SHEAVES By E. F. BENSON Author of “The Angel of Pain,” “Dodo,” etc. [Illustration: colophon] _FOURTH EDITION_ New York Doubleday, Page & Company Copyright, 1907, by Doubleday, Page & Company Published, October, 1907 All Rights Reserved Including that of Translation into Foreign Languages Including the Scandinavian SHEAVES CHAPTER I The long and ferocious battle between those desperate wild Indians, Chopimalive and his squaw Sitonim (otherwise known as Jim and Daisy Rye) and the intrepid trader, Hugh Grainger, had come to an end, and the intrepid trader lay dead on the hayfield. He had still (which was a good deal to ask of a dead man) to carry on and direct the Indians’ subsequent movements, and with praiseworthy disregard of self and scorn of consequence, he had said that it was necessary to bury him with musical honours in the arid sands of the American desert, and “Rule Britannia” would do. He had, however, hinted that if his body and legs were buried, that would be quite sufficient in the way of ritual; but the Indians had thought otherwise, and had covered his head also. Then the Indians, being inconveniently hot, had sat down close to his tomb, with threats that unless he lay really dead they would bury him much deeper. “Dead traders always have their faces uncovered,” said Hugh. “This one didn’t,” remarked Chopimalive. “But the squaw always came and uncovered his face afterward, immediately afterward,” said Hugh, “otherwise his ghost haunted them and woke them up about midnight with the touch of an icy hand.” “Well, your hand wasn’t at all icy,” said Sitonim scornfully. “It was very hot--as hot as me. Besides, you’re dead, and you can’t talk.” Hugh coughed away some bits of clover that had got into his mouth. “I’m not talking,” he said; “it’s the voice from the tomb. And if you don’t take the tomb off my face, my ghost will let itself down to-night from the ceiling like a purple spider and eat your nose.” Shrieks from Sitonim; and she clawed the hay away from his face, nearly putting out his eye. “Promise you won’t!” she said. “O Daisy, you funk!” said Chopimalive. “Well, I don’t want my nose eaten,” said she. The corpse continued: “And then to make sure that the trader wouldn’t drop down from the ceiling, Chopimalive felt in the left-hand pocket of his coat, and put a cigarette which he found in a case there into his mouth. Yes. And there was a box of matches---- Oh, I forgot, they pulled his left-hand trouser down, so that the sand of the American desert didn’t get up above his sock and tickle his leg, because the Tickle-ghost is far the worst.”