The Ruby-Eyed Serpent

Short Story:

By Lema Low

CLARENCE EVERETT was a very con tented man. He had every reason to be. His Palm Beach suit was new and immaculate: the cigar that he was smoking was excellent: and the view, from where he sat on the balcony of the Palms Hotel, was all that a man could wish for. Flaming red poinsettias fringed the vivid green lawn where it joined the footpath. Scarlet and yellow crotons lined the drive that led up to the hotel entrance By swivelling his languid gaze a little to the left, Clarence could obtain a glori ous vista of the blue harbour through the grey trunks of coconut palms.

“Boy!” he called, to a hovering Indian

waiter. “Bring me another whisky and soda!”

He sipped his drink appreciatively. Good service they gave you at the Palms. Of course, they could see he had plenty of money. It made a lot of difference. He chuckled to himself and twirled the ring on his finger. He was rather fond of that ring-a gold serpent, with ruby eyes, swallowing its own tail.

Fair, fat and smug, Clarence looked what he was not—a prosperous business man—though perhaps it could be truly said that he was prosperous in his own particular line of “business.” That suave affabilitv of his had certainly deceived msnv people.

It was a queer world, reflected Clarence.

But. at the moment, a jolly fine one. He could scarcely realise now that oniv three weeks before he had been walking up George Street, Sydney, with only a few shillings in his pocket, and no prospects ehead. Then some kind fate had thrown Henry James into his eager arms, and Clarence’s convincing line of talk had done the rest. He was now living in great comfort, on Henry’s hard-earned cash.

A week or two more in Suva’s golden sunshine and then he intended to hit the trail again—for ’Frisco —with the re mainder of his ill-gotten gains. He did not think the climate of Sydney would agree with him for some time to come.

It was the slack hour at the Palms.

The calm before the rush. In a little while, all the tables on the balcony would be occupied, but at the moment, only one other person shared Everett’s solitude, an untidy, old man. whose white suit looked grubby and fitted him badly. He had bleary, blue eyes that stared straight qhead at nothing in particular, and he bold himself with that careful steadiness peculiar to the very drunk. After a cursory glance, Everitt ignored him. He was obviously not a bird worth picking,

and it was beneath his dignity to frat ernise with one so shabby. He lit a cigarette and ordered another drink.

It was increasingly pleasant on the balcony. The heat of the day was be ginning to fade. In the distance, a clock chimed the hour of four, and shortly afterwards the little tables gradually filled with people who were hot, tired and thirsty. Men who worked in offices, reflected Clarence, regarding them dis dainfully. Little men ... men who had not found the best way of living ... his way. But there had to be some who worked and ama&sed ■ moaiey, so that chaos like Clarence could fleece them of it.

The dressing gong interrupted his reverie. He got up and went to his room.

The bleary-eyed old drunk still sat on, snoring now, with his chin on his chest.

Such an eyesore, thought Clarence dis gustedlv. A blot on the appearance of the Palms Hotel. lATER that evening, Clarence changed his clothes again for a less pre tentious suit, and made his wav to his favourite night haunt, a somewhat unsavourv kava saloon, situated in a back street a discreet distance from the show'er facade of Suva’s waterfront. He had dis covered the place soon after his arrival He liked to sit on the floor and drink kava, and watch the voluotuous native girls singing songs. It nleased him to discard his veneer of culture for a while and become one of the habitues of the kava saloon.

Only the night norter at the hotel could tell how often, during the past fortnight.

Clarence had staggered up to his room on wobbly legs after a carousal at the saloon.

On this particular night, however, Clarence was not lucky. For, as he emerged onto the darkened street about the hour of midnight, he scarcely had time to draw a breath before he was rendered unconscious by an exoert tap on the head, bundled into a waiting car, and whisked away into the night.

When Clarence regained his senses, he was still folded up in the back seat of a car, which was not in motion, and somebody had a firm grip on his arm.

In case he wanted to fight, or run, though Clarence dismally, feeling the back of his head, which had a lump on it. He certainly had no inclination to do either. He felt sick, and his main de sire was to get to bed. If this were a practical joke, it had gone far enough.

Then a sudden panic assailed him.

Perhaps it wasnt’ a joke? Perhaps his captor intended to kill him. . . Such things had happened. Clarence swallowed appre hensively, and slid a surreptitious hand to feel for his wallet—his nice, fat wallet.

“Don’t bother,” said a voice in his ear. ‘Tve got it.”

“Here, what’s the game?” said Clarence plaintively. “What’s the idea? You can’t do this to me. I’ll have the police on you.”

“Think again,” said the other, placidly.

Clarence thought, and was silent.

“Is there any more money hidden on you?”

“No,” replied Clarence firmly. Some thing round and hard prodded him in the ribs.

(Continued on Page 48.)

The man in the helmet is Pastor H. B.

Christian, in charge of the SDA Mission in Samoa. Pastor Christian is 6 ft. 1 in., and weighs 16 stone. Now guess the weight of the Samoan constable, standing beside him. It is 412 lb.—work out the total in stones for yourself. —Photo: Pastor Stewart.

The New John Williams.

“Are you sure?” Courage was not one of Clarence’s strong points.

“Y-yes,” he amended, not knowing quite what he meant to say.

“Well, hand it over, then,” came the laconic request. Clarence reached down despairingly and undid a roll oi notes from the sole of his boot.

“Don’t take it all,” he begged. “Leave me something, or I’ll be broke. You’ve even taken my ring.”

“Sure,” said the robber calmly. ‘lt’s a fine ring. I might wear it myself. Now, I must leave you. You’re only eight miles from the hotel, so it will be a nice waiK for you. Pity it’s so dark. Good night.’

Filled with bitterness and misery, Clarence trudged off along the roaa.

Wnether it was the right direction or not he neither knew nor cared. But by dawn ms faltering feet had taken him to tne doors of Palms. On the floor inside ms own door, he found a ten-shilling note, and surmised that that damnable crook had had the impudence to put it there.

THAT afternoon, a very different Clarence sat on the shady balcony.

He was far from smug, and his thoughts were not pleasant ones. He had barely the price of a drink in his pocket and he cursed the scoundrel who had robbed him. Now he would have to get busy with his wits again if he were to see San Francisco. Hopefully, he glanced around the balcony, to see if there were anyone worth scraping acquaintance with, but there was nobody —absolutely nobody. Except that bleary eyed old —— Then Clarence’s thoughts halted in mid air, his jaw dropped and his eyes goggled The bleary-eyed old man was staring straight at him, and he gave Clarence a slow, knowing wink; and, as he winked, he raised his glass to Clarence; and, as he raised his glass, there came, from the third finger of his right hand, the gleam of an opulent ring—a gold serpent, with ruby eyes, swallowing its tail.