Harringay delivered cut two across the demon, and followed with a thrust in the eye. There was an indistinct rumbling. "_Four_ masterpieces," and a spitting sound. But Harringay had the upper hand now and meant to keep it. With rapid, bold strokes he continued to paint over the writhing canvas, until at last it was a uniform field of shining Hedge Sparrow tint. Once the mouth reappeared and got as far as "Five master--" before he filled it with enamel; and near the end the red eye opened and glared at him indignantly. But at last nothing remained save a gleaming panel of drying enamel. For a little while a faint stirring beneath the surface puckered it slightly here and there, but presently even that died away and the thing was perfectly still. Then Harringay--according to Harringay's account--lit his pipe and sat down and stared at the enamelled canvas, and tried to make out clearly what had happened. Then he walked round behind it, to see if the back of it was at all remarkable. Then it was he began to regret he had not photographed the Devil before he painted him out. This is Harringay's story--not mine. He supports it by a small canvas (24 by 20) enamelled a pale green, and by violent asseverations. It is also true that he never has produced a masterpiece, and in the opinion of his intimate friends probably never will. THE FLYING MAN The Ethnologist looked at the _bhimraj_ feather thoughtfully. "They seemed loth to part with it," he said. "It is sacred to the Chiefs," said the lieutenant; "just as yellow silk, you know, is sacred to the Chinese Emperor." The Ethnologist did not answer. He hesitated. Then opening the topic abruptly, "What on earth is this cock-and-bull story they have of a flying man?" The lieutenant smiled faintly. "What did they tell you?" "I see," said the Ethnologist, "that you know of your fame." The lieutenant rolled himself a cigarette. "I don't mind hearing about it once more. How does it stand at present?" "It's so confoundedly childish," said the Ethnologist, becoming irritated. "How did you play it off upon them?" The lieutenant made no answer, but lounged back in his folding-chair, still smiling. "Here am I, come four hundred miles out of my way to get what is left of the folk-lore of these people, before they are utterly demoralised by missionaries and the military, and all I find are a lot of impossible legends about a sandy-haired scrub of an infantry lieutenant. How he is invulnerable--how he can jump over elephants--how he can fly. That's the toughest nut. One old gentleman described your wings, said they had black plumage and were not quite as long as a mule. Said he often saw you by moonlight hovering over the crests out towards the Shendu country.--Confound it, man!" The lieutenant laughed cheerfully. "Go on," he said. "Go on."