“Of the greatest of all African wars----” He tilted his head at me with the absurdest suspicion about my wits. “Come away!” he said. I got up and went with him out into the black ruck of the camels. He was groaning audibly over that squandered bank-note. “Man, man, and you were really taken in by that beggar’s claptrap. Why--look you--in that old chap’s day there weren’t enough white men in Central Africa all put together----” “Borak!” I said. “_Will_ you listen to that song!” In the hollow of the market, above the grunt and snore of the caravan, the thin war-chant of the “Yankis” wound on, repeating, repeating, John B’own’s body lahs amoldin’ in the g’ave, John B’own’s body lahs amoldin’ in the g’ave, John B’own’s body lahs amoldin’ in the g’ave, But his soul goes mahchin’ on---- In that Sahara darkness where the pale courses come from beyond the South I saw Atlanta burning. Sherman was on the march. [20] Copyright, 1922, by The Pictorial Review Company. Copyright, 1923, by Wilbur Daniel Steele. [21] The Napoleonic Messiah of Mohammedan prophecy. [22] There is no god but God. THE COFFIN[23] By CLEMENT WOOD (From _The Pagan_) It stood in the middle of the sitting-room. It was all black, except for the silver shine of the handles. There were flowers on the floor beside it, vague blotches of dulled white and yellow. The burdened odor of honeysuckle, a ground-clinging, unhealthy sweetness, came to the man’s nostrils; there was a stiff, pungent scent, too, that he could not place. On the mantel, more flowers; the glimmer of the bracket lamp washed these feebly--its wick was so low that the flame seemed next door to dying at any moment. Flowers filled the stiff-backed chair beneath the lamp. There were two other chairs in the room, both empty. Thomas Rice loitered at the open doorway, taking in the sparse furnishings. He had stood for ten minutes within the dining room, while Aunt Teby Riggs, Charley’s own aunt on his mother’s side, whispered harshly all he needed to know, and much that he did not. “Won’t yer have just a bite, Mr. Rice?” she insisted stridently, unable to keep her eyes off the twisted half of his face. “I et my supper already, thank yer.” “Just a mite of this chicken? Or a cup of somethin’ warm, to stay by yer?” “No ’m, Miss Riggs.” He fumbled uneasily with his sweaty felt hat, drooping from his right hand; his coat hung limp over his arm. It was a hot, stirless night; serving writs up the county tired feet and spirit; and the final walk from Belle Ellen to Dolomite was a good eight miles. She indicated the crowded hat-rack. “Yer can find room.... Louella’s eatin’ her supper now.” The shrill syllables rasped his ear.