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The Tracer of Eflos
Chronicles of Dr. Phileas Immanuel. Soul Specialist Bp VICTOR ROUSSEAU THE TWO CHARIOTEERS I i H ARRIS, Jn the Kuppeln automo bile, had taken the lead and was racing round the course toward the grand stand, on the laut lap, hotly followed by Morton in the Carrier. The immense concourse went wild with enthusiasm. They stood up and waved hats and hand kerchiefs and yelled as Harris slowly ■drew away from his pursuer. He had erept up from ninth to first, and now shot like a projectile along the track, the wheels, of course, Invisible, the long, dark body of the car conveying the sense of a continuous streak. The two figures in the Kuppeln looked like tiny automatons perched inside the Aiody of the monster. "You haven't anything like this in Greece!" I yelled exultantly to Dr. Phileas Immanuel who, at my side, was watching the race with restrained but obvious interest. "Not yet," he answered. "But why should we? After all, Greece invented this and practiced it so long that our people have grown weary of it. When they are ready, they will revive the sport once more." "Greece invented automobile rac ing?'' I exclaimed. The little doctor's Tash statement almost withdrew my -attention from the speeding cars. "Byzantium," he corrected. ''Of course, we modern Greeks were not there then, though you probably were, and many in this concourse, and cer tainly Messrs. Harris and Morton." "Automobile racing!" I exclaimed, looking at Doctor Immanuel to discov er Whether the excitement had tem porarily unhinged his brain. "Chariot racing, my dear fellow," he answered. "In the sixth century of -the Christian era—" "Ah-h-h-h-h!" groaned the crowd. Harris had diverged from the course, and his automobile, crashing into the fence, passed through in a cloud of splinters, tottered upon the edge of an embankment, leaped it, hung for an instant upon the outer edge, righted itself, and careered mad ly across a strip of marshy ground, un til an immense boulder tumbled it on Its side, where it lay like some un earthed paleolithic monster. Harris ahdt firom the car and landed upon his shoalder a dozen paces away. A mo ment later Morton passed the grand .stand and, having won the race, began vto slow down. For a moment the vast assemblage remained motionless; the next instant It was dissolved in a stream of shout ing, hurrying units, pouring toward the scene of the accident. By chance Immanuel and I were among those nearest, and a minute after Harris had fallen the doctor was at his side, while volunteers kept back the curious multitude. "Now, my good fellow, give me a pocket knife," said the doctor to a ÜÿBtander, and presently he had cut the bloody ahlrt from the shoulder of the unconscious man. His deft fingers went searching in the bruised flesh. "A dislocated humerus, a fractured davfcle, two ribs smashed," he said. ■"It'» lucky he landed like that. Now somebody telephone for an ambulance, ideas«. Keep back, gentlemen. No, madam, this shirt must not be cut up . for souvenirs. If you will give him .air he will recover consciousness shortly." Harris was already manifesting signs of returning consciousness. He ■stretched his limbs and his eyelids ©juivered. Then he began muttering. II could not catch what be said. The doctor seemed to hear, though, <8at he listened with the utmost atten tion; and when Harris had ceased «peaking and lay still again he jotted dawn some memoranda in the little took he always carried. The timely arrival of the ambulance and the ap plication of restoratives aroused the Injured man once more. This time he seemed fully conscious of his sur naundings. "Will I be able to drive at Savannah Mit month?" he asked. "Not unless your bones have glue Tin them," answered the doctor. "But I've got to drive!" cried Har ris, hysterically. "Here I've thrown away the Nestlewood cup, and who's it gone to? Morton, in that rotten old Carrier, that couldn't catch a snail on .a, five per cent grade. I tell you—" He. stopped short, overcome with weakness, and glared at the doctor as »hough he had suffered a mortal injury his hands. But he surrendered him lf to the ministrations of the ambu jce men, and then, somehow, by of hard pushing and dodging of Bpaper men who wanted to cross •quiijon U8t we found ourselves on the roa ^hat led to the station. ' v ®rad an engagement to dine with Paul '»n-ant, the millionaire, at his ■PSDlÂent city home, that night ter, %en Mrs. Tarrant had gone Î, \ sat smoking our host's im * Pefectos in front of his 11 flra. "Wd you <ee what the evening pa st Harris' interest in the 'Tarrant, as we reviewed iof the accident ' d' dollars, wasn't No, more than that," said our host. It seems that there is an intense ri valry between himself and Morton over a girl—some worthless woman, I understand. It's In the 'American People.' I guess it's a case of profes sional rivalry which can drive his car harder and faster, and the man who wins the Savannah race will naturally be the hero in her eyes. No wonder the poor fellow wants to get out of the hospital in time for that event." "Just like Byzantine times," said Doctor Immanuel; and then we knew he was riding his hobby again. "Doctor Immanuel was telling me this afternoon that the Greeks in vented automobile racing," I said, ma liciously. "You referred, of course, doctor, to the fact that the Byzantines were crazy over chariot racing, and meant, I take it, that Harris and Mor ton were once competitors in the stad ium for the laurel wreath and purse." "Certainly," answered the little doc tor, nursing his knee. "Nations are reincarnated as well as individuals. Just as ancient Greece, with her un paralleled painters, sculptors and architects, was reborn as the Italy of the middle ages, with Michaelangelo, Rafael and Da Vinci, and Rome lives again in England, so America is Rome's mightiest offshot, Byzantium. How can you doubt these parallels? What were the Roman qualities? Justice, aggrandizement, a very poor appreciation of the arts but an un equaled sense of law, which gave us the foundations of every western sys tem of jurisprudence until the common law of England spread through the English-speaking world. Has any country but England inherited the Ro man instinct for self-government? And is the Englishman a member of an artistic nation?" a it, "Well," said I, "but how about America being Byzantium?" "I am coming to that," the doctor answered, letting his knee fall. "I shall pass by the common Bocial in stincts of the two nations, their amaz ingly similar love of luxury, and sup port my case by a single parallel. What is it that unites every American to his fellows on certain days of the year in a communion of passionate ecstacy?" "The presidential election," said Tarrant, laughingly. "The Fourth of July," said I. "Pshaw, gentlemen; guess again!" "Baseball!" shouted the millionaire. "Yes, or, in its wider application, sport. You know, of course, that the Roman passion for games reached its apothesis in Byzantium. At the chari ot races the Greens and the Blues fought and mauled one another as sav agely as Orangemen and Hibernian today, or the backers of opposing baseball teams would wish to. Well, gentlemen, to cut this disquisition short, I have discovered who Harris and Morton are." The doctor rose and walked toward our host's well-filled library shelves, which were stocked with books of an cient history and antiquities—his hobby. He took down a stout volume bound in calfskin and turned the pages until he found what he sought. He seemed about to read it, but sud denly replaced the volume on the shelf. "Show us, Immanuel," pleaded Tar rant. "No, gentlemen; not until my faith has been vindicated," the doctor an swered. "But I will tell you. Harris in his last birth is named Hippias, and was the son of a Bithynian slave. Morton waB named Coluber, and was also a slave, but in the palace of Jus tinian. He was a skilful charioteer, and drove Empress Theodora's chari ots when she entered them in the races. The men were rivals for the love of a beautiful slave of the em press named Iris." "And Iris is—" "Mae Connelly, the woman In this case. Hers was the name that Harris whispered as he recovered conscious ness." "&> you claim, doctor," said Tar rant, "that we must return to earth to go through the weary round of our past lives, with all their sins and fail ures—and even successes?" asked our host, seriously. "I confess that that prospect is not an alluring one. I, for example, have not the slightest wish to be a millionaire a thousand or fif teen hundred years from now. I would like something different." "Only when the past life has been cut short without the fulfilment of its destiny," answered the doctor grave ly. "You told me once, I think," said Tarrant, "that it was sometimes possi ble to discover these lost secrets by hypnotism?" Yes, rarely. All dreams of an in tense nature, all the^maginings of de lirium are usually^* inflection of for mer experiences. *ftl|M| else ..should these thoughts comq*%8one?"'* "But you did not hypnotize Harris?" "H© was already hypnotized." Hew so?" "By the monotony of the race; by the eternal spectacle of the course, with its everlasting single-hued track. No We the HERALD. and the brown fence, and the specta tors. All automobile driver's are hyp I notized. It is when something wakes , them that they lose control—as Harris j Something, some powerful emo tion, some unexpected shock awak ened him—and he went through the ! fence. It was whilé he was coming j back to this world of sense that he I gave me the clue, i "lu Greek?" I asked, in amazement. "No. He saw, in that moment, a perfect picture of a king and «queen enthroned, watching a race of street j I , f* reet ' the resuIt of your researches. Come ; m any or every night in the week - I watering carts with four donkeys har nessed abreast. The mirror, of course, distorts its images. Well, gentlemen, suppose we go to the hospital tomor row and see the patient and try to lo cate Mae Connelly." "By all means!" I exclaimed. "How about yourself, Mr. Tarrant?" "Well, I confess I'd like to go," an swered our host, "but being a man of much less leisure than yourselves, I'm afraid my absence from my office would tie things up badly in Wall However, pray let me know j shall be at home alone, for -I am re cataloguing my Assyrian antiquities just now." On th3 next morning Immanuel and I paid a visit to the Free Baptist hos pital. My distinguished colleague's card procured for us immediate ad mittance. We found the injured driv er comfortably established in a bed in a private room, and were lucky enough to discover Miss Connelly seat ed at his side, reading to him the ac count of the accident in the "Ameri can People." Harris recognized Doc tor Immanuel at once and held out his free hand. "Glad to see you, Doc," he said. "Glad to know your friend. This is my friend, Miss Connelly." The girl, a coarse but handsome blonde, nodded to us amiably enough. She was an attractive looking girl of her type, with a full but well-propor a tioned figure, small hands, a large j of and not wholly home-grown coiffure, and a pleasing smilo which disclosed [ -S' tot m m $ w& HER THUMB WAS POINTED UPWARD. two rows of perfect teeth. j j j two rows of perfect teeth. She seemed to me just the type that would prove irresistible to the anemic, nervous man in the bed. "Miss Connelly's a particular friend of mine, Doc," said the driver, ad dressing my companion. "Cut it out, Frank," said the girl pet ulantly. "You ain't the only pebble." Harris scowled. It was evident that he was well under her thumb, also that she took pleasure in tormenting him. I suspected that they had been quarreling recently. "Say, Dpc," said Harris confidential ly, "tell me honest, ain't there no chance of my driving at Savannah next month? Can't my bones heal in five weeks? Old Murphy here says not. But I got to drive. I got to win that race." You certaiply have, Frank," said the girl, looking at him meaningly. "You are fond of watching the races?" asked Doctor Immanuel of the girl. Her eyes flashed. "Fond! Well, I guess so," she answered, scornfully. "And I got no use for cold feet nor Clarences, neither." She looked indig nantly at the man in the bed. "You won't need to say that no more," said Harris furiously. "I guess I'll show you when the time comes." They began to quarrel bitterly. It was obvious to both of us that the girl was a racing "fan" of the worst kind. No doubt the winner of the Savannah race—and it was conceded that this would probably be Harris or Morton— would oust the loser in her affections. We left theqi arguing and wrangling, and, when ve were outside the hos pital, Doctol Immanuel confirmed my theory. | "She Is a| perfect modern type of woman who turned thumbs up—(or down, as the universal vrongiy goes—to signify the impression death to the vanquished gladiator. She is a tigress in a human frame, with all its savage cruelty. I am per fectly sure that she would go delirious with ecstacy if Harris and Morton went crashing to their death at Sa vannah. Such women seem to possess an irresistible attraction for men of that type," he added. "And yet they have many good qualities. They make faithful and admirable wives and mothers. When they have chosen their mates they cling to them through j thick and thin. I have no doubt that nature, in creating such a bond be tween her Harrisses and Mae Con nellys, has her wise purposes. But j Harris must not race at Savannah." "It looks as though he meant to," I replied. "If he races it means his death." re sponded the doctor, and would say no more. But that evening at Tarrant's he consented to make clear his mean ing. I think it was Tarrant's awak ened interest which convinced him that we were sincere in our interroga tions. Crossing to the book shelves again, the doctor took down the bulky little volume in calfskin and read to us the passage which he had picked out the evening before. It was from a Byzantium history. "In the year 527 A. D." he read, the hero of the Blue faction at Byzan tium was a certain Hlppias, the son of a Bithynian slave. A man of less than the average stature"—"Frank Har ris," interposed the doctor—"his pow er and control over his animals, as well as his keen eyesight made him, by common repute, the most skilful charioteer of his age. The champion of the Green party was one Coluber"— "Morton"—"a slave in the emperor's palace and only second In skill to Hfp plas. Both these men were rivals for in of the love of Iris"—"May Connelly"—"a beautiful slave of the Empress Theo dora, who pledged herself to the one ! who should win the four-horse chariot race that year. The entire population of the capital assembled to witness the spectacle, and party feeling ran high, During almost the entire period of the run contest the two drivers were abreast, nor could the most skilful of the judges have determined who had the precedence, but just as the chariots approached the judge's stand, where sat the emperor and hie consort, Colu ber was seen to gain by a hair's breadth, whereupon Hippias, swerving drove his horses against his rival's. Both chariots and horses went down in an inextricable mass, and when the spectators rushed to the scene it was found that Hippias was dead. Colu ber, who escaped uninjured, received the beautiful Iris from the hands of Theodora herself." The doctor closed the volume with a snap and replaced it on its shelf. "If Harris drives at Savannah, he dies," he said convincingly. "The old instinct survives—It must survive un til Harris develops from the half-ani mal to the man. He is as savage a barbarian today as ever he was when nursed by a Bithynian mother. The old Instinct will awaken in him. He will collide with Morton and die. Morton will win the girl." "You fail to allow for the accidents of fortune, doctor," said Tarrant. "There are no accidents," respond ed Immanuel quietly. "Every external event is nothing but the embodiment of countless soul impulses made mani fest in it. No, if Harris races Harris will die." We were neither of us disposed to arguo the matter with the doctor. We were, indeed, bent upon concealing our skepticism of the kindly little Greek's theories. And yet, though neither of us placed much stock in them, I con fess I was alarmed when I read in the sporting columns of the "American People," three weeks later, that Harris would positively race at Savannah. And a few days later came the news that he was out of the hospital and preparing for the event "Well, gentlemen," eatd Immanuel to of per Sa of be us a few evenings after this announce ment had been made, "is either of you sufficiently interested In the event to accompany me to Savannah to watch the races?" "Are you going, Immanuel?" asked Tarrant in surprise. "When the prophecy is fulfilled the augur is at home, you know." "I have to read a paper at the an nual meeting of the Georgia Medical society that evening," the doctor an swered. "What a coincidence!" I exclaimed. The doctor smiled. "As you please," he answered. "At any rate, you see j history is in the making. Will you I re a come, Tarrant?" "Yes, confound you, I will come," answered our host, throwing aside his Assyrian catalogue. "Immanuel, you have got me thoroughly wrought up by your exotic beliefs. I'll come and see Harris killed." "And then you'll believe?" "Not if Harris confessed himself to be Hippias in his last will and testa ment." Doctor Immanuel grinned broadly. I had never seen him look so facetious. "Some day, Mr. Tarrant," he said, placing his hand upon the big man's shoulder, "we shall find out who you were when Rome was mistress of the world. Like as not you were an As syrian slave who spent his days ma king catalogues of his master's manu scripts," he added maliciously. "And was plagued by a confounded bone-setter from Athens who persisted in assuring me that in my next incar nation I should be the owner of some of the choicest of my master's treas ures," answered Tarrant. "Well, I'll come, anyhow. How about you?" he continued, turning to me. "I'm with you," I answered. There is nothing more to record ex cept the final spectacle. Ten cars had been entered in. the race, but by com ! mon opinion Harris and Morton would run close together at the finish. The grand stand was packed; excitement was intense. We had three of the best 6eats in the enclosure, close to the judges, and I remember pointing to dignified old Senator Smart and his wife and asking Immanuel whether they were Justinian and his consort. But he was obviously too dlstreseed for me to continue this sort of badin age. His eyes were riveted upon Har ris as he drove by to the accompani ment of tumultuous cheering, his broken collar-bone still supported by a slender brace. It was madness for him to attempt to drive. I saw him glare at Morton in his Carrier, and saw Mor ton. return the glare every whit as cruelly. There could be no doubt that if a tragedy were averted one of the two would leave the course a broken man, never to race again. They were off. They had started of a and They were off. They had started on j the long race, all ten of them, and as each car swept by the crowd cheered j wildly and discussed the issue in bable of tones. But eoon they settled themselves down to await the long drawn out issue. Presently the weak er cars began to lag behind or drop out of the race. Tires burst, mechan ism went out of gear, defeated drivers sullenly retired. Five were left in then four. Then three. Suddenly caught sight of a woman upon the bench below me, not ten paces dis tant It was Mae Connelly, and she looked a6 a Byzantine lady might have looked when the warriors fought or the char ioteers raced in the arena. She was cold, but as intensely cold as a bar of steel that sears the hand like fire in an arctic winter. She sat unmoving, hard ly breathing, her flashing eyes dilated, her lips apart, as though she drank in the spectacle of the contest and await ed a bloody ending. She seemed as perfectly poised and as self-sure as the tigress crouching for her victim. She did not move or change in one iota when Harris swept by, when Morton, now his only rival, raced after him, hardly three cars' lengths distant. The specks in the far distance grew larger and resolved themselves into the cars again. Now they were passing on the penultimate lap, and I saw that Mor ton had drawn closer. The concourse roared, but still the woman sat un moved. Tarrant was moved; Im manuel sat as though dumbly awaiting the inevitable catastrophe; but the woman was not moved. And I knew that it was the lust for conquest that entranced her: It was for her these men were striving, and she knew that it was to be a strife unto death. And now the cars were whirling back again on the last round of all, and the spectators stood up and yelled and screamed and shouted themselves into husky whispers. They were al most abreast now—Harris Leading; they were abreast; Morton was pass ing him, inch by inch, inch by Inch. Harris was falling back! No, it was the delusion caused by the foreshort ening of the bend of the track. Harris was still in the lead—or was Morton? My eyes swam. I heard a thousand cries, asservating, denying. And then, amid all that confusion, I saw Mae Connelly again, seated just as immov ably, but now with head craned for ward, and her thumb— Her thumb was pointing upward. Unconsciously she had assumed the at titude of the degenerate Roman wom an, unsated by the combat until it reached the last extremity. Uncon sciously and gracefully she had stretched out her arm, and the thumb stood up from the extended hand. Perhaps she might have solved the. disputed question whether thumbB up or thumbs down meant the death sig nal. But unquestionable there was death in her face. There was death in the air, every where. I felt it as though an angel had passed by. Crash! There was no other sound, neither preliminary whir nor grinding of wheels and axles, nor burst of aiiv inflated tires. Just one sharp Bound 1 to at and the deep-drawn and universal sigh. The race was over. Twelve paces from the judges' seats the cars had run to gether, cold-fused into a single mass of shattered metallic fragments. And men were already pulling their human freight from under them. Perhaps it was because the fulfil ment of her destiny had revived the human soul in the woman and 6lain the tigress for ever, or perhaps only my imagination had led me to see the inhuman qualities in her. But she was out among the crowd, and by her lover's side, and her arms sought for him under the wrecked mass of his car, and even above the shouts I heard the agonized cry upon her lips:, "Frank! Frank! Come to me!" I saw no more then because of tho masses around the cars. I rose to go. Immanuel followed me, and Tarrant. As we reached the ground we heard shouting; then a lane was made and four men came through slowly, bear ing something upon a stretcher, com pletely hidden beneath a blanket. And then somehow we found ourselves forming part of an enormous ring, and in the center of it was Mae Connelly, and she was sobbing and laughing and clinging round the neck of a man who walked straight and erect and still car ried his injured shoulder in a brace. And it was Harris. He was unhurt; not even the brace was shifted. There was a smile of bravado on his face, but on the wom an's such Joy as I had never seen on any face before. Then I knew that Harris would never drive a racing car again. "It's a miracle," a man near by was saying. "I saw the whole thing. Mor ton tried to foul deliberately. He wanted to cut past—" "Cut past? I tell you he smashed bang Into him," answered another. "He'd rather have died than lose this race." "Well, he had that wish gratified," answered the first man. "So, Immanuel, you see that every thing turned out exactly the opposite of what you prognosticated," said Tar rant tauntingly that evening. "Come, how do you explain that? Was it poetic justice that gave the other man a chance? Or did you get them wrong and mistake Coluber for Hippias?" But somehow neither I nor the Greek doctor felt like answering, and Tarrant, somewhat ashamed, began preparing his catalogue notes in si lence. (Copyright, 1917. by W. O. Chapman.) STOP FUSSING ABOUT HEALTH Many People Worry Themselves Into Illness by Constantly Having It in Their Thoughts. In advising people how to escape disease, a noted physician said not long ago that "some people give too much thought to the question of health. They are forever fussing about their health," he said, "and live in perpetual and irrational dread of disease. Indeed they may actually make 'themselves ill by their morbid fear of illness. The physician does not discount the iidvantages of complying with the well understood rules of hygiene and sani tation. He knows that many people ruin their health by overindulgence in food or. drink, or both ; he does not minimize the importance of taking the best of care of oneself at all times. But lie has hit upon a fundamental truth when he says many people make themselves ill by morbid fear of ill ness. It was once expressed a little differently by a physician who said that as soon as a man discovered he had a liver there was no hope for him meaning thereby that he would "doc tor" and "dose" himself to death. There is no doubt that fear is re sponsible for a great deal of the world's illness, as well as for many of the troubles of other kinds. All of us know, or ought to know, that it is possible for one to "worry himself sick. ' So it is well to pay some atten tion to the words of the physician when he advises us that there is just about as much danger in thinking too much of our health as ther thinking too little of it.—Dav Injustice. The world, being in the constant commission ef vast quantities of in justice, is a little too apt to comfort itself, with the idea that if the vic tim of its falsehood and malice- have a clear conscience, he cannot fail to be sustained under his trials, and somehow or other to come riffct at last. In which case," say they who have hunted him down, "though we certainly don't expeet it—nobody will be better pleased than we." Whereas, the world would do well to reflect that injustice Is in Itself, to every gener ous and property constituted mind, an M aU others the most insuffer i!n .o most torturing, and the most .* ° boar; and that many clear eon sciences have gone to their account sew ere, and many sound hearts Sn 6 ÎT !" because of this very n-a the knowledge of their own de sorts only aggravating their sufferings and revering them the less endur able.—Charles Dickens. She Called the Dogs. Have you any rags to sell?" said the ragman to a thin-looking woman who «»ding at her door. "No " replied the woman, "excepting those I am wearing at the present time. f you want them you must take me. too. The ragman scanned the householder h£» a Hpa?° Wn Hnd Q 8miIe lurkea around 'T"f rry ' ma'am," he replied. de for th<? gate ' "I am oalJ buying rags, not bone«." '