The best short stories of 1920, and the yearbook of the American short story
General
The best short stories of 1920, and the yearbook of the American short story
American fiction -- 20th century; Short stories -- 20th century -- Bibliography; Short stories -- 20th century -- Indexes; Short stories, American
In the shock of that moment I reached out to support her, but she
checked my hand. Her gray eyes opened again. A shudder visibly went over
her, as if the night air had suddenly become chill. From the shelf the
two stuffed birds regarded us dolefully, while the dancing faun, with
head thrown back in an attitude of immortal art, laughed derisively.
"Where is he? I must speak to him," said Miss Stanleigh.
"One might think he were deliberately hiding," I muttered, for I was at
a loss to account for Leavitt's absence.
"Then find him," the girl commanded.
I cut short my speculations to direct Williams to search the hut in the
rear of the bungalow, where, behind bamboo palings, Leavitt's Malay
servant maintained an aloof and mysterious existence. I sat down beside
Miss Stanleigh on the veranda steps to find my hands sooty from the
touch of the boards. A fine volcanic ash was evidently drifting in the
air and now to my ear, attuned to the profound stillness, the wind bore
a faint humming sound.
"Do you hear that?" I whispered. It was like the far-off murmur of a
gigantic caldron, softly a-boil--a dull vibration that seemed to reach
us through the ground as well as through the air.
The girl listened a moment, and then started up. "I hear
voices--somewhere."
"Voices?" I strained my ears for sounds other than the insistent ferment
of the great cone above our heads. "Perhaps Leavitt----"
"Why do you still call him Leavitt?"
"Then you're quite certain----" I began, but an involuntary exclamation
from her cut me short.
The light of Williams's lantern, emerging from behind the bamboo
palings, disclosed the burly form of the boatswain with a shrinking
Malay in tow. He was jabbering in his native tongue, with much
gesticulation of his thin arms, and going into contortions at every
dozen paces in a sort of pantomime to emphasize his words. Williams
urged him along unceremoniously to the steps of the veranda.
"Perhaps you can get the straight of this, Mr. Barnaby," said the
boatswain. "He swears that the flame-devil in the volcano has swallowed
his master alive."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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