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                                             <title>"Made" -- by JonFavreau</title>
               MADE               INT. SPORTSMAN'S LODGE - SAN FERNANDO VALLEY -DAY               A large crowd has gathered to watch two WHITE BOXERS square               off in a temporary ring in the center of a convertedbanquet               hall. One is BOBBY, the other is RICKY. They are drawn               together to start the bout by a bell and a hand gesture as               theREFEREE backs away. Immediately the two fighters unload               a relentless barrage of POWER PUNCHES. Neither man is               holding back, and thepunches all find purchase in the               swelling faces of their opponent. The crowd rises to its               feet in appreciation of this rare level of competitionin               the lower strata of the heavyweight division.                                                                    CUT TO:               EXT. BOBBY'S CAR - COLDWATERCANYON - LOS ANGELES - SUNSET               Bobby drives Ricky home through the winding twists of LA's               landmark canyon. Both their faces areswollen, verging on               the grotesque. Bobby drives a black Special Edition 1979               Trans Am with the gold Firebird stenciled across thehood.               The car is not in great shape, but in its day ruled the               road. A Hawaiian mini warrior mask hangs from the rear view.               The T-topis out, and Ricky struggles to light his               cigarette in the wind. He finally ignites the whole book of               matches in frustration, lights up, then tosses it


   <title>"Demolition Man," by Daniel Waters; and Jonathan Lemkin</title>
                             DEMOLITIONMAN                          Participating Writers:                              Peter Lenkov                              Robert Reneau                              DanielWaters                               Fred Decker                             Jonathan Lemkin                                Story by:                              PeterLenkov                              Daniel Waters                             Screenplay by:                              Daniel Waters                             Jonathan Lemkin        SILVERPICTURES                                                  November 19, 1992                                                  c 1992        [NOTE: THE FOLLOWING SCREENPLAY HADNUMBERED SCENES.        THESE HAVE BEEN OMITTED FOR THIS SOFT COPY.]                                 "The world of the future will                                 be anever more demanding                                 struggle against the limitations                                 of ourintelligence..."                                                    Norbert Wiener                                 "On the whole, I'd rather bein                                 Philadelphia..."                                                    W.C.  Fields                             DEMOLITION MAN        FADE IN:        EXT.BLACK SKY - NIGHT        Dark, ominous clouds of smoke.  A beat of semi-calm.        And then... A long blast of TRACER FIRE cuts through.        Andanother.  And another.  We TILT DOWN to discover we        are --        EXT. LOS ANGELES - AIRBORNE - MOVING - NIGHT (1998)        A city on fire.  A blockhere, block there.  More TRACER        FIRE.  A cross between the LA riots and Gulf War.  A        SUPERED TITLE:  LA RIOT III.  And then FADING INBELOW:        MONTH 4.  We CONTINUE MOVING ABOVE the ravaged city --                                VOICE #1 (V.O.)                         (filtered)                  Youimagine what it was like when                  they had to fly choppers through                  this shit?                                VOICE #2 (V.O.)                  Noteven.        Gliding totally silently INTO FRAME is the biggest,        darkest, midnight blue blimp you've ever seen.  Small        gold letters on the side --LAPD.  Fully armored beneath.        Woven kevlar on the sides.  BULLETS REBOUND with a long        ZZZZZIP off the sides.  PING SOFTLY off the plasticarmor        on the bottom.                                VOICE #1 (V.O.)                  I don't understand where we're                  going and why the hellwe're                  bothering anyhow...        A new voice responds.  This one brooks no discussion --                                SPARTAN (V.O.)                  Becausethere's anger and there's                  frustration, and then there's pure                  fucking evil...        INT. BLIMP POD - CONTINUOUS ACTION -NIGHT        JOHN SPARTAN peers down into the fiery landscape.                                SPARTAN                  Where we're going is purefucking                  evil.                         (beat)                  Thirty people who were riding that                  muni bus are still missing.  I've                  got thisbad hunch about who took                  them and where they are...        EXT. EXTREME SOUTH CENTRAL LA - FROM ABOVE - AIRBORNE -        NIGHT        Wayup ahead, amid the flames, is a fortress.  A square        city block.  Walled.  Something out of the middle ages.        The walls are entirely made from stackedabandoned cars.        INT. BLIMP POD - NIGHT        Spartan is dragging a heavy bag up towards the door.        PILOT #2 looks at himcuriously.                                PILOT #2                  How come they call you Demolition                  Man?  Are you with the bomb squad?        Spartan gets hisbag into position.                                SPARTAN                  I just...                         (shrugs                          apologetically)                  ... demolishthings.        He checks out the window.  They're not quite there.                                SPARTAN                  I do my job, shit happens.                         (to Pilot#1)                  Get a thermo.        The PILOT takes a thermogram of the building in the        middle of the compound.  We see a series ofheat-outlined        figures moving inside.                                PILOT #1                  Six.  One still, in the middle.                  The rest moving around.  Idon't                  see any thirty people.                                SPARTAN                         (checking the thermo)                  What's that?        To the naked eye,out the window, tucked against the        wall of cars, a large tarp.  To the thermo, the still        warm inner workings of the muni bus.  Faint outlines of        theengine, drive train, even seats and frame.  Bingo.        Spartan takes a deep breath.  Loosens up his right        shoulder.  Loosens up his left.  Checks the gun onhis        right hip.  Checks the gun on his left.  They both cross        draw.  Reaches down to the bag at his feet.  LAPD in        reflective letters on the side of abackpack.  Spartan        yanks some kind of rope out of it.                                PILOT #2                  Isn't that for getting people out                  ofburning buildings...                                SPARTAN                  Yeah, sometimes...        Slaps a carabiner onto a big eyebolt by the door.  They're        deadcenter now over the complex below.  He opens the        door.  Jumps out.        EXT. BLIMP - NIGHT        Spartan falls three hundred feet from theblimp.  Dead        silent.  The line runs free behind him.  It's a giant        fireproof bungee cord.  As the downward force of gravity        and the upward pull of thebungee become exactly the        same, Spartan stops dead in the air for just the briefest        moment.  Whips out a Bowie knife and slashes the cord        abovehis head.  Falls free the last ten feet to the roof        of the building.  Lands on his feet.  Lightning cross        draw.  A gun appears in each hand.        EXT.FORTRESS - MAIN BUILDING - ROOFTOP - NIGHT        A lookout pops up on Spartan's right.  Spartan clobbers        him.  Another lookout pops up on Spartan'sleft.  Spartan        ducks, rolls quietly, clobbers him, too.  Listens.  No        one's taken notice.  Holsters the guns.  Moves in towards        the roofhatch.        INT. FORTRESS - MAIN BUILDING - THIRD FLOOR - NIGHT        Stacked with armaments and stolen goods.  M70's straight        outta the NationalGuard Armory.  Crates of ammo.  Stacks        of looted Sony HoloSets still in the boxes.        Spartan makes his way carefully along.  Ready.  Spins at        aSOUND.  Nothing there.  Spartan crouches low.  Slips        around the crates.  At the far end, a very large guard        is doing just the same thing to peer atwhere Spartan        just was.        Spartan launches himself at the guard.  Hammers his head        against the floor.  This guy is not getting up again for        along time.  Spartan spins at a SOUND.  Another equally        large guard dives on Spartan from behind.  He never makes        contact.  Spartan uses hismomentum to fling him past and        into the wall.  This guy isn't getting up again in the        near future either.  Now the room is clear.  Moves        towards thestairs.        INT. FORTRESS - MAIN BUILDING - SECOND FLOOR - NIGHT        SIMON PHOENIX snorts a long pale blue line up one        nostril.  A long pink lineup the other.  One blue eye,        one brown eye.  Blond hair.  Black skin.  Looks up at        another thug.  Punches up the security cams on half a        dozenslightly futuristic monitors.  Unconscious guards        can be seen on all of them.  And on the last, Spartan,        coming... Phoenix jabs a loaded orange syringeinto an        arm.  The drugs all hit various lobes.                                PHOENIX                  Motherfucker.        INT. FORTRESS - MAIN BUILDING - STAIRWELL -NIGHT        Spartan creeps quietly down.  Looking, watching,        listening.  Suddenly, the stairs are racked with MACHINE        GUN FIRE.  Chips of concrete flyfrom around his feet.        Spartan flattens against the wall.  Half a beat.  Steps        out FIRING.  The machine gun stops.  A body plummets by        down thecenter shaft of the stairs.                                SPARTAN                  That's a warm welcome.        INT. FORTRESS - MAIN BUILDING - SECOND FLOOR -NIGHT        Phoenix is dumping can after can of gas all over the        floor, the walls, everything.        ANOTHER ANGLE - STAIRWELL AND LANDING        Spartansteps onto the landing.  Checks high and low.        Room is clear.  He can smell the gas.        BACK TO PHOENIX        Simon pries open the fuse box.  Flips off allthe        breakers.  Building is plunged into darkness.        BACK TO SPARTAN        Spartan quietly speaks into the LAPD button mike onhis        lapel.                                SPARTAN                  How 'bout some light, guys?        Half a beat later, blinding white light blows through        thewindows.        EXT. FORTRESS - FROM ABOVE - NIGHT        The blimp casts down a wall of light.  32 million        candlepower pours straight down.        INT.FORTRESS - MAIN BUILDING - SECOND FLOOR - NIGHT        A wild melange of white, white light and dark, dark        shadows.  The gas fumes ripple, refract inthe air.        Lights bounce off the pools of gasoline.  Spartan rolls        into the room.  Both guns come up.                                SPARTAN                  SimonPhoenix.  You're under                  arrest.                         (then)                  Where are the muni passengers?                                PHOENIX                  Fuckyou, Spartan.  They're gone.                  I told the city no one comes down                  here anymore.  Cops figured it                  out, postmen figured itout.  Damn                  bus drivers wouldn't listen.                  Arrest me?  You've got no                  jurisdiction here.  You're in my                  kingdomnow.  Fifty blocks in                  every direction.  And it's mine.                                SPARTAN                         (simply)                  It'sover.                                PHOENIX                  It's over?!                         (knows it's true)                  Yeah.  It's over.  But I've been                  king once,and I ain't ever going                  back to jail.        Spartan keeps the guns trained on Phoenix.  Simon        scratches his arm.  It's a junkie's twitch.  Or isit...        Spartan can't see it, but there's a kitchen match tucked        behind Simon's ear.  Phoenix reaches up to scratch        another itch.  Frees the match inone gestures, strikes        it and tosses it into the pool of gas.  Smiles.  A        friendly happy smile.        The room bursts into flames.  He throws back his headand        laughs.  Spartan dives on him.  Tries to hurl them both        through the window.        But Phoenix is either stronger or just far crazier and        druggedup.  Smashes the two of them into the wall        instead.  They trade blows.  The building gets worse.        AMMO starts to EXPLODE downstairs.        EXT.FORTRESS - MAIN YARD - NIGHT        A giant LAPD wrecker with a cow catcher front blasts        through the main gates.  LAPD Humvees follow.        A youngcop (ZACHARY LAMB) gets out, looks at the main        building, shakes his head in amusement at the        destruction


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              For YourConsideration            Best Adapted Screenplay By    Fran Walsh, Philippa Boyens, Peter Jackson       Based on the Book by J.R.R. TolkienTHE LORD OF THERINGS: THE RETURN OF THE KINGBLACK SCREEN . . .SUPER:                New Line Cinema PresentsSUPER:               A WingNut FilmsProductionBLACK SCREEN:EXT. RIVER ANDUIN - DAYANGLE ON: SMEAGOL and his cousin, DEAGOL, sit in a SMALLCORACLE, their FISHINGLINES draped over the side . . . SUNSHINEglinting off the surface of the water.An idyllic image.SUDDENLY . . . DEAGOL's FISHING ROD BENDS under the weightof aLARGE FISH.                        DEAGOL                 (excited)            Smeagol, I've got one!                 (he laughs)            I've got a fish,Smeagol!                       SMEAGOL                 (excitedly)            Go on, pull it in.DEAGOL pulls on his ROD, but is HAULED OVERBOARD anddisappearsunderwater with a SPLASH!ANGLE ON: SMEAGOL leaning over the BOAT . . . CONCERNED.                       SMEAGOL(cont'd)                 (worried)            Deagol!EXT. UNDERWATER, RIVER ANDUIN - DAYANGLE ON: DEAGOL is towed to the RIVER BED by a LARGEFISH. . . he suddenly lets go of the line . . . eyes fixed on aSHINING GOLD RING, lying in 'the SILT.                                     Final Revision - October,2003 2EXT. RIVER ANDUIN, GLADDEN FIELDS - DAYCLOSE ON: DEAGOL climbs out of the WATER, onto the RIVERBANK.CLOSE ON: the


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Call of the Wild, by Jack LondonThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Call of the WildAuthor: Jack LondonRelease Date: July 1, 2008 [EBook #215]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECTGUTENBERG EBOOK THE CALL OF THE WILD ***Produced by Ryan, Kirstin, Linda and Rick Trapp in LovingMemory of Ivan Louis ReeseTHE CALL OF THE WILDbyJack London      Contents      I     Into the Primitive      II    The Law of Club and Fang      III   The Dominant Primordial Beast      IV    Who Has Won toMastership      V     The Toil of Trace and Tail      VI    For the Love of a Man      VII   The Sounding of the CallChapter I. Into the Primitive         "Old longingsnomadic leap,          Chafing at custom's chain;          Again from its brumal sleep          Wakens the ferine strain."Buck did not read the newspapers, or he wouldhave known that troublewas brewing, not alone for himself, but for every tide-water dog, strongof muscle and with warm, long hair, from Puget Sound to SanDiego.Because men, groping in the Arctic darkness, had found a yellow metal,and because steamship and transportation companies were booming thefind,thousands of men were rushing into the Northland. These men wanteddogs, and the dogs they wanted were heavy dogs, with strong muscles bywhich to toil, andfurry coats to protect them from the frost.Buck lived at a big house in the sun-kissed Santa Clara Valley. JudgeMiller's place, it was called. It stood back from theroad, half hiddenamong the trees, through which glimpses could be caught of the widecool veranda that ran around its four sides. The house was approachedbygravelled driveways which wound about through wide-spreading lawns andunder the interlacing boughs of tall poplars. At the rear things were oneven a morespacious scale than at the front. There were great stables,where a dozen grooms and boys held forth, rows of vine-clad servants'cottages, an endless and orderlyarray of outhouses, long grape arbors,green pastures, orchards, and berry patches. Then there was the pumpingplant for the artesian well, and the big cementtank where JudgeMiller's boys took their morning plunge and kept cool in the hotafternoon.And over this great demesne Buck ruled. Here he was born, and herehehad lived the four years of his life. It was true, there were otherdogs, There could not but be other dogs on so vast a place, but they didnot count. They cameand went, resided in the populous kennels, or livedobscurely in the recesses of the house after the fashion of Toots, theJapanese pug, or Ysabel, the Mexicanhairless,--strange creatures thatrarely put nose out of doors or set foot to ground. On the other hand,there were the fox terriers, a score of them at least, whoyelpedfearful promises at Toots and Ysabel looking out of the windows at themand protected by a legion of housemaids armed with brooms and mops.But Buckwas neither house-dog nor kennel-dog. The whole realm was his.He plunged into the swimming tank or went hunting with the Judge's sons;he escorted Mollie andAlice, the Judge's daughters, on long twilightor early morning rambles; on wintry nights he lay at the Judge's feetbefore the roaring library fire; he carried theJudge's grandsons on hisback, or rolled them in the grass, and guarded their footsteps throughwild adventures down to the fountain in the stable yard, andevenbeyond, where the paddocks were, and the berry patches. Among theterriers he stalked imperiously, and Toots and Ysabel he utterlyignored, for he wasking,--king over all creeping, crawling, flyingthings of Judge Miller's place, humans included.His father, Elmo, a huge St. Bernard, had been the Judge'sinseparablecompanion, and Buck bid fair to follow in the way of his father. He wasnot so large,--he weighed only one hundred and forty pounds,--for hismother,Shep, had been a Scotch shepherd dog. Nevertheless, one hundredand forty pounds, to which was added the dignity that comes of goodliving and universalrespect, enabled him to carry himself in rightroyal fashion. During the four years since his puppyhood he had livedthe life of a sated aristocrat; he had a fine pridein himself, was evena trifle egotistical, as country gentlemen sometimes become because oftheir insular situation. But he had saved himself by not becoming amerepampered house-dog. Hunting and kindred outdoor delights had kept downthe fat and hardened his muscles; and to him, as to the cold-tubbingraces, thelove of water had been a tonic and a health preserver.And this was the manner of dog Buck was in the fall of 1897, when theKlondike strike dragged men from allthe world into the frozen North.But Buck did not read the newspapers, and he did not know that Manuel,one of the gardener's helpers, was an undesirableacquaintance. Manuelhad one besetting sin. He loved to play Chinese lottery. Also, in hisgambling, he had one besetting weakness--faith in a system; andthismade his damnation certain. For to play a system requires money, whilethe wages of a gardener's helper do not lap over the needs of a wife andnumerousprogeny.The Judge was at a meeting of the Raisin Growers' Association, and theboys were busy organizing an athletic club, on the memorable night ofManuel'streachery. No one saw him and Buck go off through the orchardon what Buck imagined was merely a stroll. And with the exception of asolitary man, no one sawthem arrive at the little flag station knownas College Park. This man talked with Manuel, and money chinked betweenthem."You might wrap up the goods beforeyou deliver 'm," the stranger saidgruffly, and Manuel doubled a piece of stout rope around Buck's neckunder the collar."Twist it, an' you'll choke 'm plentee," saidManuel, and the strangergrunted a ready affirmative.Buck had accepted the rope with quiet dignity. To be sure, it was anunwonted performance: but he hadlearned to trust in men he knew, and togive them credit for a wisdom that outreached his own. But when the endsof the rope were placed in the stranger's hands,he growled menacingly.He had merely intimated his displeasure, in his pride believing that tointimate was to command. But to his surprise the rope tightenedaroundhis neck, shutting off his breath. In quick rage he sprang at the man,who met him halfway, grappled him close by the throat, and with a defttwist threwhim over on his back. Then the rope tightened mercilessly,while Buck struggled in a fury, his tongue lolling out of his mouth andhis great chest panting futilely.Never in all his life had he been sovilely treated, and never in all his life had he been so angry. But hisstrength ebbed, his eyes glazed, and he knew nothing whenthe train wasflagged and the two men threw him into the baggage car.The next he knew, he was dimly aware that his tongue was hurting andthat he was beingjolted along in some kind of a conveyance. The hoarseshriek of a locomotive whistling a crossing told him where he was. Hehad travelled too often with the Judgenot to know the sensation ofriding in a baggage car. He opened his eyes, and into them came theunbridled anger of a kidnapped king. The man sprang for histhroat, butBuck was too quick for him. His jaws closed on the hand, nor did theyrelax till his senses were choked out of him once more."Yep, has fits," the mansaid, hiding his mangled hand from thebaggageman, who had been attracted by the sounds of struggle. "I'mtakin' 'm up for the boss to 'Frisco. A crackdog-doctor there thinksthat he can cure 'm."Concerning that night's ride, the man spoke most eloquently for himself,in a little shed back of a saloon on the SanFrancisco water front."All I get is fifty for it," he grumbled; "an' I wouldn't do it over fora thousand, cold cash."His hand was wrapped in a bloody handkerchief,and the right trouser legwas ripped from knee to ankle."How much did the other mug get?" the saloon-keeper demanded."A hundred," was the reply. "Wouldn'ttake a sou less, so help me.""That makes a hundred and fifty," the saloon-keeper calculated; "andhe's worth it, or I'm a squarehead."The kidnapper undid thebloody wrappings and looked at his laceratedhand. "If I don't get the hydrophoby--""It'll be because you was born to hang," laughed the saloon-keeper."Here,lend me a hand before you pull your freight," he added.Dazed, suffering intolerable pain from throat and tongue, with the lifehalf throttled out of him, Buckattempted to face his tormentors. But hewas thrown down and choked repeatedly, till they succeeded in filing theheavy brass collar from off his neck. Then therope was removed, and hewas flung into a cagelike crate.There he lay for the remainder of the weary night, nursing his wrath andwounded pride. He could notunderstand what it all meant. What did theywant with him, these strange men? Why were they keeping him pent up inthis narrow crate? He did not know why,but he felt oppressed by thevague sense of impending calamity. Several times during the night hesprang to his feet when the shed door rattled open, expecting tosee theJudge, or the boys at least. But each time it was the bulging face ofthe saloon-keeper that peered in at him by the sickly light of a tallowcandle. And eachtime the joyful bark that trembled in Buck's throat wastwisted into a savage growl.But the saloon-keeper let him alone, and in the morning four men enteredandpicked up the crate. More tormentors, Buck decided, for they wereevil-looking creatures, ragged and unkempt; and he stormed and raged atthem through thebars. They only laughed and poked sticks at him, whichhe promptly assailed with his teeth till he realized that that was whatthey wanted. Whereupon he lay downsullenly and allowed the crate to belifted into a wagon. Then he, and the crate in which he was imprisoned,began a passage through many hands. Clerks in theexpress office tookcharge of him; he was carted about in another wagon; a truck carriedhim, with an assortment of boxes and parcels, upon a ferry steamer;hewas trucked off the steamer into a great railway depot, and finally hewas deposited in an express car.For two days and nights this express car was draggedalong at the tailof shrieking locomotives; and for two days and nights Buck neither atenor drank. In his anger he had met the first advances of theexpressmessengers with growls, and they had retaliated by teasing him. When heflung himself against the bars, quivering and frothing, they laughedat him andtaunted him. They growled and barked like detestable dogs,mewed, and flapped their arms and crowed. It was all very silly, heknew; but therefore the moreoutrage to his dignity, and his anger waxedand waxed. He did not mind the hunger so much, but the lack of watercaused him severe suffering and fanned hiswrath to fever-pitch. Forthat matter, high-strung and finely sensitive, the ill treatment hadflung him into a fever, which was fed by the inflammation of hisparchedand swollen throat and tongue.He was glad for one thing: the rope was off his neck. That had giventhem an unfair advantage; but now that it was off, hewould show them.They would never get another rope around his neck. Upon that he wasresolved. For two days and nights he neither ate nor drank, and


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Spoilers, by Rex BeachThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: The SpoilersAuthor: Rex BeachPosting Date: May 2, 2013 [EBook #5076]Release Date: February, 2004First Posted: April 16,2002Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SPOILERS ***Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed ProofreadingTeam.THE SPOILERSBy REX BEACHAuthor of "THE AUCTION BLOCK" "RAINBOW'S END" "THE IRON TRAIL" Etc.Illustrated       THIS BOOKIS LOVINGLYDEDICATED TO       MY MOTHERCONTENTSCHAPTER    I. THE ENCOUNTER   II. THE STOWAWAY  III. IN WHICH GLENISTER ERRS   IV. THE KILLING    V.WHEREIN A MAN APPEARS   VI. AND A MINE IS JUMPED  VII. THE "BRONCO KID'S" EAVESDROPPING VIII. DEXTRY MAKES A CALL   IX. SLUICE ROBBERS    X.THE WIT OF AN ADVENTURESS   XI. WHEREIN A WRIT AND A RIOT FAIL  XII. COUNTERPLOTS XIII. IN WHICH A MAN IS POSSESSED OF A DEVIL  XIV. AMIDNIGHT MESSENGER   XV. VIGILANTES  XVI. IN WHICH THE TRUTH BEGINS TO BARE ITSELF XVII. THE DRIP OF WATER IN THE DARKXVIII. WHEREIN A TRAPIS BAITED  XIX. DYNAMITE   XX. IN WHICH THREE GO TO THE SIGN OF THE SLED AND BUT TWO RETURN  XXI. THE HAMMER-LOCK XXII. THE PROMISE OFDREAMSCHAPTER ITHE ENCOUNTERGlenister gazed out over the harbor, agleam with the lights of anchoredships, then up at the crenelated mountains, blackagainst the sky. Hedrank the cool air burdened with its taints of the sea, while the bloodof his boyhood leaped within him."Oh, it's fine--fine," he murmured, "andthis is my country--mycountry, after all, Dex. It's in my veins, this hunger for the North. Igrow. I expand.""Careful you don't bust," warned Dextry. "I've seenmen get plumb drunkon mountain air. Don't expand too strong in one spot." He went backabruptly to his pipe, its villanous fumes promptly averting any dangerofthe air's too tonic quality."Gad! What a smudge!" sniffed the younger man. "You ought to be inquarantine.""I'd ruther smell like a man than talk like a kid. Youdesecrate thehour of meditation with rhapsodies on nature when your aesthetics ain'thoned up to the beauties of good tobacco."The other laughed, inflating hisdeep chest. In the gloom he stretchedhis muscles restlessly, as though an excess of vigor filled him.They were lounging upon the dock, while before them lay theSanta Mariaready for her midnight sailing. Behind slept Unalaska, quaint, antique,and Russian, rusting amid the fogs of Bering Sea. Where, a weekbefore,mild-eyed natives had dried their cod among the old bronze cannon, nowa frenzied horde of gold-seekers paused in their rush to the new ElDorado. Theyhad come like a locust cloud, thousands strong, settlingon the edge of the Smoky Sea, waiting the going of the ice that barredthem from their GoldenFleece--from Nome the new, where men foundfortune in a night.The mossy hills back of the village were ridged with graves of thosewho had died on the out-tripthe fall before, when a plague had grippedthe land--but what of that? Gold glittered in the sands, so said thesurvivors; therefore men came in armies. Glenisterand Dextry had leftNome the autumn previous, the young man raving with fever. Now theyreturned to their own land."This air whets every animal instinct in me,"Glenister broke outagain. "Away from the cities I turn savage. I feel the old primitivepassions--the fret for fighting.""Mebbe you'll have a chance.""How so?""Well,it's this way. I met Mexico Mullins this mornin'. You mind oldMexico, don't you? The feller that relocated Discovery Claim on AnvilCreek last summer?""You don'tmean that 'tin-horn' the boys were going to lynch forclaim-jumping?""Identical! Remember me tellin' you about a good turn I done him oncedown Guadalupeway?""Greaser shooting-scrape, wasn't it?""Yep! Well, I noticed first off that he's gettin fat; high-livin' fat,too, all in one spot, like he was playin' both ends ag'inthe centre.Also he wore di'mon's fit to handle with ice-tongs."Says I, lookin' at his side elevation, 'What's accented your middlesyllable so strong,Mexico?'"'Prosperity, politics, an' the Waldorf-Astorier,' says he. It seemsMex hadn't forgot old days. He claws me into a corner an' says, 'Bill,I'm goin' to pay youback for that Moralez deal.'"'It ain't comin' to me,' says I. 'That's a bygone!'"'Listen here,' says he, an', seein' he was in earnest, I let him runon."'How much doyou value that claim o' yourn at?'"'Hard tellin',' says I. 'If she holds out like she run last fall,there'd ought to be a million clear in her.""'How much'll you clean upthis summer?'"''Bout four hundred thousand, with luck.'"'Bill,' says he, 'there's hell a-poppin' an' you've got to watch thatground like you'd watch a rattle-snake.Don't never leave 'em get agrip on it or you're down an' out.'"He was so plumb in earnest it scared me up, 'cause Mexico ain't agabby man."'What do you mean?'says I."'I can't tell you nothin' more. I'm puttin' a string on my own neck,sayin' THIS much. You're a square man, Bill, an' I'm a gambler, but yousaved my lifeoncet, an' I wouldn't steer you wrong. For God's sake,don't let 'em jump your ground, that's all.'"'Let who jump it? Congress has give us judges an' courtsan'marshals--' I begins."'That's just it. How you goin' to buck that hand? Them's the bestcards in the deck. There's a man comin' by the name of McNamara.Watchhim clost. I can't tell you no more. But don't never let 'em get a gripon your ground.' That's all he'd say.""Bah! He's crazy! I wish somebody would try tojump the Midas; we'denjoy the exercise."The siren of the Santa Maria interrupted, its hoarse warning throbbingup the mountain."We'll have to get aboard," saidDextry."Sh-h! What's that?" the other whispered.At first the only sound they heard was a stir from the deck of thesteamer. Then from the water below them camethe rattle of rowlocks anda voice cautiously muffled."Stop! Stop there!"A skiff burst from the darkness, grounding on the beach beneath. Afigure scrambled outand up the ladder leading to the wharf.Immediately a second boat, plainly in pursuit of the first one, struckon the beach behind it.As the escaping figure mountedto their level the watchers perceivedwith amazement that it was a young woman. Breath sobbed from her lungs,and, stumbling, she would have fallen but forGlenister, who ranforward and helped her to her feet."Don't let them get me," she panted.He turned to his partner in puzzled inquiry, but found that the oldmanhad crossed to the head of the landing ladder up which the pursuerswere climbing."Just a minute--you there! Back up or I'll kick your face in." Dextry'svoicewas sharp and unexpected, and in the darkness he loomed tall andmenacing to those below."Get out of the way. That woman's a runaway," came from the onehigheston the ladder."So I jedge.""She broke qu--""Shut up!" broke in another. "Do you want to advertise it? Get out ofthe way, there, ye damn fool! Climb up,Thorsen." He spoke like a buckomate, and his words stirred the bile of Dextry.Thorsen grasped the dock floor, trying to climb up, but the old minerstamped on hisfingers and the sailor loosened his hold with a yell,carrying the under men with him to the beach in his fall."This way! Follow me!" shouted the mate, making upthe bank for theshore end of the wharf."You'd better pull your freight, miss," Dextry remarked; "they'll behere in a minute.""Yes, yes! Let us go! I must getaboard the Santa Maria. She's leavingnow. Come, come!"Glenister laughed, as though there were a humorous touch in her remark,but did not stir."I'm gettin'awful old an' stiff to run," said Dextry, removing hismackinaw, "but I allow I ain't too old for a little diversion in theway of a rough-house when it comes nosin'around." He moved lightly,though the girl could see in the half-darkness that his hair wassilvery."What do you mean?" she questioned, sharply."You hurry along,miss; we'll toy with 'em till you're aboard." Theystepped across to the dockhouse, backing against it. The girl followed.Again came the warning blast from thesteamer, and the voice of anofficer:"Clear away that stern line!""Oh, we'll be left!" she breathed, and somehow it struck Glenister thatshe feared this more thanthe men whose approaching feet he heard."YOU can make it all right," he urged her, roughly. "You'll get hurt ifyou stay here. Run along and don't mind us. We'vebeen thirty days onshipboard, and were praying for something to happen." His voice wasboyishly glad, as if he exulted in the fray that was to come; and nosoonerhad he spoken than the sailors came out of the darkness uponthem.During the space of a few heart-beats there was only a tangle ofwhirling forms with the soundof fist on flesh, then the blot split upand forms plunged outward, falling heavily. Again the sailors rushed,attempting to clinch. They massed upon Dextry only tograsp empty air,for he shifted with remarkable agility, striking bitterly, as an oldwolf snaps. It was baffling work, however, for in the darkness hisblows fell shortor overreached.Glenister, on the other hand, stood carelessly, beating the men off asthey came to him. He laughed gloatingly, deep in his throat, as thoughtheencounter were merely some rough sport. The girl shuddered, for thedesperate silence of the attacking men terrified her more than a din,and yet she stayed,crouched against the wall.Dextry swung at a dim target, and, missing it, was whirled off hisbalance. Instantly his antagonist grappled with him, and they fell tothefloor, while a third man shuffled about them. The girl throttled ascream."I'm goin' to kick 'im, Bill," the man panted hoarsely. "Le' me fix'im." He swung his heavyshoe, and Bill cursed with stirring eloquence."Ow! You're kickin' me! I've got 'im, safe enough. Tackle the big un."Bill's ally then started towards the others, hisbody bent, his armsflexed yet hanging loosely. He crouched beside the girl, ignoring her,while she heard the breath wheezing from his lungs; then silentlyheleaped. Glenister had hurled a man from him, then stepped back to avoidthe others, when he was seized from behind and felt the man's armswrapped abouthis neck, the sailor's legs locked about his thighs. Nowcame the girl's first knowledge of real fighting. The two spun back andforth so closely entwined as to beindistinguishable, the othersholding off. For what seemed many minutes they struggled, the young manstriving to reach his adversary, till they crashed againstthe wallnear her and she heard her champion's breath coughing in his throat atthe tightening grip of the sailor. Fright held her paralyzed, for shehad never seenmen thus. A moment and Glenister would be down beneaththeir stamping feet--they would kick his life out with their heavyshoes. At thought of it, the necessityof action smote her like a blowin the face. Her terror fell away, her shaking muscles stiffened, andbefore realizing what she did she had acted.The seaman's backwas to her. She reached out and gripped him by thehair, while her fingers, tense as talons, sought his eyes. Then thefirst loud sound of the battle arose. The manyelled in sudden terror;and the others as suddenly fell back. The next instant she felt a handupon her shoulder and heard Dextry's voice."Are ye hurt? No? Come


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                                     CODE OF SILENCE                                        Written by                 Michael Butler, DennisShryack, Mike Gray & John Mason                                        Story by                             Michael Butler & DennisShryack                                      SHOOTING DRAFT                                           1985                               EXT. CHICAGO -NIGHT TO DAWN               Thundering north through the glass canyons of the Loop, the                elevated train SCREECHES through the city awakening.As it                races north across the river past ancient factories giving                way to high rise splendor, lights glistening against the                dawn, we seethe complex business of bringing a city to life                in the morning.               On the Near North Side an assortment of revelers are winding                uptheir night on the town.               The pressmen loiter outside the Tribune loading docks, and                fishing boats are outbound through the Chicago Riverlocks.               A streetsweeping crew moves through the Fulton Market,                Chicago's central meat and produce distribution center.               At theMerchandise Mart platform the elevated train picks up                two old cleaning ladies wearing babushkas.               EXT. ALLEY - DAY               Theel train RUMBLES north past the aging tenements of Uptown                into the Belmont Avenue Station.               And down below, a garbage truck is slowlyworking its way up                the alley. A garbage man in city overalls WHISTLES to the                driver and the truck stops. He rolls a can to the


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Lisbeth Longfrock, by Hans AanrudThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.netTitle: Lisbeth LongfrockAuthor: Hans AanrudIllustrator: Othar HolmboeTranslator: Laura E. PoulssonRelease Date: August 18, 2008 [EBook#26348]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LISBETH LONGFROCK ***Produced by Chris Curnow, Joseph Cooper and theOnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net[Illustration: LISBETH LONGFROCK]LISBETH LONGFROCKTRANSLATED FROM THE NORWEGIAN OFHANS AANRUDBYLAURA E. POULSSONILLUSTRATED BYOTHAR HOLMBOEGINN AND COMPANYBOSTON Â· NEW YORK Â· CHICAGO Â· LONDONATLANTA Â·DALLAS Â· COLUMBUS Â· SAN FRANCISCOCOPYRIGHT, 1907, BYLAURA E. POULSSONALL RIGHTS RESERVEDPRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICATheAthenÃ¦um PressGINN AND COMPANY Â· PROPRIETORS Â·BOSTON Â· U.S.A.PREFACEHans Aanrud's short stories are considered by his own countrymenasbelonging to the most original and artistically finished life picturesthat have been produced by the younger _literati_ of Norway. Theyare generally concernedwith peasant character, and present in truebalance the coarse and fine in peasant nature. The style of speech isoccasionally over-concrete for sophisticated ears,but it is notunwholesome. Of weak or cloying sweetness--so abhorrent to Norwegiantaste--there is never a trace._Sidsel SidsÃ¦rk_ was dedicated to the author'sdaughter on her eighthbirthday, and is doubtless largely reminiscent of Aanrud's ownchildhood. If I have been able to give a rendering at all worthy of theoriginal,readers of _Lisbeth Longfrock_ will find that the whole storybreathes a spirit of unaffected poetry not inconsistent with the commonlife which it depicts. This fineblending of the poetic and commonplaceis another characteristic of Aanrud's writings.While translating the book I was living in the region where the scenesof thestory are laid, and had the benefit of local knowledgeconcerning terms used, customs referred to, etc. No pains were sparedin verifying particulars, especiallythrough elderly people on thefarms, who could best explain the old-fashioned terms and who had aclear remembrance of obsolescent details of sÃ¦ter life. Forthiswelcome help and for elucidations through other friends I wish here tooffer my hearty thanks.Being desirous of having the conditions of Norwegian farm lifemade asclear as possible to young English and American readers, I felt thatseveral illustrations were necessary and that it would be well forthese to be the workof a Norwegian. To understand how the sun can bealready high in the heavens when it rises, and how, when it sets, theshadow of the western mountain cancreep as quickly as it does from thebottom of the valley up the opposite slope, one must have someconception of the narrowness of Norwegian valleys, with steepmountainridges on either side. I felt also that readers would be interested inpictures showing how the dooryard of a well-to-do Norwegian farm looks,how theopen fireplace of the roomy kitchen differs from ourfireplaces, how tall and slender a Norwegian stove is, built withalternating spaces and heat boxes, severalstories high, and howCrookhorn and the billy goat appeared when about to begin their grandtussle up at Hoel SÃ¦ter._Sidsel SidsÃ¦rk_ has given much pleasureto old and young. I hope that_Lisbeth Longfrock_ may have the same good fortune.LAURA E. POULSSONHOPKINTON,MASSACHUSETTSCONTENTSCHAPTER                                                  PAGE   I. LISBETH LONGFROCK GOES TO HOEL FARM                   1  II. LISBETHLONGFROCK AS SPINNING WOMAN                  12 III. LEAVING PEEROUT CASTLE                               22  IV. SPRING: LETTING THE ANIMALS OUT TOPASTURE           33   V. SUMMER: TAKING THE ANIMALS UP TO THE SÃTER           52  VI. THE TAMING OF CROOKHORN                              68 VII. HOMEFROM THE SÃTER                                  84VIII. ON GLORY PEAK                                        98  IX. THE VISIT TO PEEROUT CASTLE                         113   X.SUNDAY AT THE SÃTER                                 129  XI. LISBETH APPOINTED HEAD MILKMAID                     139LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONSLISBETHLONGFROCK                               _Frontispiece_                                                         PAGEHOEL FARM                                                   4THE BIG KITCHENAT HOEL FARM                               12LISBETH'S ROOM UNDER THE STAIRS                            34THE VALLEY AND THE FARMS                                   52UP ATTHE SÃTER                                            68LISBETH LONGFROCKCHAPTER ILISBETH LONGFROCK GOES TO HOEL FARMBearhunter, the big, shaggy old dog atHoel Farm, sat on the stone stepin front of the house, looking soberly around the spacious dooryard.It was a clear, cold winter's day toward the beginning ofspring, andthe sun shone brightly over the glittering snow. In spite of the brightsunshine, however, Bearhunter would have liked to be indoors muchbetter thanout, if his sense of responsibility had permitted; for hispaws ached with the cold, and he had to keep holding them up one afteranother from the stone slab tokeep from getting the "claw ache."Bearhunter did not wish to risk that, because "claw ache" is verypainful, as every northern dog knows.But to leave his post aswatchman was not to be thought of just now,for the pigs and the goats were out to-day. At this moment they werebusy with their separate affairs and behavingvery well,--the pigs overon the sunny side of the dooryard scratching themselves against thecorner of the cow house, and the goats gnawing bark from the bigheapof pine branches that had been laid near the sheep barn for theirspecial use. They looked as if they thought of nothing but theirscratching and gnawing; butBearhunter knew well, from previousexperience, that no sooner would he go into the house than both pigsand goats would come rushing over to the doorway anddo all themischief they could. That big goat, Crookhorn,--the new one who hadcome to the farm last autumn and whom Bearhunter had not yet broughtunderdiscipline,--had already strayed in a roundabout way to the verycorner of the farmhouse, and was looking at Bearhunter in aself-important manner, as if she didnot fear him in the least. She wasreally an intolerable creature, that goat Crookhorn! But just let herdare--!Bearhunter felt that he must sit on the cold doorstepfor some timelonger, at any rate. He glanced up the road occasionally as if to seewhether any one was coming, so that the pigs and goats might not thinktheyhad the whole of his attention.He had just turned his head leisurely toward the narrow road that camedown crosswise over the slope from the Upper Farms,when--what in theworld was that!Something _was_ coming,--a funny little roly-poly something. What apity, thought Bearhunter, that his sight was growing sopoor! At anyrate, he had better give the people in the house warning.So he gave several deep, echoing barks. The goats sprang together in aclump and raisedtheir ears; the pigs stopped in the very midst oftheir scratching to listen. That Bearhunter was held in great respectcould easily be seen.He still remained sittingon the doorstep, staring up the road. Neverin his life had he seen such a thing as that now approaching. Perhaps,after all, it was nothing worth giving warningabout. He would take aturn up the road and look at it a little nearer. So, arching his bushytail into a handsome curve and putting on his mostgood-humoredexpression, he sauntered off.Yes, it must be a human being, although you would not think so. Itbegan to look very much like "Katrine the Finn," asthey called her,who came to the farm every winter; but it could not be Katrine--it wasaltogether too little. It wore a long, wide skirt, and from under theskirtprotruded the tips of two big shoes covered with gray woolenstocking feet from which the legs had been cut off. Above the skirtthere was a round bundle ofclothes with a knitted shawl tied aroundit, and from this protruded two stumps with red mittens on. Perched onthe top of all was a smaller shape, muffled up in asmaller knittedshawl,--that, of course, must be the head. Carried at the back was ahuge bundle tied up in a dark cloth, and in front hung a pretty woodenpail,painted red.Really, Bearhunter had to stand still and gaze. The strange figure, inthe meantime, had become aware of him, and it also came to astandstill, as if ina dilemma. At that, Bearhunter walked over to thefarther side of the road and took his station there, trying to lookindifferent, for he did not wish to cause anyfright. The strangefigure then made its way carefully forward again, drawing graduallycloser and closer to its own side of the road. As it came nearer toBearhunterthe figure turned itself around by degrees, until, whendirectly opposite to him, it walked along quite sidewise.Then it was that Bearhunter got a peep through alittle opening in theupper shawl; and there he saw the tip of a tiny, turned-up red nose,then a red mouth that was drawn down a little at the corners as ifready forcrying, and then a pair of big blue eyes that were fastenedupon him with a look of terror.[Illustration: HOEL FARM]Pooh! it was nothing, after all, but a little girl,well bundled upagainst the cold. Bearhunter did not know her--but wait a bit! hethought he had seen that pail before. At any rate it would be absurd totry tofrighten this queer little creature.His tail began to wag involuntarily as he walked across the road totake a sniff at the pail.The little girl did not understand hisaction at once. Stepping back inalarm, she caught her heels in her long frock and down she tumbled bythe side of the road. Bearhunter darted off instantly; butafterrunning a short distance toward the house he stopped and looked at heragain, making his eyes as gentle as he could and wagging his tailenergetically. WithBearhunter that wagging of the tail meant hearty,good-natured laughter.Then the little girl understood. She got up, smiled, and jogged slowlyafter him.Bearhunter trotted leisurely ahead, looking back at her fromtime to time. He knew now that she had an errand at Hoel Farm, and thathe was therefore in dutybound to help her.Thus it was that Lisbeth Longfrock of Peerout Castle made her entranceinto Hoel Farm.                     *      *      *      *      *Peerout Castle wasperched high above the Upper Farms, on a crag thatjutted out from a barren ridge just under a mountain peak called "TheBig Hammer." The real name of thelittle farm was New Ridge,[1] and"Peerout Castle" was only a nickname given to it by a joker becausethere was so fine an outlook from it and because it bore noresemblancewhatever to a castle. The royal lands belonging to this castleconsisted of a little plot of cultivated soil, a bit of meadow landhere and there, and someheather patches where tiny blueberry bushesand small mountain-cranberry plants grew luxuriantly. The castle'soutbuildings were a shabby cow house and apigsty. The cow house wasbuilt against the steep hillside, with three walls of loosely builtstone, and its two stalls were dug half their length into the hill. Thetiny


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                                   EASY "A"                                                           Writtenby                                                          Bert V.Royal                                                                                FIRSTDRAFT                                                   August 3, 2008                                                     IN DARKNESS:                                    OLIVE(V.O.)           The rumors of my promiscuity have           been greatly exaggerated.                                                   FADEIN:                                                            INT. OLIVE'S BEDROOM - PRESENT DAY                                   OLIVE PENDERGHAST (17), a cuteteenager, speaks directly into          the WEBCAM atop her computer.                                                   OLIVE           Let the record show that I,Olive           Penderghast, being of sound mind,           ample breast size and the           occasional corny knock knock joke,           do enter this video bloginto           evidence in the case against me.           Because I'm being judged by a jury           of my peers, I will attempt to           insert `like' and `totally' intomy           confession as much as possible. So           here it goes... I confess I'm, in           no small part, to blame for the           vociferous gossip that hasturned           my Varsity letter scarlet, but -           for anyone hoping that the sizzling           details of my sordid past will           provide you with a reason to


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<title>"O BROTHER,WHERE ART THOU"</title>
 "O BROTHER, WHERE ART THOU"   By    Ethan Coen and Joel Coen BLACK In black, we hear achain-gang chant, many voices together, spaced around the unison strike of picks against rock. A title burns in: O muse! Sing in me, and through me tell thestory Of that man skilled in all the ways of contending... A wanderer, harried for years on end... On the sound of an impact we cut to: A PICK splitting arock. As the chant continues, wider angles show the chain-gang at work. They are black men in bleached and faded stripes, chained together, working under abrutal midday sun. It is flat delta countryside; the straight-ruled road stretches to infinity. Mounted guards with shotguns lazily patrol the line. The chain-gangchant is regular and, it seems, timeless. We slowly fade out, returning to BLACK The last of the voices fades. After a long beat we hear the guitarintroduction to Harry McClintock's 'The Big Rock Candy Mountain.' A WHEAT FIELD A road cuts across the middle background. Noonday sun beats down.We hear the distant picks and shovels of men at work and see, rising above ground level, the occasional upraised pick and spade heaving dirt. Men are digging aditch alongside the road. After a long beat, three men pop up in the wheat field in the middle foreground. They wear faded stripes and grey duck- billed caps.


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                                    COLOR OF NIGHT                                                               Written by                              Billy Ray &Matthew Chapman                                                  CREDITS                                   Credits start on a black screen, then they continue duringthe          whole scene at Michelle's place, and they end at the beginning of          the scene at Bill Capa's office.                                   MICHELLE'S PLACE -INTERIOR DAY                                   Close-up on a silver lipstick stand made into a bad taste musical          box. We see Michelle's hand selecting alipstick then we see          Michelle putting the lipstick on her lips, seated in front of the          mirror of her dressing table. She is dressed in a green frock,and          her face shows that she is quite disturbed.           Her apartment's decoration is very heavy, with a lot of various          useless objects and gold-platedfurniture and many mirrors.           She looks for a new dress in her wardrobe, and get mad at not          finding it. She then goes to a sofa covered with cushions,which          she throws all around the place, still madder at not finding her          dress. A cat, who was lying on the armrest of the sofa, runsaway          hurriedly from the mad Michelle.                                                   MICHELLE           God !...... No !......                                   Michelle isback in front of the mirror of her dressing-table. She          takes the lipstick and put a lot of it on her lips, then on her          teeth, then all around her mouth.She makes faces to herself in          the mirror. She seems more and more disturbed.           She takes a chrome-plated revolver in her drawer, starts to


ï»¿Project Gutenberg's The House on the Borderland, by William Hope HodgsonThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost norestrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.netTitle: The House on the BorderlandAuthor: William Hope HodgsonRelease Date: November 10, 2003 [EBook #10002]Last updated: January19, 2009Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUSE ON THE BORDERLAND ***Produced by Suzanne Shell, Sjaani and PGDistributed ProofreadersTHE HOUSE ON THE BORDERLANDWilliam Hope Hodgson_From the Manuscript discovered in 1877 by Messrs. Tonnison andBerreggnog inthe Ruins that lie to the South of the Village ofKraighten, in the West of Ireland. Set out here, with Notes_.TO MY FATHER_(Whose feet tread the lostaeons)_Open the door,  And listen!Only the wind's muffled roar,  And the glistenOf tears 'round the moon.  And, in fancy, the treadOf vanishing shoon--  Out inthe night with the Dead."Hush! And hark  To the sorrowful cryOf the wind in the dark.  Hush and hark, without murmur or sigh,    To shoon that tread the lostaeons:  To the sound that bids you to die.Hush and hark! Hush and Hark!"                               _Shoon of the Dead_AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION TO THEMANUSCRIPTMany are the hours in which I have pondered upon the story that is setforth in the following pages. I trust that my instincts are not awrywhen theyprompt me to leave the account, in simplicity, as it washanded to me.And the MS. itself--You must picture me, when first it was given into mycare, turning itover, curiously, and making a swift, jerky examination.A small book it is; but thick, and all, save the last few pages, filledwith a quaint but legible handwriting,and writ very close. I have thequeer, faint, pit-water smell of it in my nostrils now as I write, andmy fingers have subconscious memories of the soft, "cloggy" feelof thelong-damp pages.I read, and, in reading, lifted the Curtains of the Impossible thatblind the mind, and looked out into the unknown. Amid stiff,abruptsentences I wandered; and, presently, I had no fault to charge againsttheir abrupt tellings; for, better far than my own ambitious phrasing,is this mutilatedstory capable of bringing home all that the oldRecluse, of the vanished house, had striven to tell.Of the simple, stiffly given account of weird and extraordinarymatters,I will say little. It lies before you. The inner story must be uncovered,personally, by each reader, according to ability and desire. And evenshould any failto see, as now I see, the shadowed picture and conceptionof that to which one may well give the accepted titles of Heaven and Hell;yet can I promise certainthrills, merely taking the story as a story.WILLIAM HOPE HODGSON December 17, 1907_I_THE FINDING OF THE MANUSCRIPTRight away in the west of Irelandlies a tiny hamlet called Kraighten.It is situated, alone, at the base of a low hill. Far around therespreads a waste of bleak and totally inhospitable country; where,hereand there at great intervals, one may come upon the ruins of some longdesolate cottage--unthatched and stark. The whole land is bare andunpeopled, thevery earth scarcely covering the rock that lies beneathit, and with which the country abounds, in places rising out of the soilin wave-shaped ridges.Yet, in spite ofits desolation, my friend Tonnison and I had elected tospend our vacation there. He had stumbled on the place by mere chancethe year previously, during thecourse of a long walking tour, anddiscovered the possibilities for the angler in a small and unnamed riverthat runs past the outskirts of the little village.I have saidthat the river is without name; I may add that no map that Ihave hitherto consulted has shown either village or stream. They seemto have entirely escapedobservation: indeed, they might never exist forall that the average guide tells one. Possibly this can be partlyaccounted for by the fact that the nearest railwaystation (Ardrahan) issome forty miles distant.It was early one warm evening when my friend and I arrived in Kraighten.We had reached Ardrahan the previousnight, sleeping there in roomshired at the village post office, and leaving in good time on thefollowing morning, clinging insecurely to one of the typicaljauntingcars.It had taken us all day to accomplish our journey over some of theroughest tracks imaginable, with the result that we were thoroughlytired and somewhatbad tempered. However, the tent had to be erected andour goods stowed away before we could think of food or rest. And so weset to work, with the aid of ourdriver, and soon had the tent up upon asmall patch of ground just outside the little village, and quite near tothe river.Then, having stored all our belongings, wedismissed the driver, as hehad to make his way back as speedily as possible, and told him to comeacross to us at the end of a fortnight. We had broughtsufficientprovisions to last us for that space of time, and water we could getfrom the stream. Fuel we did not need, as we had included a smalloil-stove among ouroutfit, and the weather was fine and warm.It was Tonnison's idea to camp out instead of getting lodgings in one ofthe cottages. As he put it, there was no joke insleeping in a room witha numerous family of healthy Irish in one corner and the pigsty in theother, while overhead a ragged colony of roosting fowlsdistributedtheir blessings impartially, and the whole place so full of peat smokethat it made a fellow sneeze his head off just to put it insidethe doorway.Tonnisonhad got the stove lit now and was busy cutting slices of baconinto the frying pan; so I took the kettle and walked down to the riverfor water. On the way, I had topass close to a little group of thevillage people, who eyed me curiously, but not in any unfriendly manner,though none of them ventured a word.As I returned withmy kettle filled, I went up to them and, after afriendly nod, to which they replied in like manner, I asked themcasually about the fishing; but, instead ofanswering, they just shooktheir heads silently, and stared at me. I repeated the question,addressing more particularly a great, gaunt fellow at my elbow;yetagain I received no answer. Then the man turned to a comrade and saidsomething rapidly in a language that I did not understand; and, at once,the wholecrowd of them fell to jabbering in what, after a few moments,I guessed to be pure Irish. At the same time they cast many glances inmy direction. For a minute,perhaps, they spoke among themselves thus;then the man I had addressed faced 'round at me and said something. Bythe expression of his face I guessed thathe, in turn, was questioningme; but now I had to shake my head, and indicate that I did notcomprehend what it was they wanted to know; and so we stoodlooking atone another, until I heard Tonnison calling to me to hurry up with thekettle. Then, with a smile and a nod, I left them, and all in the littlecrowd smiledand nodded in return, though their faces still betrayedtheir puzzlement.It was evident, I reflected as I went toward the tent, that theinhabitants of these few hutsin the wilderness did not know a word ofEnglish; and when I told Tonnison, he remarked that he was aware of thefact, and, more, that it was not at all uncommonin that part of thecountry, where the people often lived and died in their isolated hamletswithout ever coming in contact with the outside world."I wish we had gotthe driver to interpret for us before he left," Iremarked, as we sat down to our meal. "It seems so strange for thepeople of this place not even to know what we'vecome for."Tonnison grunted an assent, and thereafter was silent for a while.Later, having satisfied our appetites somewhat, we began to talk, layingour plans forthe morrow; then, after a smoke, we closed the flap of thetent, and prepared to turn in."I suppose there's no chance of those fellows outside taking anything?"Iasked, as we rolled ourselves in our blankets.Tonnison said that he did not think so, at least while we were about;and, as he went on to explain, we could lock upeverything, except thetent, in the big chest that we had brought to hold our provisions. Iagreed to this, and soon we were both asleep.Next morning, early, werose and went for a swim in the river; afterwhich we dressed and had breakfast. Then we roused out our fishingtackle and overhauled it, by which time, ourbreakfasts having settledsomewhat, we made all secure within the tent and strode off in thedirection my friend had explored on his previous visit.During the daywe fished happily, working steadily upstream, and byevening we had one of the prettiest creels of fish that I had seen for along while. Returning to the village, wemade a good feed off our day'sspoil, after which, having selected a few of the finer fish for ourbreakfast, we presented the remainder to the group of villagers whohadassembled at a respectful distance to watch our doings. They seemedwonderfully grateful, and heaped mountains of what I presumed to beIrish blessingsupon our heads.Thus we spent several days, having splendid sport, and first-rateappetites to do justice upon our prey. We were pleased to find howfriendly thevillagers were inclined to be, and that there was noevidence of their having ventured to meddle with our belongings duringour absences.It was on a Tuesday thatwe arrived in Kraighten, and it would be on theSunday following that we made a great discovery. Hitherto we had alwaysgone up-stream; on that day, however,we laid aside our rods, and,taking some provisions, set off for a long ramble in the oppositedirection. The day was warm, and we trudged along leisurelyenough,stopping about mid-day to eat our lunch upon a great flat rock near theriverbank. Afterward we sat and smoked awhile, resuming our walk onlywhen wewere tired of inaction.For perhaps another hour we wandered onward, chatting quietly andcomfortably on this and that matter, and on several occasionsstoppingwhile my companion--who is something of an artist--made rough sketchesof striking bits of the wild scenery.And then, without any warning whatsoever,the river we had followed soconfidently, came to an abrupt end--vanishing into the earth."Good Lord!" I said, "who ever would have thought of this?"And I staredin amazement; then I turned to Tonnison. He was looking,with a blank expression upon his face, at the place where the riverdisappeared.In a moment hespoke."Let us go on a bit; it may reappear again--anyhow, it is worthinvestigating."I agreed, and we went forward once more, though rather aimlessly; forwewere not at all certain in which direction to prosecute our search. Forperhaps a mile we moved onward; then Tonnison, who had been gazing aboutcuriously,stopped and shaded his eyes."See!" he said, after a moment, "isn't that mist or something, overthere to the right--away in a line with that great piece of rock?"Andhe indicated with his hand.I stared, and, after a minute, seemed to see something, but could not becertain, and said so."Anyway," my friend replied, "we'lljust go across and have a glance."And he started off in the direction he had suggested, I following.Presently, we came among bushes, and, after a time, out uponthe top ofa high, boulder-strewn bank, from which we looked down into a wildernessof bushes and trees."Seems as though we had come upon an oasis in this


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Hour of the Dragon, by Robert E. HowardThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost norestrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Hour of the DragonAuthor: Robert E. HowardRelease Date: March 2, 2013 [EBook #42243]Language: English*** START OF THISPROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUR OF THE DRAGON ***Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net                  THE HOUR OF THE DRAGON                   By Robert E. Howard    [Transcriber's Note: This etext was first published in WeirdTales    December 1935, January, February, March and April 1936. Extensive    research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on    thispublication was renewed.]1O Sleeper, Awake!The long tapers flickered, sending the black shadows wavering along thewalls, and the velvet tapestries rippled. Yetthere was no wind in thechamber. Four men stood about the ebony table on which lay the greensarcophagus that gleamed like carven jade. In the upraised righthand ofeach man a curious black candle burned with a weird greenish light.Outside was night and a lost wind moaning among the black trees.Inside the chamberwas tense silence, and the wavering of the shadows,while four pairs of eyes, burning with intensity, were fixed on the longgreen case across which cryptichieroglyphics writhed, as if lent lifeand movement by the unsteady light. The man at the foot of thesarcophagus leaned over it and moved his candle as if he werewritingwith a pen, inscribing a mystic symbol in the air. Then he set down thecandle in its black gold stick at the foot of the case, and, mumblingsome formulaunintelligible to his companions, he thrust a broad whitehand into his fur-trimmed robe. When he brought it forth again it was asif he cupped in his palm a ball ofliving fire.The other three drew in their breath sharply, and the dark, powerful manwho stood at the head of the sarcophagus whispered: 'The Heart ofAhriman!'The other lifted a quick hand for silence. Somewhere a dogbegan howling dolefully, and a stealthy step padded outside the barredand bolted door. But nonelooked aside from the mummy-case over whichthe man in the ermine-trimmed robe was now moving the great flamingjewel while he muttered an incantationthat was old when Atlantis sank.The glare of the gem dazzled their eyes, so that they could not be sureof what they saw; but with a splintering crash, the carvenlid of thesarcophagus burst outward as if from some irresistible pressure appliedfrom within, and the four men, bending eagerly forward, saw theoccupant--ahuddled, withered, wizened shape, with dried brown limbslike dead wood showing through moldering bandages.'Bring that thing _back_?' muttered the small darkman who stood on theright, with a short sardonic laugh. 'It is ready to crumble at a touch.We are fools--''Shhh!' It was an urgent hiss of command from the largeman who held thejewel. Perspiration stood upon his broad white forehead and his eyeswere dilated. He leaned forward, and, without touching the thing withhishand, laid on the breast of the mummy the blazing jewel. Then hedrew back and watched with fierce intensity, his lips moving insoundless invocation.It was as ifa globe of living fire flickered and burned on the dead,withered bosom. And breath sucked in, hissing, through the clenchedteeth of the watchers. For as theywatched, an awful transmutationbecame apparent. The withered shape in the sarcophagus was expanding,was growing, lengthening. The bandages burst and fellinto brown dust.The shriveled limbs swelled, straightened. Their dusky hue began tofade.'By Mitra!' whispered the tall, yellow-haired man on the left. 'Hewas_not_ a Stygian. That part at least was true.'Again a trembling finger warned for silence. The hound outside was nolonger howling. He whimpered, as with anevil dream, and then thatsound, too, died away in silence, in which the yellow-haired man plainlyheard the straining of the heavy door, as if something outsidepushedpowerfully upon it. He half turned, his hand at his sword, but the manin the ermine robe hissed an urgent warning: 'Stay! Do not break thechain! And onyour life do not go to the door!'The yellow-haired man shrugged and turned back, and then he stoppedshort, staring. In the jade sarcophagus lay a living man: atall, lustyman, naked, white of skin, and dark of hair and beard. He laymotionless, his eyes wide open, and blank and unknowing as a newbornbabe's. On hisbreast the great jewel smoldered and sparkled.The man in ermine reeled as if from some let-down of extreme tension.'Ishtar!' he gasped. 'It is Xaltotun!--_andhe lives!_ Valerius!Tarascus! Amalric! Do you see? Do you see? You doubted me--but I havenot failed! We have been close to the open gates of hell this night,andthe shapes of darkness have gathered close about us--aye, they followed_him_ to the very door--but we have brought the great magician back tolife.''Anddamned our souls to purgatories everlasting, I doubt not,' mutteredthe small, dark man, Tarascus.The yellow-haired man, Valerius, laughed harshly.'Whatpurgatory can be worse than life itself? So we are all damnedtogether from birth. Besides, who would not sell his miserable soul fora throne?''There is nointelligence in his stare, Orastes,' said the large man.'He has long been dead,' answered Orastes. 'He is as one newly awakened.His mind is empty after the longsleep--nay, he was _dead_, notsleeping. We brought his spirit back over the voids and gulfs of nightand oblivion. I will speak to him.'He bent over the foot of thesarcophagus, and fixing his gaze on thewide dark eyes of the man within, he said, slowly: 'Awake, Xaltotun!'The lips of the man moved mechanically. 'Xaltotun!'he repeated in agroping whisper.'_You_ are Xaltotun!' exclaimed Orastes, like a hypnotist driving homehis suggestions. 'You are Xaltotun of Python, in Acheron.'Adim flame flickered in the dark eyes.'I was Xaltotun,' he whispered. 'I am dead.''You _are_ Xaltotun!' cried Orastes. 'You are not dead! You live!''I am Xaltotun,'came the eery whisper. 'But I am dead. In my house inKhemi, in Stygia, there I died.''And the priests who poisoned you mummified your body with theirdarkarts, keeping all your organs intact!' exclaimed Orastes. 'But now youlive again! The Heart of Ahriman has restored your life, drawn yourspirit back fromspace and eternity.''The Heart of Ahriman!' The flame of remembrance grew stronger. 'Thebarbarians stole it from me!''He remembers,' muttered Orastes. 'Lifthim from the case.'The others obeyed hesitantly, as if reluctant to touch the man they hadrecreated, and they seemed not easier in their minds when they feltfirmmuscular flesh, vibrant with blood and life, beneath their fingers. Butthey lifted him upon the table, and Orastes clothed him in a curiousdark velvet robe,splashed with gold stars and crescent moons, andfastened a cloth-of-gold fillet about his temples, confining the blackwavy locks that fell to his shoulders. He letthem do as they would,saying nothing, not even when they set him in a carven throne-like chairwith a high ebony back and wide silver arms, and feet like goldenclaws.He sat there motionless, and slowly intelligence grew in his dark eyesand made them deep and strange and luminous. It was as if long-sunkenwitchlightsfloated slowly up through midnight pools of darkness.Orastes cast a furtive glance at his companions, who stood staring inmorbid fascination at their strangeguest. Their iron nerves hadwithstood an ordeal that might have driven weaker men mad. He knew itwas with no weaklings that he conspired, but men whosecourage was asprofound as their lawless ambitions and capacity for evil. He turned hisattention to the figure in the ebon-black chair. And this one spoke atlast.'Iremember,' he said in a strong, resonant voice, speaking Nemedianwith a curious, archaic accent. 'I am Xaltotun, who was high priest ofSet in Python, which wasin Acheron. The Heart of Ahriman--I dreamed Ihad found it again--where is it?'Orastes placed it in his hand, and he drew breath deeply as he gazedinto thedepths of the terrible jewel burning in his grasp.'They stole it from me, long ago,' he said. 'The red heart of the nightit is, strong to save or to damn. It came fromafar, and from long ago.While I held it, none could stand before me. But it was stolen from me,and Acheron fell, and I fled in exile into dark Stygia. Much Iremember,but much I have forgotten. I have been in a far land, across misty voidsand gulfs and unlit oceans. What is the year?'Orastes answered him. 'It is thewaning of the Year of the Lion, threethousand years after the fall of Acheron.''Three thousand years!' murmured the other. 'So long? Who are you?''I am Orastes,once a priest of Mitra. This man is Amalric, baron ofTor, in Nemedia; this other is Tarascus, younger brother of the king ofNemedia; and this tall man is Valerius,rightful heir of the throne ofAquilonia.''Why have you given me life?' demanded Xaltotun. 'What do you require ofme?'The man was now fully alive and awake, hiskeen eyes reflecting theworking of an unclouded brain. There was no hesitation or uncertainty inhis manner. He came directly to the point, as one who knows thatno mangives something for nothing. Orastes met him with equal candor.'We have opened the doors of hell this night to free your soul andreturn it to your bodybecause we need your aid. We wish to placeTarascus on the throne of Nemedia, and to win for Valerius the crown ofAquilonia. With your necromancy you can aidus.'Xaltotun's mind was devious and full of unexpected slants.'You must be deep in the arts yourself, Orastes, to have been able torestore my life. How is it that apriest of Mitra knows of the Heart ofAhriman, and the incantations of Skelos?''I am no longer a priest of Mitra,' answered Orastes. 'I was cast forthfrom my orderbecause of my delving in black magic. But for Amalricthere I might have been burned as a magician.'But that left me free to pursue my studies. I journeyed inZamora, inVendhya, in Stygia, and among the haunted jungles of Khitai. I read theiron-bound books of Skelos, and talked with unseen creatures in deepwells,and faceless shapes in black reeking jungles. I obtained aglimpse of your sarcophagus in the demon-haunted crypts below the blackgiant-walled temple of Set inthe hinterlands of Stygia, and I learnedof the arts that would bring back life to your shriveled corpse. Frommoldering manuscripts I learned of the Heart ofAhriman. Then for a yearI sought its hiding-place, and at last I found it.''Then why trouble to bring me back to life?' demanded Xaltotun, with hispiercing gazefixed on the priest. 'Why did you not employ the Heart tofurther your own power?''Because no man today knows the secrets of the Heart,' answered Orastes.'Noteven in legends live the arts by which to loose its full powers. Iknew it could restore life; of its deeper secrets I am ignorant. Imerely used it to bring you back tolife. It is the use of yourknowledge we seek. As for the Heart, you alone know its awful secrets.'Xaltotun shook his head, staring broodingly into the flamingdepths.'My necromantic knowledge is greater than the sum of all the knowledgeof other men,' he said; 'yet I do not know the full power of the jewel.I did not