back. His pursuers had stopped. But the hope that was in Rainsford's

brain when he climbed died, for he saw in the shallow valley that General Zaroff was still on his feet. But Ivan

was not. The knife, driven by the recoil of the springing tree, had not wholly failed.

Rainsford had hardly tumbled to the ground when the pack took up the cry again.

"Nerve, nerve, nerve!" he panted, as he dashed along. A blue gap showed between the trees dead ahead. Ever

nearer drew the hounds. Rainsford forced himself on toward that gap. He reached it. It was the shore of the

sea. Across a cove he could see the gloomy gray stone of the chateau. Twenty feet below him the sea rumbled

and hissed. Rainsford hesitated. He heard the hounds. Then he leaped far out into the sea. . . .

When the general and his pack reached the place by the sea, the Cossack stopped. For some minutes he stood

regarding the blue-green expanse of water. He shrugged his shoulders. Then be sat down, took a drink of

brandy from a silver flask, lit a cigarette, and hummed a bit from Madame Butterfly.

General Zaroff had an exceedingly good dinner in his great paneled dining hall that evening. With it he had a

bottle of Pol Roger and half a bottle of Chambertin. Two slight annoyances kept him from perfect enjoyment.

One was the thought that it would be difficult to replace Ivan; the other was that his quarry had escaped him;

of course, the American hadn't played the game--so thought the general as he tasted his after-dinner liqueur.

In his library he read, to soothe himself, from the works of Marcus Aurelius. At ten he went up to his bedroom.

He was deliciously tired, he said to himself, as he locked himself in. There was a little moonlight, so, before

turning on his light, he went to the window and looked down at the courtyard. He could see the great hounds,

and he called, "Better luck another time," to them. Then he switched on the light.

A man, who had been hiding in the curtains of the bed, was standing there.

"Rainsford!" screamed the general. "How in God's name did you get here?"

"Swam," said Rainsford. "I found it quicker than walking through the jungle."

The general sucked in his breath and smiled. "I congratulate you," he said. "You have won the game."

Rainsford did not smile. "I am still a beast at bay," he said, in a low, hoarse voice. "Get ready, General Zaroff."

The general made one of his deepest bows. "I see," he said. "Splendid! One of us is to furnish a repast for the

hounds. The other will sleep in this very excellent bed. On guard, Rainsford." . . .

He had never slept in a better bed, Rainsford decided.





-- Wed, 20 Oct 2010 01:48:15 +0000 --



The Lottery

by Shirley Jackson

Word Count: 3773


The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full-summer day; the flowers were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green. The people of the village began to gather in the square, between the post office and the bank, around ten o'clock; in some towns there were so many people that the lottery took two days and had to be started on June 2th. but in this village, where there were only about three hundred people, the whole lottery took less than two hours, so it could begin at ten o'clock in the morning and still be through in time to allow the villagers to get home for noon dinner.

The children assembled first, of course. School was recently over for the summer, and the feeling of liberty sat uneasily on most of them; they tended to gather together quietly for a while before they broke into boisterous play. and their talk was still of the classroom and the teacher, of books and reprimands. Bobby Martin had already stuffed his pockets full of stones, and the other boys soon followed his example, selecting the smoothest and roundest stones; Bobby and Harry Jones and Dickie Delacroix-- the villagers pronounced this name "Dellacroy"--eventually made a great pile of stones in one corner of the square and guarded it against the raids of the other boys. The girls stood aside, talking among themselves, looking over their shoulders at rolled in the dust or clung to the hands of their older brothers or sisters.

Soon the men began to gather. surveying their own children, speaking of planting and rain, tractors and taxes. They stood together, away from the pile of stones in the corner, and their jokes were quiet and they smiled rather than laughed. The women, wearing faded house dresses and sweaters, came shortly after their menfolk. They greeted one another and exchanged bits of gossip as they went to join their husbands. Soon the women, standing by their husbands, began to call to their children, and the children came reluctantly, having to be called four or five times. Bobby Martin ducked under his mother's grasping hand and ran, laughing, back to the pile of stones. His father spoke up sharply, and Bobby came quickly and took his place between his father and his oldest brother.

The lottery was conducted--as were the square dances, the teen club, the Halloween program--by Mr. Summers. who had time and energy to devote to civic activities. He was a round-faced, jovial man and he ran the coal business, and people were sorry for him. because he had no children and his wife was a scold. When he arrived in the square, carrying the black wooden box, there was a murmur of conversation among the villagers, and he waved and called. "Little late today, folks." The postmaster, Mr. Graves, followed him, carrying a three- legged stool, and the stool was put in the center of the square and Mr. Summers set the black box down on it. The villagers kept their distance, leaving a space between themselves and the stool. and when Mr. Summers said, "Some of you fellows want to give me a hand?" there was a hesitation before two men. Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter. came forward to hold the box steady on the stool while Mr. Summers stirred up the papers inside it.

The original paraphernalia for the lottery had been lost long ago, and the black box now resting on the stool had been put into use even before Old Man Warner, the oldest man in town, was born. Mr. Summers spoke frequently to the villagers about making a new box, but no one liked to upset even as much tradition as was represented by the black box. There was a story that the present box had been made with some pieces of the box that had preceded it, the one that had been constructed when the first people settled down to make a village here. Every year, after the lottery, Mr. Summers began talking again about a new box, but every year the subject was allowed to fade off without anything's being done. The black box grew shabbier each year: by now it was no longer completely black but splintered badly along one side to show the original wood color, and in some places faded or stained.

Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, held the black box securely on the stool until Mr. Summers had stirred the papers thoroughly with his hand. Because so much of the ritual had been forgotten or discarded, Mr. Summers had been successful in having slips of paper substituted for the chips of wood that had been used for generations. Chips of wood, Mr. Summers had argued. had been all very well when the village was tiny, but now that the population was more than three hundred and likely to keep on growing, it was necessary to use something that would fit more easily into he black box. The night before the lottery, Mr. Summers and Mr. Graves made up the slips of paper and put them in the box, and it was then taken to the safe of Mr. Summers' coal company and locked up until Mr. Summers was ready to take it to the square next morning. The rest of the year, the box was put way, sometimes one place, sometimes another; it had spent one year in Mr. Graves's barn and another year underfoot in the post office. and sometimes it was set on a shelf in the Martin grocery and left there.

There was a great deal of fussing to be done before Mr. Summers declared the lottery open. There were the lists to make up--of heads of families. heads of households in each family. members of each household in each family. There was the proper swearing-in of Mr. Summers by the postmaster, as the official of the lottery; at one time, some people remembered, there had been a recital of some sort, performed by the official of the lottery, a perfunctory. tuneless chant that had been rattled off duly each year; some people believed that the official of the lottery used to stand just so when he said or sang it, others believed that he was supposed to walk among the people, but years and years ago this p3rt of the ritual had been allowed to lapse. There had been, also, a ritual salute, which the official of the lottery had had to use in addressing each person who came up to draw from the box, but this also had changed with time, until now it was felt necessary only for the official to speak to each person approaching. Mr. Summers was very good at all this; in his clean white shirt and blue jeans. with one hand resting carelessly on the black box. he seemed very proper and important as he talked interminably to Mr. Graves and the Martins.

Just as Mr. Summers finally left off talking and turned to the assembled villagers, Mrs. Hutchinson came hurriedly along the path to the square, her sweater thrown over her shoulders, and slid into place in the back of the crowd. "Clean forgot what day it was," she said to Mrs. Delacroix, who stood next to her, and they both laughed softly. "Thought my old man was out back stacking wood," Mrs. Hutchinson went on. "and then I looked out the window and the kids was gone, and then I remembered it was the twenty-seventh and came a-running." She dried her hands on her apron, and Mrs. Delacroix said, "You're in time, though. They're still talking away up there."

Mrs. Hutchinson craned her neck to see through the crowd and found her husband and children standing near the front. She tapped Mrs. Delacroix on the arm as a farewell and began to make her way through the crowd. The people separated good-humoredly to let her through: two or three people said. in voices just loud enough to be heard across the crowd, "Here comes your, Missus, Hutchinson," and "Bill, she made it after all." Mrs. Hutchinson reached her husband, and Mr. Summers, who had been waiting, said cheerfully. "Thought we were going to have to get on without you, Tessie." Mrs. Hutchinson said. grinning, "Wouldn't have me leave m'dishes in the sink, now, would you. Joe?," and soft laughter ran through the crowd as the people stirred back into position after Mrs. Hutchinson's arrival.

"Well, now." Mr. Summers said soberly, "guess we better get started, get this over with, so's we can go back to work. Anybody ain't here?"

"Dunbar." several people said. "Dunbar. Dunbar."

Mr. Summers consulted his list. "Clyde Dunbar." he said. "That's right. He's broke his leg, hasn't he? Who's drawing for him?"

"Me. I guess," a woman said. and Mr. Summers turned to look at her. "Wife draws for her husband." Mr. Summers said. "Don't you have a grown boy to do it for you, Janey?" Although Mr. Summers and everyone else in the village knew the answer perfectly well, it was the business of the official of the lottery to ask such questions formally. Mr. Summers waited with an expression of polite interest while Mrs. Dunbar answered.

"Horace's not but sixteen vet." Mrs. Dunbar said regretfully. "Guess I gotta fill in for the old man this year."

"Right." Sr. Summers said. He made a note on the list he was holding. Then he asked, "Watson boy drawing this year?"

A tall boy in the crowd raised his hand. "Here," he said. "I m drawing for my mother and me." He blinked his eyes nervously and ducked his head as several voices in the crowd said thin#s like "Good fellow, lack." and "Glad to see your mother's got a man to do it."

"Well," Mr. Summers said, "guess that's everyone. Old Man Warner make it?"

"Here," a voice said. and Mr. Summers nodded.

A sudden hush fell on the crowd as Mr. Summers cleared his throat and looked at the list. "All ready?" he called. "Now, I'll read the names--heads of families first--and the men come up and take a paper out of the box. Keep the paper folded in your hand without looking at it until everyone has had a turn. Everything clear?"

The people had done it so many times that they only half listened to the directions: most of them were quiet. wetting their lips. not looking around. Then Mr. Summers raised one hand high and said, "Adams." A man disengaged himself from the crowd and came forward. "Hi. Steve." Mr. Summers said. and Mr. Adams said. "Hi. Joe." They grinned at one another humorlessly and nervously. Then Mr. Adams reached into the black box and took out a folded paper. He held it firmly by one corner as he turned and went hastily back to his place in the crowd. where he stood a little apart from his family. not looking down at his hand.

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"Allen." Mr. Summers said. "Anderson.... Bentham."

"Seems like there's no time at all between lotteries any more." Mrs. Delacroix said to Mrs. Graves in the back row.

"Seems like we got through with the last one only last week."

"Time sure goes fast.-- Mrs. Graves said.

"Clark.... Delacroix"

"There goes my old man." Mrs. Delacroix said. She held her breath while her husband went forward.

"Dunbar," Mr. Summers said, and Mrs. Dunbar went steadily to the box while one of the women said. "Go on. Janey," and another said, "There she goes."

"We're next." Mrs. Graves said. She watched while Mr. Graves came around from the side of the box, greeted Mr. Summers gravely and selected a slip of paper from the box. By now, all through the crowd there were men holding the small folded papers in their large hand. turning them over and over nervously Mrs. Dunbar and her two sons stood together, Mrs. Dunbar holding the slip of paper.

"Harburt.... Hutchinson."

"Get up there, Bill," Mrs. Hutchinson said. and the people near her laughed.

"Jones."

"They do say," Mr. Adams said to Old Man Warner, who stood next to him, "that over in the north village they're talking of giving up the lottery."

Old Man Warner snorted. "Pack of crazy fools," he said. "Listening to the young folks, nothing's good enough for them. Next thing you know, they'll be wanting to go back to living in caves, nobody work any more, live hat way for a while. Used to be a saying about 'Lottery in June, corn be heavy soon.' First thing you know, we'd all be eating stewed chickweed and acorns. There's always been a lottery," he added petulantly. "Bad enough to see young Joe Summers up there joking with everybody."

"Some places have already quit lotteries." Mrs. Adams said.

"Nothing but trouble in that," Old Man Warner said stoutly. "Pack of young fools."

"Martin." And Bobby Martin watched his father go forward. "Overdyke.... Percy."

"I wish they'd hurry," Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son. "I wish they'd hurry."

"They're almost through," her son said.

"You get ready to run tell Dad," Mrs. Dunbar said.

Mr. Summers called his own name and then stepped forward precisely and selected a slip from the box. Then he called, "Warner."

"Seventy-seventh year I been in the lottery," Old Man Warner said as he went through the crowd. "Seventy-seventh time."

"Watson" The tall boy came awkwardly through the crowd. Someone said, "Don't be nervous, Jack," and Mr. Summers said, "Take your time, son."

"Zanini."

After that, there was a long pause, a breathless pause, until Mr. Summers. holding his slip of paper in the air, said, "All right, fellows." For a minute, no one moved, and then all the slips of paper were opened. Suddenly, all the women began to speak at once, saving. "Who is it?," "Who's got it?," "Is it the Dunbars?," "Is it the Watsons?" Then the voices began to say, "It's Hutchinson. It's Bill," "Bill Hutchinson's got it."

"Go tell your father," Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son.

People began to look around to see the Hutchinsons. Bill Hutchinson was standing quiet, staring down at the paper in his hand. Suddenly. Tessie Hutchinson shouted to Mr. Summers. "You didn't give him time enough to take any paper he wanted. I saw you. It wasn't fair!"

"Be a good sport, Tessie." Mrs. Delacroix called, and Mrs. Graves said, "All of us took the same chance."

"Shut up, Tessie," Bill Hutchinson said.

"Well, everyone," Mr. Summers said, "that was done pretty fast, and now we've got to be hurrying a little more to get done in time." He consulted his next list. "Bill," he said, "you draw for the Hutchinson family. You got any other households in the Hutchinsons?"

"There's Don and Eva," Mrs. Hutchinson yelled. "Make them take their chance!"

"Daughters draw with their husbands' families, Tessie," Mr. Summers said gently. "You know that as well as anyone else."

"It wasn't fair," Tessie said.

"I guess not, Joe." Bill Hutchinson said regretfully. "My daughter draws with her husband's family; that's only fair. And I've got no other family except the kids."

"Then, as far as drawing for families is concerned, it's you," Mr. Summers said in explanation, "and as far as drawing for households is concerned, that's you, too. Right?"

"Right," Bill Hutchinson said.

"How many kids, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked formally.

"Three," Bill Hutchinson said.

"There's Bill, Jr., and Nancy, and little Dave. And Tessie and me."

"All right, then," Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you got their tickets back?"

Mr. Graves nodded and held up the slips of paper. "Put them in the box, then," Mr. Summers directed. "Take Bill's and put it in."

"I think we ought to start over," Mrs. Hutchinson said, as quietly as she could. "I tell you it wasn't fair. You didn't give him time enough to choose. Everybody saw that."

Mr. Graves had selected the five slips and put them in the box. and he dropped all the papers but those onto the ground. where the breeze caught them and lifted them off.

"Listen, everybody," Mrs. Hutchinson was saying to the people around her.

"Ready, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked. and Bill Hutchinson, with one quick glance around at his wife and children. nodded.

"Remember," Mr. Summers said. "take the slips and keep them folded until each person has taken one. Harry, you help little Dave." Mr. Graves took the hand of the little boy, who came willingly with him up to the box. "Take a paper out of the box, Davy." Mr. Summers said. Davy put his hand into the box and laughed. "Take just one paper." Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you hold it for him." Mr. Graves took the child's hand and removed the folded paper from the tight fist and held it while little Dave stood next to him and looked up at him wonderingly.

"Nancy next," Mr. Summers said. Nancy was twelve, and her school friends breathed heavily as she went forward switching her skirt, and took a slip daintily from the box "Bill, Jr.," Mr. Summers said, and Billy, his face red and his feet overlarge, near knocked the box over as he got a paper out. "Tessie," Mr. Summers said. She hesitated for a minute, looking around defiantly. and then set her lips and went up to the box. She snatched a paper out and held it behind her.

"Bill," Mr. Summers said, and Bill Hutchinson reached into the box and felt around, bringing his hand out at last with the slip of paper in it.

The crowd was quiet. A girl whispered, "I hope it's not Nancy," and the sound of the whisper reached the edges of the crowd.

"It's not the way it used to be." Old Man Warner said clearly. "People ain't the way they used to be."

"All right," Mr. Summers said. "Open the papers. Harry, you open little Dave's."

Mr. Graves opened the slip of paper and there was a general sigh through the crowd as he held it up and everyone could see that it was blank. Nancy and Bill. Jr.. opened theirs at the same time. and both beamed and laughed. turning around to the crowd and holding their slips of paper above their heads.

"Tessie," Mr. Summers said. There was a pause, and then Mr. Summers looked at Bill Hutchinson, and Bill unfolded his paper and showed it. It was blank.

"It's Tessie," Mr. Summers said, and his voice was hushed. "Show us her paper. Bill."

Bill Hutchinson went over to his wife and forced the slip of paper out of her hand. It had a black spot on it, the black spot Mr. Summers had made the night before with the heavy pencil in the coal company office. Bill Hutchinson held it up, and there was a stir in the crowd.

"All right, folks." Mr. Summers said. "Let's finish quickly."

Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual and lost the original black box, they still remembered to use stones. The pile of stones the boys had made earlier was ready; there were stones on the ground with the blowing scraps of paper that had come out of the box Delacroix selected a stone so large she had to pick it up with both hands and turned to Mrs. Dunbar. "Come on," she said. "Hurry up."

Mr. Dunbar had small stones in both hands, and she said. gasping for breath. "I can't run at all. You'll have to go ahead and I'll catch up with you."

The children had stones already. And someone gave little Davy Hutchinson few pebbles.

Tessie Hutchinson was in the center of a cleared space by now, and she held her hands out desperately as the villagers moved in on her. "It isn't fair," she said. A stone hit her on the side of the head. Old Man Warner was saying, "Come on, come on, everyone." Steve Adams was in the front of the crowd of villagers, with Mrs. Graves beside him.

"It isn't fair, it isn't right," Mrs. Hutchinson screamed, and then they were upon her.