The Gland Stealers

CHAPTER XVII SALLY SLIPS BACK CHAPTER XVII SALLY SLIPS BACK The first person to recover from the operation and exhibit clear signs of rejuvenation was a red-faced little man, called Jonathan Abbott. In less than forty-eight hours after the new glands had been grafted, he not only played Gran'pa a game of chess, but actually beat him (in thirty-one moves). It was a great intellectual achievement which very much annoyed Gran'pa. "Mate in three! . . . By jingo!" exclaimed Abbott, ecstatically. "This game takes me back forty years—to the time when I was on the county team!" His boyish flippancy was a great comfort to the other patients, who naturally all anticipated the same marvellous results in their own particular cases. To see the old people returning to their youth was like watching a brood of chickens hatch. One by one they crept out of the shells of their old age, fluttered their wings and began to manifest a keen desire for activity. Intoxicated with youthful exuberance, Jonathan Abbott used to go outside the sanatorium and run about like a kitten after a fly, while those who were not yet capable of such exertions stood and encouraged him. They sang songs, laughed, gesticulated, stretched themselves, and emitted little, self-satisfied grunts. In spite of the powerful properties of gorilla glands, I do not think that they alone accounted for these extraordinary scenes at Windhuk. No single remedy for old age could have wrought such a change in so short a time. I was inclined to agree with Dr. Martin that the previous administration of radioactive potashes and thyroid gland extract, the open air life, the physical exercises, and the peculiar, contagious atmosphere associated with crowds, all played very important parts. The resultant of these forces was so strong that the poor old brains and bodies were seething with superfluous energy. This phase of exaggerated second childhood lasted for several weeks, until, under the counteracting influence of bromide draughts, it gradually subsided into a more restrained joy in life. Meanwhile, Sally Rebecca, too, was recovering her youth. Not having been subjected to a preliminary treatment of intensive culture, she naturally made slower progress than the men. Gradually, her features became less harsh in outline, her eyes brightened, new layers of fat were formed, her movements grew more graceful, her voice improved in depth and tone, and even her hair was darkening. Now and then, a quaint girlishness exhibited itself, as if modestly peeping out on a new world. Keeping pace with the wonderful transformation of her body, the Spirit of Youth led her soul back to the past. She began treating Gran'pa and me as companions of her own age. In contrast to the women of this generation, she showed a strange mixture of awakening motherliness and innocence and purity that belonged to the period in which she was born. And yet, behind it all was the wisdom of maturity, its tolerance, its deep understanding, its great gift of forgiveness. Intensely curious, I asked Gran'pa: "Is she as you knew her forty or fifty years ago?" "Very nearly, George!" he answered, meditatively. "It is a spiritual revelation. She has all the qualities she had in those days—only they are a little more subdued. That touch of abandonment is not there, but——" "You can't expect everything the same," I pointed out. "No. . . . Of course not!" He seemed to be somewhat lacking in enthusiasm, I thought, and I could not help saying: "Surely you are not disappointed?" "How can you suggest such a thing, George?" But the impression remained. I was certain that something was amiss. Even Sally herself seemed to be less inclined towards Gran'pa than she had been before the operation. A trifle resentfully, she told me that he was very domineering at times. She also felt that he spent far too much time with the other members of the club, and that she was consequently being neglected. To make matters worse, Gran'pa became the moving spirit in a vicious little clique of gamblers who played poker and auction bridge with a wild desperation—as if determined to seek solace in cards, now that the glands had failed them. The stakes, too, were dangerously high. "We must get him away from these wicked, unrejuvenated old men," I said to Sally one morning. "He's becoming demoralized." The next morning Sally announced that she insisted on returning to England before the week was out. "But, my dear. . . ." protested Gran'pa. "You can't rush things like this." Sally showed her spirit. "Charles," she said, "If you and your numerous friends don't wish to come—you needn't. I can go alone." "Don't talk nonsense, Sally! We can't have the party broken up in this absurd manner. It's idiotic for a mere woman to try and upset . . ." "Steady, Gran'pa!" I whispered. "Well, so it is," he growled. Sally was pink with indignation. "I won't be referred to as 'a mere woman'!" she snapped. Seeing all the elements of a young lovers' quarrel in being, I withdrew and left Gran'pa and Sally to settle their differences alone. Five minutes later Gran'pa strode past me with an air of grim determination. He was followed a few moments later by Sally, weeping. "Don't cry!" I said, taking her arm and trying to soothe her. "Neither of you intend to be unkind to one another. . . ." " I do!" she exclaimed. "Oh! I could . . . kill him! (Sniff—sniff). Just fancy! He said that . . ." "Don't repeat it, Sally! It always makes it worse to go over things. Whatever he said, you know that he didn't really mean it." She dabbed her eyes, stopped weeping, and then turned on me! "Of course you stick up for him—being a man!" she cried. I mumbled something implying humility, and she relented a little. "Oh! He does make me lose my temper, George! . . . I'm sorry I was horrid to you as well." "I don't mind it a bit," I lied. Sally suddenly began laughing. "It's very foolish," she said. "We ought to know better at our age. . . . Anyway, I shall certainly return to England this week—if only you and Molly will back me up and come as well. Please , George!" It was nice to think that someone relied on me. It was still nicer to think of home—comfort—and Nanny's efficient guardianship, after so much strife and worry. I was tired of Africa, its old men, and its monkeys. So I gave Sally my promise of active support. "I feel happier than I've been for weeks," she confessed, with a blush. "It's very good of you, George. If only your Gran'pa followed your example, he would have much better manners." I wished he had been there to hear it. At the same time, I could not help wondering whether Sally had been a flirt in her younger days. Even now, she was certainly very promising in this respect. Or was she merely testing the powers of her new-found youth? The same afternoon I told Gran'pa that I, too, was returning home with Sally. "It's a conspiracy!" he barked. "You're a nice sort of great-grandson, George! What the devil . . . ?" "Come, now," I said, quietly. "Don't lose your temper. I'm fed up with this monkey-gland business and I want to get back to civilization. You can come later, if you prefer. What point is there in my remaining here any longer?" "None. . . . I don't even know why you came." "That's merely spiteful! I caught three times as many monkeys as you. . . ." "They were not monkeys. They were gorillas— apes ! Don't be so supercilious! Can't you find anything better to do than keep up this thin trickle of sneers at the old people?" "Not if I stay here!" I replied. "They get on my nerves—with their chest smacking and all their other feeble imitations of youth." "You wait until you're old!" "I'd rather die first!" Gran'pa glanced at me, spluttered, and then strode furiously away. But I knew already that Sally was winning. Gran'pa's bark was always worse immediately before he—didn't bite. . . . The following morning he said: "You're right, George! You always are, confound you! We're wasting time out here and the sooner we go home the better!" Having unburdened himself thus, he went to the other extreme and couldn't complete our preparations for the departure quickly enough. Excited at the prospect of returning to their friends, and possibly to fame, the rejuvenated also commenced hustling. But the unlucky ones—artificially fed on potashes, and apparently incapable of sustained effort—became vindictive and irritable. They accused us of backsliding, breach of faith, and cowardice. I don't know what rash promises Gran'pa had made during the last few weeks, but I had the suspicion that he must have given the old people some hope of rejuvenation in the near future. On the morning of our departure he received three anonymous and threatening letters, which made him more determined than ever! "I will not be intimidated!" he stormed. "I'm going home, even if it's my corpse that has to be taken on board. They'd merely be killing the goose that lays the golden eggs. . . ." ". . . Or glands!" I observed. "You have a dry wit, George!" "Twelve months in this tropical heat would make anyone dry. It's worse than being in America." Sally looked perturbed. "You don't think they're serious, Charles, do you?" she asked, timorously. "They haven't the guts!" he commented, vulgarly. "If they had, they'd go gorilla-hunting themselves. I've offered to place the whole of our machinery at their disposal. But no—they want waiting on hand and foot, like babies. When I think of the money and time I've wasted—Pah! . . ." There and then he called a meeting in the gymnasium, swore at the whole assembly, and ended by saying that they could either came back with us, or stay and moulder where they were. Demoralized and shaken by the storm of Gran'pa's passion, they permitted themselves to be driven like sheep to the slaughter, and that afternoon we set out for England once again. Gran'pa refused to allow any of us to return to "The Pilgrim Father" by 'plane. Full of feeble excuses about the lack of petrol, the disadvantages of carrying unnecessary cargo, and the waste of time, he told Oakley and Newland to fly their machines straight to Corisco, at which spot we were touching on the way home. As if deeply resentful of our presence, he went with them. So did Molly—to whom all things were still possible. The remainder of us proceeded to the coast by train. It was a tedious and abominable journey, and when we at last boarded "The Pilgrim Father," I am certain that there was not a man who wasn't thankful to shake the dust of Africa off his feet for ever. Little Jonathan Abbott was hilarious with joy the instant we got on deck, and was so eager to view the convalescent gorillas that I shouldn't have been surprised to see him embrace them. "Poor, dumb brutes!" he murmured, gazing through the bars of the great cage. "Not so much of the dumb!" I warned him, as one of the huge males inflated its chest, preparatory to a deafening roar. As I expected, the noise nearly scared the onlookers out of their lives. Until this moment none of them had guessed the fund of animal fury and power on which those innocent looking glands had thriven. "Imagine meeting that fellow in the open," said Dr. Croft. "It could tear any one of you into shreds in half a minute." A glance at their faces showed me that the old people did not doubt the statement. They were very quiet and timid looking. Fear of wild gorillas (and respect for their captors) had already produced a great change in their demeanor. They behaved as children who have been intimidated by weird stories of the "bogie-man." In the presence of such terrifying forces they became quite plastic and obedient—until the thrilling moment when two of the males flung themselves at the bars. Panic-stricken, the old men stampeded up to the deck. "It's done them good," said Croft. I cordially agreed with him, and prophesied a quiet, homely voyage back. But I was mistaken. South of the Gaboon, we liberated the gorillas on a lonely shore which was backed by dense woodland, and a few hours later the trouble broke out anew. The unrejuvenated began pestering us like a large family of greedy children. Couldn't we all stay at Corisco awhile and capture a few more gorillas? Failing that, what about chimpanzees, or even the smaller monkeys? "You'd better discuss the matter with my grandfather," I suggested. "Can't you persuade him?" asked the ring-leader. "I'll certainly do my best," I prevaricated. "But you know what he is. . . ." As we drew nearer to Corisco they grew more and more importunate, until at last Croft and I could stand the worry no longer. We developed sudden sickness and hid ourselves in our cabin. Naturally, it was hard on Stringer. Being the only member of our party left on deck, he was nearly mobbed, but, with the aid of a little mental magnetism, and his great fund of good-natured patience, he pulled through. He made the suggestion—possibly a hypnotic one—that the old people should form a sub-committee, appoint a chairman, and draw up a definite scheme of action. They could ask Gran'pa to join them as leader on another gorilla hunt. If he refused the honor, they would then have to carry the thing through themselves. All this Stringer afterwards told Croft and me as we sat in our sick chamber—where I had just lost twenty-five shillings at double dummy bridge. "Have they done as you suggested?" asked Croft. "Yes! Forty-nine of them have decided to stop at Corisco. The other nine are returning to England." "Good!" I said. "Now we know where we are." Never for one moment did I think that Gran'pa would stay and help those old people. It was grossly sel fish to ask a man who had already gone through so much for their sakes to give up his well earned rest, to face hardships and dangers again, and to postpone his marriage with the woman he loved. But old men are always selfish. When we landed at Corisco, the chairman of the sub-committee immediately sought out Gran'pa, and took him away to some secret place of concourse. No one knows what the chairman said or did, or what prevented Gran'pa's being his normal, dominating self. If ever the full story of those later days comes to be written this will still remain one of the unsolved riddles of his existence. He was always an impulsive man; but what followed that interview was downright recklessness, folly, idiocy. "George," he said, "I've decided to stay on here for another season's gorilla hunting." "You're mad!" I exclaimed. "All actions worth while appear stupid to the timid and cautious," he replied, smoothly and pompously. "I won't quibble with you. All I want to know is why are you doing it? WHY? . . ." "It's a kink in me, George. The glamour of Corisco—the joy of the chase—the dangers and excitements—the BIGNESS of it all, compared with the quiet, suburban respectability awaiting me in England or even America. . . . I want to live—while I'm still alive. I want the candle to burn not only at both ends, but brilliantly. As Kipling has it, let me 'fill the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds' worth of distance run.' I must live. To vegetate would be to annihilate myself. I should—burst! . . . Let me die with my boots on, George!" His eyes shone, his face glowed, his whole body was vibrant with emotion. I was carried away in spite of myself. It took me several minutes to recover. When I did, it was only to bow to the inevitable. Gran'pa's determination was like granite. Unmoved by the storm of entreaties hurled at him by Sally and me, he began making his plans at once. Moreover, he drew to his aid other adventurous spirits. Stringer, Croft, Oakley and Newland all turned their backs on England. It was like an upheaval in a Government. Sally and I were deserted by even our best friends. We were dethroned. Our only consolation was that we were not quite alone. With us, returned Molly and twenty-one rejuvenated old men, and—terrible anti-climax—nine cowardly octogenarians who were afraid to stay at Corisco and take their chance of again tasting the joys of new found youth. It was a sad farewell. Molly looked more miserable than I had ever seen her. Sally was pale, red-eyed—but proudly defiant. Dr. Croft was quietly reproachful. Stringer was wistful and Old-Billish in the extreme. Gran'pa's expression was one of tragic majesty—a Napoleon giving up his Josephine—a martyr suffering for a great cause. His nobility made me feel what a wretched worm I was. How happy I should have been to have stayed with them all in Corisco—the Beautiful! How I repented that rash promise which I had made to Sally! As the anchor was weighed I went below, unable to take a farewell glance at the island. I was afraid of myself. A call from Gran'pa and I believe that I should have gone overboard and swum to the land. It was a moment when one must do everything—or nothing! The engines throbbed and a distant cheer came from the receding shore. So great was my agony that I actually groaned. For over an hour I remained below struggling with my emotions, and it was not until we had lost sight of land that I began to recover. Merciful night drew her curtain at last; one by one the old men crept yawning to their bunks. Dead tired, I, too, sought solace in sleep. But even this was denied me. In the early hours of the morning a terrific storm arose and the ship rolled and lurched through the water like a drunken animal. To add to my misery, I was horribly sick. Perhaps it was as well. It helped me to forget. For nearly two days I cared little what had happened or what might happen. Then came a sudden calm and, with it, the sense of peaceful recovery after a great illness. Slowly and shakily, we emerged on deck, where, chastened by sickness and grief, Sally, Molly and I sought comfort in one another's company. We even went so far as to avoid the other passengers; many of them reminded us so much of Gran'pa, and his cheerful boisterous way. Gradually the wounds began to heal and we found ourselves looking forward to our arrival in England. Much would have happened during our absence abroad. Industrial unrest, high prices, the housing problem, over-crowded trains, bad plays, and poor books might have all vanished by now. In fact, we might find that the old country was really worth living in, after all. . . . After this enlivening anticipation, the days seemed to pass more rapidly than ever, and when "The Pilgrim Father" at last dropped anchor in Portsmouth Harbor I could hardly restrain my joy. The scene which fate had so kindly set for our arrival home was magnificent. The docks were alive with activity, tugs were hooting, busy little boats were moving hither and thither over the calm surface of the water, a huge liner was stealing out to sea, and over all shone the warm and beneficent sun. We bade farewell to those who were not journeying with us, left them aboard the ship, and caught the first train to town. After the bleak and sandy shores of West Africa, the dense jungles, the swamps, the wide rivers, the huge strangely-tinted mountains, and that air of dark mystery and barbarism which enveloped the whole country of the gorilla, it was a wonderful contrast to gaze once again on the garden-like compactness of England, with its atmosphere of cultured peace and security. Never was a train journey more soothing and swift and comfortable. It was a credit to any railway company. In London, Sally and Molly and I said good-by to the rest of the party, after inviting a few of the pleasanter members of the club to pay us a visit at Richmond. Then we had dinner, listened awhile to some of the latest songs and music, and finally found ourselves in the crowded streets again. It was theatre-time, and tired as we were, the temptation for amusement was great. But we resisted it and strolled part of the way home instead. Sally, who had proved that she was a connoisseur in both food and wine, was in a meditative and affectionate mood. She took my arm, while Molly walked on ahead. At Charing Cross, I heard a cry which sent the blood rushing to my head. I felt naked and almost ashamed. It was as if every eye in London was on me. Hastily and doubtfully, I bought an evening paper, drew Sally and Molly aside, and sought out this latest and fleetest example of modern journalism. It ran as follows:— TWENTY-ONE OLD MEN MADE YOUNG A STRANGE VOYAGE MONKEY-GLAND QUEST We have just received exclusive news of one of the most startling voyages of discovery ever made by man. Over eighteen months ago there set sail from England between eighty and ninety old men in search of gorilla glands in Western Africa. . . . "We'll read it on the way back to Richmond," I said hurriedly. "This is treachery. In spite of their promises, one of the old men has given us away. Let's get a taxi before someone recognizes us." Shall I ever forget that night? We arrived home at ten o'clock, thrust our way through a little knot of enterprising journalists who had discovered my address, hammered at the door, and tumbled in on a half-prostrate Nanny. "Go away!" I cried to the swarm of news-seekers, and I slammed the door in their faces, took off my hat and gripped Nanny by the hand. She was dumfounded at the change in Sally, but as soon as she had recovered her faculties, commenced ministering to us and mothering us as of old. Never was home more welcome to any man than it was to me that night. Nanny unearthed Molly's best silk pajamas, lent Sally one of her own nightdresses, prepared our rooms, and even coaxed us to eat and drink. Then she sat and watched us, too full of joy to speak. Bed, at last—cool and sweet and restful. Then sleep—and finally the morrow. It was a day packed with excitement—not the least of which was getting rid of those importunate journalists, to whom I refused all information. I told them to go to—Corisco; gave them Gran'pa's address; and wished them a pleasant voyage. Time sped by on wings. Weeks passed. Like a girl with a new frock, Sally displayed her youth to her friends—timidly at first, and then with a sort of reckless abandon. Her vivacity and enthusiasm made Gran'pa's initial exploits seem puerile and lukewarm. The illustrated papers clamored for her portrait and she even had several offers to go on the stage "for big money," as one man with a thick voice and a thicker waist put it. But she kept her head throughout and never forgot the dignity of her position as a pioneer in real feminine rejuvenation. Finally, after one of the happiest months in my life, she decided to return to her flat in Maida Vale. Giving her time to get straight, I called one afternoon. "I'm so pleased to see you, George," she said; but she seemed to be a little depressed. "You look worried," I replied. "I'm . . . quite all right . . . really! It's just a headache. . . ." I knew that this was not wholly true. "Won't you confide in me?" I asked. "It's . . ." she hesitated. Then she said suddenly: "I'm hurt, George, and yet—in some ways, I'm relieved. . . ." "What is it, Sally?" "Your grandfather has written asking me to release him from our engagement!" "Impossible! . . . What's the reason?" I stammered. "He says that he doesn't think we're suited to one another. And he wants to be free." She paused, and added, rather quaintly: "He seems to think that there aren't enough adventures in England." "The old fool!" I exclaimed. "You mustn't say that!" "Of course you'll release him. He isn't worthy of you." "I owe everything to him, George," she said in a low voice. "Didn't Croft and Stringer—and I, help?" She looked at me tenderly and gravely. "Can I ever forget it? You've all been—splendid!" For awhile neither of us spoke. Then I said again. "Give him his wretched freedom, Sally!" "I . . . have!" "When?" "Yesterday." Another silence. "Do you regret it?" I asked. "No-o! He was too impulsive—too eager—and reckless. And so very youthful . . . I should never have been really happy with him." She hesitated; and then, with a little shrug of her shoulders, she astonished me by adding: "I can't delude myself any longer, George. I'm an old woman— really old!" What could I say? I looked at her more closely and, although she was sitting with her back to the light, I saw that she was indeed speaking the sorrowful truth. Even during the few weeks which had elapsed since her leaving Richmond, she had aged considerably. Little wrinkles were creeping back to their natural strongholds round the eyes and mouth. Her hair was losing its lustre; her voice its depth; her neck its roundness. When I had first entered the room I had been so surprised and disgusted at the news of Gran'pa's latest folly that I had not noticed the change in Sally. But now it was pathetically evident. Youth was going—going—almost gone. . . . "You're just tired and depressed," I said, at last, trying to lie, even to myself. "It will soon pass off, and then . . ." "No, George! . . . It will get gradually worse—until I'm old again, and . . . back where I started. . . ." "But . . . Gran'pa?" I stammered. " He's still young!" "He's an exception," she answered, with astonishing calmness. "I felt it all along. That is why I hesitated so at the very first. It's not the glands which have made such a difference to him, but his faith—the sort of wonderful faith that moves mountains, George. He's been like that all his life—an American, through and through. Everything he put his hand to—and believed in—he accomplished. I'm sure that anything is possible if only one has real faith. . . ." "I haven't got it!" she added, wistfully. "I've always been shrinking back from things—afraid of anything new. Perhaps that is why I never married. . . . When your grandfather came, after all those years, still full of fire . . . I was carried away. I tried, oh, so hard, to believe in him, and in myself. But I've found that it is too late to alter my disposition. I haven't the faith. I'm still shrinking—doubtful—timid. . . ." It was a pitiful confession. Outside, the evening was drawing in, and gray, shroud-like shadows stole into the room. I did not like leaving her. "Come back to Richmond with me," I suggested. "Molly will soon pull you round. You're brooding here." "No!" she said. "I'm not unhappy. It's just the . . . sudden change. In a short time I shall be my old self again. Don't think me ungrateful, George, but the last twelve months have not been natural . I don't seem to have had a moment's rest. All the bustle and hurry have unnerved me. I feel more contented, now that it is over and done with. . . ." She must have seen that I doubted her last statement, for she placed a hand on my arm and said: "Young people can never understand that it's no hardship to be old—if one is still well. It all happens so gradually. Nature is kind. It is only her children who make life so difficult!" Her philosophy astounded me. It even converted me. I felt that Sally's view was right, and Gran'pa's wrong. The one was art; the other vandalism. Why had we tried to patch up and renovate Nature's old masterpieces? Not because we sought artistic improvement but merely because we were eager to show our own cleverness. Gran'pa's whole attitude was: "Look what I've done!" Unfortunately, I, too, had adopted the pose, and Sally's youthfulness had temporarily captivated me solely because it was the living proof of a marvellous achievement (by us). Sally rejuvenated was impossible, absurd. But Sally as a gracious, white-haired old lady was lovable—a work of art, hallowed and moulded and softened by the hand of Time. To tamper with such a masterpiece was sacrilegious, profane. Thus did this sudden relapse present itself to me, and I eventually returned home feeling much as a man must feel when he has become converted to a new religion. I saw old age not as a tragedy or curse, but as a sort of blissful and holy peace. It was the quiet pleasure of relaxation after effort, accomplishment after strife. And yet I could not dispel my curiosity as to the condition of the others who had been rejuvenated. Were they also slipping back to old age? Or had some of them that wonderful, Gran'pa-like faith which was capable of moving mountains—and finding thereunder the springs of perpetual youth? Unable to resist the temptation, I telephoned through to one of the club's members—a bucolic-looking retired colonel who had greatly annoyed me on the voyage home by his frequent assertions of physical well-being. "Well?" I inquired. "How are things?" "Fine. . . . Fine! " he barked, as if on parade. I heard him smite himself on the chest, or make some queer noise which sounded very like it. Then there was a peculiar metallic click followed by the confused sound of distant voices and an uncanny silence as I was suddenly cut off. I got through again, however, and heard the terrible news that the poor old fellow had dropped dead! Shaken and scared by such a disaster, I was far too afraid to make inquiries of any of the other old people that night. Was it an omen? Was it the beginning of the end—or, at any rate, of the slow march back to a natural and respectable old age? To the eternal shame of modern science in general, and of our expedition in particular, I regret to say that it was. Old age did not creep stealthily upon them, as Nature normally arranged; it overtook them by leaps and bounds. Wrinkles appeared on the old people almost as swiftly as the rash of a disease. They went to bed at night and woke up next morning a year, or even two years older. In spite of their youthful posings and their ejaculations of: "Great!" "Never felt better!" "Fine!" they began doddering once more. After all the excitement and promise of the last twelve months, they had merely returned to England, home, and—bath-chairs. It would be hypocritical of me to say that it was pathetic, for, logically considered, it was but the fulfilment of the law of all life—the wisely ordained destiny of man, and animal, and even vegetable. In time, I myself would bow to this great and inflexible law—as unflinchingly and calmly as my ancestors. Why, then, should I feel sorry for these people? I wrote to Gran'pa and told him that one of the old men had died, and that the remainder had practically returned to the point whence they had started. I requested him to come home, lest evil befell him out there in the wilds. I drew a picture of Sally—happy and gracious and beautiful again—and of the many comforts and joys of civilization, compared with the hardships and dangers of gorilla hunting in the Dark Continent. But he refused to be cajoled. "Not a day older since you left," he wrote, in the same jerky way as he talked. "Not even a minute! . . . What Sally says about faith is perhaps right. I don't know—and I don't care. I'm still youthful, whatever the cause. . . . Caught ten more gorillas up to date; but afraid the old boys here may lose heart and refuse to be grafted if the bad news percolates through to them. I rely on your keeping silent. . . . Don't kill yourself with worry. Your 'old' Gran'pa is still going strong; so you've no need for sleepless nights, laddie! . . . England's too slow for me. The first twelve months there put ten years on my age. Except for the glands I'm positive that another twelve months would have killed me. Can you wonder at my being in no violent hurry to return? . . ." And so on. That is Gran'pa's point of view—at present. This is mine. I am young (in the true sense of the word). I can afford to be patient. The dug-out in the garden has been filled in again. Gran'pa's clothes have been carefully brushed and put away—with a good supply of "moth balls." But his arm-chair is still by the fireside—waiting. He cannot resist its call—and mine—forever. Time is on our side. Time will win. THE END Transcriber's Note: The ellipses in the original text were typeset erratically. The spacing and number of dots in ellipses has been adjusted for stylistic consistency. Numerous obvious punctuation errors have been corrected. The hyphenation of several words, such as "anti-climax" and "to-day", was inconsistent in the original text. When a hyphen spanned a line break in the original text, the hyphen was retained or deleted based on the predominant usage elsewhere in the text. Otherwise, hyphenation has been left as it was in the original text. The following typographical errors have also been corrected. In the section titled WHAT THIS STORY IS ABOUT, "thrilling adventues with the gorillas" was changed to "thrilling adventures with the gorillas". In Chapter II, "gran'pa's beard and the monkey's tail" was changed to "Gran'pa's beard and the monkey's tail". In Chapter IV, "which semed to suggest that" was changed to "which seemed to suggest that". In Chapter VI, "too much from you as it it is" was changed to "too much from you as it is", "there semed to be nothing" was changed to "there seemed to be nothing", and "how carefully and scientifically gran'pa was proceeding" was changed to "how carefully and scientifically Gran'pa was proceeding". In Chapter VII, "the ir was like wine" was changed to "the ir was like wine", "old men of seventy-or eighty" was changed to "old men of seventy—or eighty", and quotation marks were adjusted around the phrase "?..?..?!" In Chapter VIII, "whispered gran'pa to me" was changed to "whispered Gran'pa to me". In Chapter IX, "a monosyllablic ejaculation" was changed to "a monosyllabic ejaculation". In Chapter XI, "Molly was delirious with exitement" was changed to "Molly was delirious with excitement", and "persuaded the brute to swing the propellor" was changed to "persuaded the brute to swing the propeller". In Chapter XII, "turned out attention to the 'gas-works'" was changed to "turned our attention to the 'gas-works'", "whimpering and seductives noises" was changed to "whimpering and seductive noises", and "turn a somesault" was changed to "turn a somersault". In Chapter XIII, "three times in rapid sucession" was changed to "three times in rapid succession". In Chapter XIV, "a monkey follows on organ grinder" was changed to "a monkey follows an organ grinder", and "the gentle art of lassooing" was changed to "the gentle art of lassoing". In Chapter XV, "'Thirty thousand!' he exlaimed" was changed to "'Thirty thousand!' he exclaimed", and "we reached Walfish Bay" was changed to "we reached Walfisch Bay". In Chapter XVI, "noisy behavior of the the individual" was changed to "noisy behavior of the individual", and "dropping the later back in the hat" was changed to "dropping the latter back in the hat". In Chapter XVII, "what followed that interiew" was changed to "what followed that interview", and "that it why I never married" was changed to "that is why I never married". *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GLAND STEALERS *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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