murmur, a shout, and then a battle cry. The Leader is dead!
The Leader is dead!
The man who called himself, then, the Leader, answered bloodily, and killed many of those that dared to use that battle cry. But for every one he killed, there were ten, a thousand, a million there to take it up. The government was overthrown, and starving people rejoiced, and nations that strained to attack drew back and watched the death of a régime.
And the man who had been the Leader? His was the most agonizing death, for they did not kill him. They laughed at his furious impotence, and they turned him loose in the streets, quietly, so that he would not be known and so would live to suffer.
Torture. The humiliation that man bore, walking the streets, hearing his name tossed about lightly, is beyond description. He had nofriends, for he knew how to provoke no human emotion but fear and its child, hate.
He nearly starved, and then one day found a man who wanted gain, who saw in him a means for gain. It was the old wise man who had cured the Leader of his illness. The starving beggar found this man, and gave him certain proofs, and the address of the cellar where he skulked. The physician passed quietly about, here and there, in the right places, and said what was necessary. It took a very long time, and all the while, the beggar lay in his cellar. He began to think he had been forgotten, and the infrequent gibes that echoed down to him from the street began to drive him quite, quite mad.
At long last the day came when all was in readiness. The signal was given, and the country awoke one morning to find itself in the merciless grip of the old régime. The Leader lived! Found by his old physician, who knew him by the scars of his own knife, he lived beyond possibility of doubt. The Leader’s men were in command, and the Leader was coming back!
They went to get him, their beggar-Leader, in his noisome cellar.
They were too late. Fearing him as they served him, they had never told him what they did, and so he had known himself neglected and forgotten—he, a god, a Leader! It was the final humiliation, and he had taken his own life. And so his government died a second death, even as he had—and they were both dead for evermore.
Mailed Through a Porthole
Mr. David Jones, Esq.
Forty Fathoms
Sept. 21, 1938
Dear Sir,
Just a little note to let you know what I think of you.
You’re kicking up your heels a little, my friend. Since when were you a big shot? I’ve been going to sea for quite a while, you piker, and I’ve never had a sample of that far-famed strength of yours. A broken propeller once; but I have a hunch it had been brazed to save expense. Once a started seam; but that was in a thirty-year-old hulk that was headed for the boneyard anyway. Once you caught up with me when my ship was unballasted, threw a squall at her and rolled her over on her beam-ends, tossing me into the ice machines. Lucky punch. Otherwise you’ve muttered and mumbled by way of bragging.
And now it’s a hurricane warning. Am I excited? Not on your life. You can’t even get me seasick. Do your worst, half-pint. Maybe you have sunk a fisherman or two, but you’ll never crack a new seven thousand ton tanker like this. Go ahead. Try it.
Listen to that Miami station, Jones. “The hurricane is now four hundred miles east-southeast of Miami, moving west-northwest at a speed of twenty to twenty-five miles per hour. Winds of hurricane velocity near storm center, approximately seventy-five miles in diameter. Small craft are urged to make port immediately. Residents of Miami and coastal environs, check on everything movable. The Board of Health suggests you sterilize your bathtubs and fill them with drinking water, as reservoirs may take sea water. Please take downall loose boarding. If you live in a wooden house, go at once to the nearest school, where accommodations are being made. If you have any sick or very old, have them removed to the hospital. When the
The Leader is dead!
The man who called himself, then, the Leader, answered bloodily, and killed many of those that dared to use that battle cry. But for every one he killed, there were ten, a thousand, a million there to take it up. The government was overthrown, and starving people rejoiced, and nations that strained to attack drew back and watched the death of a régime.
And the man who had been the Leader? His was the most agonizing death, for they did not kill him. They laughed at his furious impotence, and they turned him loose in the streets, quietly, so that he would not be known and so would live to suffer.
Torture. The humiliation that man bore, walking the streets, hearing his name tossed about lightly, is beyond description. He had nofriends, for he knew how to provoke no human emotion but fear and its child, hate.
He nearly starved, and then one day found a man who wanted gain, who saw in him a means for gain. It was the old wise man who had cured the Leader of his illness. The starving beggar found this man, and gave him certain proofs, and the address of the cellar where he skulked. The physician passed quietly about, here and there, in the right places, and said what was necessary. It took a very long time, and all the while, the beggar lay in his cellar. He began to think he had been forgotten, and the infrequent gibes that echoed down to him from the street began to drive him quite, quite mad.
At long last the day came when all was in readiness. The signal was given, and the country awoke one morning to find itself in the merciless grip of the old régime. The Leader lived! Found by his old physician, who knew him by the scars of his own knife, he lived beyond possibility of doubt. The Leader’s men were in command, and the Leader was coming back!
They went to get him, their beggar-Leader, in his noisome cellar.
They were too late. Fearing him as they served him, they had never told him what they did, and so he had known himself neglected and forgotten—he, a god, a Leader! It was the final humiliation, and he had taken his own life. And so his government died a second death, even as he had—and they were both dead for evermore.
Mailed Through a Porthole
Mr. David Jones, Esq.
Forty Fathoms
Sept. 21, 1938
Dear Sir,
Just a little note to let you know what I think of you.
You’re kicking up your heels a little, my friend. Since when were you a big shot? I’ve been going to sea for quite a while, you piker, and I’ve never had a sample of that far-famed strength of yours. A broken propeller once; but I have a hunch it had been brazed to save expense. Once a started seam; but that was in a thirty-year-old hulk that was headed for the boneyard anyway. Once you caught up with me when my ship was unballasted, threw a squall at her and rolled her over on her beam-ends, tossing me into the ice machines. Lucky punch. Otherwise you’ve muttered and mumbled by way of bragging.
And now it’s a hurricane warning. Am I excited? Not on your life. You can’t even get me seasick. Do your worst, half-pint. Maybe you have sunk a fisherman or two, but you’ll never crack a new seven thousand ton tanker like this. Go ahead. Try it.
Listen to that Miami station, Jones. “The hurricane is now four hundred miles east-southeast of Miami, moving west-northwest at a speed of twenty to twenty-five miles per hour. Winds of hurricane velocity near storm center, approximately seventy-five miles in diameter. Small craft are urged to make port immediately. Residents of Miami and coastal environs, check on everything movable. The Board of Health suggests you sterilize your bathtubs and fill them with drinking water, as reservoirs may take sea water. Please take downall loose boarding. If you live in a wooden house, go at once to the nearest school, where accommodations are being made. If you have any sick or very old, have them removed to the hospital. When the
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