THE RED DEATH
Complete Novel
by David H. Keller
(Author of "The Conquerors "The Metal Doom," etc.)



The sole survivor of New York set out through the desolate land to follow the 
trail of red mushrooms to the murderer of mankind. Dr. Keller's first science 
fiction novel in many years and one of his best.



CHAPTER I
THE PATIENT lay on a hospital bed.
Around the two were thirty greatest physicians in America.
By his side stood one of the noted specialists. They had come in answer to an 
invitation which, coming from Dr. Joseph Jacobs, was practically an order. Ten 
from the United States, five from Canada, five from Mexico and ten from England 
and France.
Dr. Jacobs, in his lectures and writing, was noted for his simplicity of 
language. He reached his mental objective as rapidly as possible with the fewest 
number of words. This lecture, the last he was destined to give, was no 
exception to his rule.
"Gentlemen," he began, "I am sorry that I had to call you from the work you were 
doing; but the medical profession of New York City has been faced with a problem 
we considered too great and too important for us to deal with unless aided by 
your skill. When I realized this I made a rapid survey of the medical 
intelligence of many countries, and selected you as being best able to cope with 
every phase of this problem.
"Briefly stated, the problem is this: Two months ago six young people, three men 
and three women, spent two weeks in an isolated region of New Brunswick. On 
returning to New York one of the men became ill, and I was asked to see him. It 
was impossible for me to make a diagnosis. A week later the other five developed 
the same symptoms. Realizing the danger of some peculiarly contagious disease, I 
had the six quarantined, and carefully studied.
"Medical treatment appeared useless, so I yielded to the pressure from my staff 
brothers and the surgeons, X-ray men, and other types of specialists started a 
series of what, even they had to confess, were simply experiments. It is 
sufficient to say that none of the five dead patients died what might be called 
a natural death. I mean by that simply that in none of the five was the disease 
allowed to run its definite course till it killed the patient, as the course of 
the disease was changed by surgery, the administration of powerful drugs and the 
use of electricity.
"When the second patient died I sent for you, realizing that it would take you 
some time to answer my call for help. Meantime I advanced an argument, that was 
powerful enough to secure my request, that at least one patient be allowed to 
die a death uncomplicated by treatment.
"This patient, last of three young unmarried men who had gone camping with three 
women they would have soon married had fate permitted it, is on the bed before 
us. For two days he has been in a coma. His death can be expected at any moment. 
He has been in the hospital for three weeks; the history shows that for three 
weeks before admission, he was not well, being unable to attend to his usual 
duties because of a peculiar inertia and weakness.
"But, before continuing the discussion of our patient, let me tell you about the 
other five. They all gave a history of increasing weakness which ended in high 
temperature and delirium. After two days of almost maniacal excitement, they 
passed into a stupor in which they remained till their death. With the onset of 
fever their skin became pink; this color changed rapidly to a red that was 
peculiarly brilliant and distinctly fluorescent in the dark. About a day before 
death this color left and at the same time brilliant red tumors, from one to ten 
in number, appeared on the body. These tumors resembled mushrooms.
"In the other five patients these tumors were treated by every form of medical 
and surgical method our specialists could think of. They were excised, sprayed 
with various rays, radium needles of powerful dosage were placed inside of them; 
they were injected or covered with powerful caustics. I have a complete record 
of thirty-seven such tumors and the treatment each received. What I am trying to 
show you is that, at the time of the death of these five persons, not one tumor 
was in what might be called a normal condition for this particular type of 
growth.
"The autopsies, carefully performed by our best pathologists, showed the entire 
body filled with a net-work of fine white fibers, each communicating with, or 
ending in, one of the external tumors. Microscopic work, so far, has failed to 
identify these fibers or tumors with any previous known form of cancer. I am 
told that the cellular structure is different from anything seen before under 
the microscope.
"It is needless to tell you that my rapidly growing thought was that here we had 
a new disease, contracted in Canada, concerning which we know nothing. Allow me 
to state the symptoms. A few weeks of inertia, then sudden high fever and mania 
followed by depression and coma. With the fever a pink skin growing rapidly to a 
luminescent red. Some days before death a growth of red skin tumors.
"The last of these six patients started to develop about two days ago, one of 
these tumors on his chest. This tumor, due to my insistence, has been untreated 
in any way. I think that we can look for death at any moment. What I wanted to 
find out was what this tumor would do when it reached its fullest ripeness.
"The problem facing us is simply this. I believe we have before us a man dying 
from a disease that is new to science. I also think that it is contagious. I do 
not know whether the skin or the breath carries the contagion. Nor do I know how 
early in the disease the patient can give it to others."
AT THIS MOMENT Dr. Jacobs was interrupted by an intern who came into the room 
and handed him a note. He read it and then turned to his audience
"One of my young physicians has just informed me that two nurses, an intern, and 
a colored maid have all become suddenly ill with high fever and delirium. These 
four were in close contact with our first patient. This may be an answer to one 
of our questions concerning contagion. But it is not at all clear. Three of 
these new patients touched the patients many times but the colored maid simply 
entered the rooms to clean them. If she has contracted the disease, it would 
seem that the germ can be carried from one person to another through the air.
"But to return to our patient. I will remove the sheet over his chest and you 
can see the tumor. It rises from a stem which is about an inch in diameter and 
firmly attached to the skin. It has a peculiar red color which must be seen to 
be appreciated. The stem ends in a red ball about five inches in diameter. This 
ball, two days ago, was hard. Now, as I touch it, it seems soft and peculiarly 
dry and fragile.
"Each of you, no doubt to your surprise, was given this morning a gas mask and 
instructed as to its use. I will ask you all to put them on, and keep them on 
till you leave this room. I have my finger on the patient's pulse and find that 
I can no longer feel it beat. There is every evidence that he will be dead in a 
few minutes. Then we will see what happens to this tumor.
"I must tell you that for several days I have been in close touch with an expert 
on fungi and toadstools. He has seen this tumor several times with me. His 
statement is that it resembles a form of toadstool, found in the forest, which 
when ripe explodes and throws its seed into the surrounding air. I must insist 
on your putting on your masks instantly."
"Where is your mask, Doctor?" asked a Canadian. "Be honest with us. If this is 
all as serious as you think it is, why do you not protect yourself?"
"It is unnecessary," Dr. Jacobs answered calmly. "I have been in close touch 
with all these patients. Last night I developed a temperature of 104. It has 
been increasingly hard to control myself to finish this talk to you. There has 
been, even as I talk, an increasing desire to become violent. Put on your masks. 
I ask it with all sincerity; PUT ON YOUR MASKS!"
Some had done so, others had started, while over half simply sat, incredulous 
and unbelieving.
"Our patient is dead," announced the Doctor.
He took out his watch. A minute passed, then two and then three.
Suddenly the tumor exploded with a little puff-like noise. A cloud of dark 
powder covered it, then hid the body and finally filed the entire room
The light above the bed looked like a candle burning in a London fog. From the 
fog came the voice of Dr. Jacobs.
"Gentlemen, I have always said that if the human race is ever destroyed it will 
be by some force hitherto unknown and undreamed of. It is for you to see that 
this mushroom that has learned to grow in the human body does not destroy our 
race."
He started to laugh.
They carried him, fighting and maniacal, from the room.
CHAPTER II
ONE OF the young physicians who had been working with Dr. Jacobs was both 
brilliant and poor. He had debts to pay and aged parents to support. When he saw 
Dr. Jacobs carried from the lecture room by visiting physicians with gas masks 
on, he decided that, in spite of professional ethics, this was an opportunity 
for him to make some money. He rushed to a pay telephone and got in touch with 
Thinsell, the flash radio announcer. Would Thinsell give him five thousand 
dollars for an exclusive bit of news of world interest ? Thinsell would not 
unless he had the news first. The Doctor slammed the receiver down and rushed to 
the office of a tabloid with two million circulation. There he literally fought 
his way to the Editor's desk.
"I can tell you a great deal about those deaths in St. Regis Hospital," he 
whispered to the Editor. "I have seen them all die. Dr. Jacobs is sick now. He 
has just finished a conference with the thirty specialists he called from all 
over the world. This is news, man, front page news."
The Editor almost jumped from his chair.
"We have been trying for over a week to get the inside dope on that story, and 
get it first!" he shouted. "If you have it, really have it, it's worth anything 
you ask. BUT IT MUST BE TRUE! UNDERSTAND THAT!! How much do you want?"
"Ten thousand. As for it being true, why, I helped care for every one of the 
six. Now and then the old man would talk to me about it. I heard him and the 
botanist talk several times. I sat on a back seat when the old man talked to the 
visiting physicians an hour ago. I saw the damn thing explode. I tell you I saw 
it burst."
"What exploded ?" asked the puzzled editor.
"The toadstool growing on the man's body. It burst just as Jacobs was afraid it 
would. The dust filled the entire room. He had gas masks for the visitors but 
half the damn fools wouldn't put them on. It's a new disease, and unless we 
learn to stop it, it is going to kill thousands. Jacobs is sick now with the 
first symptoms. Going to buy the story?"
"Hell, yes!" yelled the editor. He reached for the intercommunicating phone and 
started to shout into it.
"Stop the presses. Kill everything on the front page. Put this in cannon type. 
HUMAN MUSHROOM CLAIMS SIXTH VICTIM. Hold everything. Send Hogan and Smith to my 
office. Don't let anyone leave the building till the papers are on the street. 
Cut the telephone wires. Take no chances of a leak. It's the biggest scoop of 
the year."
He turned to Hogan and Smith who rushed into the room,
"Listen to this doctor talk. Start writing it. Rush it down to the press. Now, 
Doctor--Hell ! I don't even know your name--tell your story to these two men. 
Start with the exploding toadstool and go backwards. You tell it and they'll 
write it. What happened when the bomb exploded? What did Dr. Jacobs do? Why the 
masks ? What is Jacobs' idea?"
For two hours Dr. Youthins talked. Within thirty minutes the tabloid extra was 
on the street, to be followed in another hour and in another hour by more 
extras. At the end of the two hours, the Doctor simply said,
"That is about all. You can send the certified check to my father, Mr. Charles 
Youthins, care of the Farmer's Bank." Calmly he placed a thermometer in his 
mouth and took his temperature.
"Just as I thought," he said. "Temperature 105. If I run true to form I will be 
raving in a few minutes, smashing things up and all that sort of thing. I guess 
I am going to be sick and die just like the rest."
He started to laugh hysterically as he went on,
"I told you the old man thought it was highly contagious. Six new cases today 
that I know of, and that includes Jacobs and myself. More tomorrow, and many 
more the next day! Perhaps even the editor of a great tabloid and two of his 
feature writers. Little white roots inside you ripening into a red toadstool, 
and before you die you will turn a gorgeous red!"
He broke two chairs and gave the editor a black eye before he could be 
controlled and taken from the room.
The three men left in the room looked at each other.
"Of course that last statement was not true," said Hogan.
"Of course not," agreed the editor. "Perhaps none of it is true. Maybe someday 
we will have to acknowledge that it was all damn nonsense. But it all sounds 
true to me, and we were the first to put it into print. I don't know what you 
boys are going to do, but I am not going home. I have a wife and children there. 
How long did he say it took to kill a man after he was exposed to it?"
"You aren't turning yellow, Chief?" sneered Smith.
"It isn't yellow I'm afraid of but that red color he was talking about. But is 
it a scoop or isn't it? Hours ahead of every other paper. That doctor is so 
crazy that no one will listen to him now, and those visitors will feel it 
unethical to talk. So we have the news and the other papers can only copy us."
Thinsell, the flash radio announcer, read the first edition of the tabloid 
containing the cannon ball headline and turned to his secretary.
"I guess I'm growing old, Miss Smith. You can kick me as often as you want to. 
For five thousand dollars I could have given this news to the world before any 
city editor ever dreamed of it. Now all I can do is tell my radio audience about 
it and--perhaps a word of caution-- something to the effect that the truth will 
only be known when the ethical medical men make a statement."
EVEN AT that early hour a committee of physicians, appointed by the American 
Medical Association, was trying to compose a message to the public which would 
relieve their anxiety and at the same time tell the truth. Finally they had a 
statement for the press which simply stated that there had been some deaths from 
a new disease, but that all those ill at present with it were quarantined safely 
and there was no danger of its spreading. They ended the statement by promising 
a full description of this disease in a forthcoming issue of the Journal of the 
Association.
Every newspaper in the country printed this report, most of them with editorial 
comments intended to relieve the readers. But the New York Tattler, the tabloid, 
placed above the report, in large caps, the simple question:
ARE THEY TELLING THE TRUTH?
For a few days millions of people talked about the new disease. Then a war 
started in Europe, a heavyweight champion was battered to bits by a younger man, 
a prominent politician was found guilty of making false income statements, and 
most of the people forgot the few days of sensational fear caused by the 
Tattler's sensational articles.
But more died from the new disease. The quarantined portion of the City Hospital 
was rapidly being filled with new cases. The medical profession was now forced 
to admit one thing, even if they did not broadcast it. The disease was highly 
contagious from the very beginning of the illness of a patient. And that meant 
that for over five weeks the disease could be spread before the physicians could 
detect it and isolate the patient..
Under such circumstances quarantine was useless!
And statistics, carefully kept, showed thirty patients still alive and twenty 
seven dead. No treatment had been of any value. Once a man or woman started with 
high fever, mania, and pink skin, he or she passed on to certain death.
It is to the credit of the medical and nursing professions that every patient 
was skillfully cared for. Knowing the danger there was never a lack of volunteer 
nurses. Physicians, famous and wealthy, came to New York and begged for a chance 
to help study the disease, even if it meant intimate contact with a disease 
against which there appeared to be no defense. Dr. Jacobs had died, but his 
spirit remained alive in the hearts of thousands of brave physicians and nurses. 
And the press assisted in hopeful editorials urging the readers to remain calm 
and rely on their physicians.
Even the New York Tattler joined in this campaign of hope. They continued to 
print the news but cut out the sensational element. Put, in spite of the press, 
the thing that the medical profession dreaded began to happen. Thousands and 
tens of thousands of New Yorkers deserted the city. Quietly, without saying very 
much about their plans they began to scatter over the nation--anywhere to get 
away from their fear.
Many of these wanderers were already sick and contagious.
THE COLORED maid, who had been one of the early victims of the Red Death, had 
infected a number of her associates long before her quarantine and death. As the 
days passed an increasing number of dwellers in Harlem became ill. At first they 
were diagnosed by physicians and placed in quarantine. Then a Prophet rose in 
Harlem and gave a new message to his people. It was simply this,
"God is good. God is great ! God is all powerful!! Science has failed. 
Physicians are worthless. Only God can save us. From now on we must trust in 
Him. From now on if one of you becomes sick let the true believers gather around 
the bed and pray to God for his recovery. Let the faithful lay healing hands on 
his body and pray for his soul.
"God is good.
"God is great!
"God is the true physician who can heal us!"
It was a simple message that could be easily understood. It carried hope, a 
definite sense of security. To antagonize this faith was to shatter the 
foundations of an ageless belief in the omnipotence of God. The medical 
profession made a dignified protest, the press wrote editorials against the 
message and showed its dangers, the health department threatened the Prophet 
with arrest.
But the people believed!
The colored people became sick; they died surrounded by their praying families 
and neighbors. Healing hands were laid on them, songs were sung and prayers 
offered, but at the appointed time they died, in the same way hundreds were now 
dying in the city hospitals.
But for two months these people believed the Message.
In the meantime these believers continued their work. They cooked and cleaned 
and labored for the white people. In clubs, restaurants, private homes, kitchens 
and elevators, they believed and kept on working, constantly spreading the faith 
and the new disease.
The thirty specialists had died; other physicians, nurses and orderlies had 
died; hundreds from every walk of life had died in hospital, home and garret. 
And then the nation awoke to the danger. The President called a special session 
of Congress to take any action advised by the American Medical Association. The 
first bill passed was one quarantining the entire New York metropolitan area. 
Workers, physicians or nurses could enter but none could leave this area.
Efforts were made to keep this action a secret till it was signed by the 
President and preparations made to enforce it. But something of such magnitude 
could not be kept a secret. The news spread and with it an exodus of hundreds of 
thousands started from the city. By automobile, airplane, trains, boats and on 
foot the frightened citizens left.
But finally the act became law and troops were thrown around the city blocking 
every artery of travel. It was done so quickly that every tunnel, every bridge 
was congested with automobiles which could neither go forward nor backward. It 
was the beginning of a panic unequaled in the history of mankind.
CHAPTER III
IT IS estimated that at the time the city was quarantined, approximately three 
million people were confined there. They had to be fed and cared for. They could 
not be brutally neglected. Physicians continued to volunteer their services. The 
national Red Cross sent all available nurses. Food was sent in by the trainload. 
The people were assured that they would be provided for in every way.
In the city there was a complete breakdown of every social law. Those who could 
do so, isolated themselves in their homes and nailed their doors shut. Theaters, 
restaurants, and every place of amusement were closed. Only the churches 
remained open, and these were filled with desperate throngs of people who were 
hopelessly returning to a faith they secretly failed to have.
All the hospitals were filled with sick and dying. The large hotels were filled. 
At last there was nothing to do except to keep the sick in their own homes. 
Early it was recognized that it was impossible to bury the dead and they were 
cremated by thousands in large fires built in every park. But soon deaths 
occurred in such numbers that there were not enough well persons to gather and 
burn the dead bodies. Sick people went to bed, died in bed and were left in bed.
Thus the city, once the pride of the nation, became a silent tomb; but, before 
dying, it infected the entire nation with the deadly terror. Like Sampson, in 
dying, it pulled down the pillars of national life. Over four million New 
Yorkers were out of the city when the quarantine became effective. Many of them 
were sick. Each patient became a center for a new outbreak of the disease. The 
realization of this gripped the entire nation in fear that rapidly rose to 
panic.
The history of the death of New York City can never be fully told because only 
one man survived to tell it, Thinsell, the radio commentator. It was rather 
peculiar that he was the one selected by Fate to live on while all around him 
were dying. Early in the history of the Red Death he realized the possibility of 
the breakdown of the electrical power plants, so he supplied himself with a 
short wave set powered with batteries. Hour by hour, he spoke to the waiting 
nation, keeping them informed of the twisting torture of the dying Metropolis. 
He tried to keep calm, to state only facts. Constantly he remained hopelessly 
hopeful. He visited the hospital, fearlessly exposed himself to infection, and 
finally realized that he was immune to the menace, and might survive to secure 
lasting renown as a reporter. His daily messages, carefully copied, remain a 
lasting monument to his skill as a gatherer of news. Among them were the 
following.
FLASH.
I have just called on a group of laboratory workers who are trying to find and 
use an antitoxin that will protect against the Red Death, now scientifically 
named Jacobs' disease, after the hero who first recognized its danger. So far 
these workers have died without finding any solution to their problem. The 
places of the dead scientists have been fearlessly taken by new volunteers. This 
debacle has at least shown the wonderful heroism of the medical profession whose 
members have given their lives in the hope that others may live.
FLASH.
I have just returned from Central Park. Trees have been torn down, apartment 
houses stripped of their wood to keep the crematory fires burning. City trucks 
are constantly arriving with their loads of dead. But I fear that it will soon 
end. Many of the workers are sick; and the supply of truck drivers is rapidly 
failing. From the fires comes a peculiar odor which seems to nauseate those near 
it. It is disagreeable to me but does not make me sick.
FLASH.
Today I passed a dying man. He was lying almost naked in the street. Growing 
from his left cheek was the red toadstool now so well known. I stood watching 
him and as I did so the tumor exploded and covered his body with a fine dark 
dust. The early descriptions of this occurrence, as published in the New York 
Tattler, were absolutely correct, in spite of their seemingly sensational 
impossibility. I went towards the dust and deliberately breathed it, wishing to 
assure myself that I am immune to the disease.
FLASH.
Medical care of the sick has completely broken down. Physicians and nurses are 
dying as fast as their patients. I walked through the City Hospital today and 
saw hundreds uncared for and dying from starvation as well as from disease. I 
consider it useless to send any more volunteers into the city. It does no good 
and only adds to the deaths.
FLASH.
Today I persuaded Dr. Thornton, Canadian volunteer, just arrived in New York, to 
take a pint of my blood and inject it into his body. If I am immune perhaps my 
blood can convey that immunity to others. In due time I will report the results 
of this experiment.
FLASH.
One of the things I am slowly learning to face is the peculiarly brilliant face 
of those with fever. They walk around the streets in their hopeless mania with 
faces red as though painted with carmine. As long as their bodies retain this 
red color they live. When it fades into ash gray the toadstool starts growing 
and death can be expected in a few days.
FLASH.
The food problem is increasing. Trains of food continue to arrive but 
distribution is at a standstill. Hundreds gather around the yards, breaking open 
cars and helping themselves to the food, but thousands are starving. I advise 
that no more food be sent to us. If the deaths continue there will soon be no 
one to feed except myself.
FLASH.
Today I wandered through an apartment house that once had sheltered the rich of 
this city. I thought it was empty, but a slight moan caused me to open a bedroom 
door. A woman was on the bed. Alone, without benefit of physician or nurse, she 
had just given birth to a child. Her scarlet red face told that she was doomed. 
She asked me to take the baby and care for it. I promised her I would do so. Who 
would have thought that the flash radio announcer, Thinsell, would become the 
adopted father of a baby? I have talked to Dr. Thornton about it. He tells me 
that every child so far born since the quarantine has died from the red terror. 
I have asked him to give the child several ounces of my blood.
FLASH.
Thornton, the baby and myself spent the night together. It has been ten days 
since he injected into him body my blood. I have asked him to take some more. 
The baby is doing well. The red terror seems to be ending in New York. It is a 
fire that is dying because it has no more fuel to feed on.
FLASH.
As I have repeatedly stated in these flashes this epidemic has shown the heroism 
of parts of the human race. Today I was walking along the Hudson when I saw 
someone swimming towards the shore. I waited till the woman, for it was a woman, 
came out of the water. We introduced ourselves. She was Miss Susan Crabtree, a 
graduate nurse from Ohio. She entered the city by this means when she found all 
other portals of entry closed. I showed her that the best thing she could do was 
to take care of Rose, my baby. Thornton has given her a pint of my blood. I hope 
it serves the purpose.
FLASH.
Today Thornton and I made a hasty survey of the city. We covered considerable 
territory, as we found some bicycles. During that time we saw no signs of life 
except trees and flowers and packs of dogs; already reverting to savage traits 
they are feeding on the only food they could find which is best not to talk 
about.
FLASH.
Six weeks have passed since Thornton took the first injection of my blood. It 
seems that he is going to escape death. It is too early to tell whether we can 
in a similar manner protect Miss Crabtree and the baby Rose. So far they are 
doing very well. We have decided not to leave the city till we are sure none of 
us are contagious, though it seems from the reports I have been receiving that 
this is a matter of little importance. We are comfortable and, by diligent 
scouting, have found ample food supplies.
FLASH.
The unburied bodies of the dead used to worry me. I find now that if nothing is 
done to them they rapidly dry till nothing Is left save dusty bones covered with 
skin. The parasitic plant seems to drain them of all moisture in the process of 
throwing out its flowering growth. The last rain storm seems in some way to have 
swept the city clean. All the fires are out in the parks. The air is fresh. It 
is good to be alive.
These are but a few of the hundreds of radio messages Thinsell sent during those 
weeks in the damned city of the Dead. It was his golden opportunity to become, 
for all time, one of the greatest of all reporters. The time finally came when 
he told the world:--
FLASH.
This is my last radio message. We are satisfied that the four of us are 
completely protected against the red terror and, our work here being over, we 
are going to leave the city. Due to the loving care of Miss Crabtree, Baby Rose 
is very well. We have found a row boat and tomorrow morning we are going to go 
west across the Hudson. We have made no definite plans, as for some days we have 
had no message from the rest of the world. Meantime I send orchids to all the 
brave men and women who came to this city in an effort to serve humanity.
CHAPTER IV
AT THE TIME Dr. Jacobs delivered his historical address to the thirty visiting 
physicians, the United States was, in spite of unemployment, depression, and an 
unbalanced budget, the richest nation in the world. It had more automobiles, 
more radios, more dollars in the bank per hundred population, than any other 
nation. About ten million persons were unemployed, but there was no starvation.
When the four survivors left New York the entire social and economic life of the 
nation had completely broken down. Every large city, Philadelphia, Chicago, St. 
Louis, New Orleans, Detroit, Salt Lake, Denver, San Francisco and Los Angeles 
had passed through the deadly experience of the Metropolis. All small cities, 
even towns of a few thousand, were dead or dying. Fugitives from New York had 
carried the infection to every part of the nation. The country around each city 
had tried to protect itself by armed quarantine only to become infected finally. 
Once the disease appeared in any center of population, the city people fled to 
the country, infecting all with whom they came in contact. Finally, small groups 
of farmers formed little communities, closely guarded, and deliberately shot any 
stranger who came near them.
Communication broke down except for the short wave enthusiasts. They talked to 
each other till death came. There were no more mails, no telephone service; the 
tracks were empty of trains, the cement roads free of automobiles. Life reverted 
to the primitive. Government as a national ruling power ceased to exist. Each 
little isolated group of farmers became a law unto itself. Prisons still had 
walls but all the convicts were dead. The insane, epileptic, the mentally 
deficient, had all been cured by the tender hand of death. Statistics, at such a 
time, are absolutely unreliable but it seems likely that not more than one out 
of every fifty thousand survived this beginning of the red terror.
The first wave of horror-stricken emigrants carried the disease to the rest of 
North America and to Europe. In their turn London, Berlin, Leningrad and Paris 
followed the fate of New York. Rapidly the cities were destroyed; more slowly 
the flame burned through the country. The shepherd died with his flock, the 
French peasant amid his vineyards, the fisherman in his boat. Caravans carried 
the plague to the faraway places of the earth. Mecca became a city of the dead. 
Asia felt the sting. China, densely populated, died quickly, with a grim 
satisfaction that Japan was also doomed. The far off islands of the Pacific, 
visited semi-yearly by trading vessels, wondered why no more sails appeared on 
the horizon. Life on the earth burned out as though the planet had been a ball 
cast into flames of Hell.
For once there was land and wealth enough to satisfy the few living. No one 
talked of future wars; none coveted the possessions of his neighbor. All he 
asked of those near him was that they stay as far away from him as possible. The 
few left alive, and there were some who escaped, fell into a depression that 
was, perhaps, worse than actual death. All wondered what was going to happen 
next and few had the initiative to direct the course of future events.
To the few survivors in the United States much of this could only be a matter of 
guessing. Communications between nations and continents rapidly broke down, as 
intercity communication had in the United States. Perhaps some day a bold 
explorer will encircle the globe and learn all details available from the little 
centers of life that still remain. But the above is what happened according to 
Thinsell's vivid, and no doubt correct, imagination. He talked along these lines 
to Dr. Thornton and Miss Crabtree as they crossed the Hudson River.
"We will find ourselves in a new world," he continued. "A world which we can 
only dream of till our travel shows us what actually has happened to it. We 
cannot tell what we will encounter, but I am sure of one thing and that is 
simply this: Those who are still alive will have a constantly present fear of 
all strangers. They are alive because they have been isolated from all 
travelers. They trust no one. I think they will shoot first and talk afterwards. 
Perhaps we may find a little group of educated people who will accept us after 
we give them our credentials but that is a very slim chance. It would be 
extremely irritating and annoying to me, after all I have been through, to be 
shot by some farmer who can hardly read and write. It may even be difficult to 
feed ourselves, to say nothing of providing the milk necessary every day for 
Baby Rose. Of course there are still cows but she will starve if she has to 
depend on me to milk them."
"I, at least, know how to milk a cow," announced Miss Crabtree. "I was raised on 
a farm. It might be worth while to find a cow or a goat and take it with us. 
After all, we cannot let Rose suffer. Something makes me feel that she is going 
to be a rather rare thing in this new world."
"It is a new world," declared Dr. Thornton. "A world cleaned suddenly Of all its 
problems and worries. In a way, it's a wonderful thing to be alive in it! 
Thinsell, have you any idea how all this started? I know the story of the six 
young people who went to New Brunswick, but why did it have to happen to them 
rather than to thousands of other vacationists?"
"I don't believe that it just happened," was Thinsell's answer. "Man and 
mushroom have lived together for some millions of years. If it just happened, 
why not before this time? I have my own idea about it, but just now we have more 
important things to do--"
"I should say so," interrupted Miss Crabtree. "It may interest you selfish men 
to know that I have exactly one dozen small cans of condensed milk for Baby 
Rose. You men simply have to find a cow or a goat. You may have little or no 
paternal feeling for her, but she's my responsibility and I am not going to see 
her starve, after all the poor thing has been through. Look! There's an 
airplane!! Who could it be?"
"It's flying lower," cried Thornton. "He is dropping pieces of paper. Maybe 
messages."
The two men ran over the field and were back in a few minutes.
"News !" they shouted, as they grabbed a blanket and waved it in the air. "The 
men in the plane have been hunting for us."
"Well," exclaimed Miss Crabtree. "When do I get that cow?"
THE PLANE slowly circled and came to a beautiful landing a few hundred feet 
away, A man jumped out. Another man handed him an animal and then a smaller one, 
and then the man left the plane. The two started to walk towards Thinsell and 
his party. First walked, then ran.
"Are you Thinsell ?" the man shouted.
"None other !" the flash reporter shouted across the diminishing space between 
them.
The two parties met.
"l am Blake, formerly of Kansas City," announced the man, "and this is my wife, 
Caroline. We received your last short wave message announcing you were leaving 
New York and our group decided that we should get in touch with you before it 
was too late. Rather dangerous, you know, to wander around this world and call 
on people unannounced. They shoot first and talk afterwards. We knew you would 
have to have fresh milk for the baby and so we brought a goat and her kid with 
us."
"That relieves me," sighed Miss Crabtree. "I am glad to find out that one man in 
the world realizes that a baby has to be fed."
"You can give my wife all the credit," answered the man with a laugh. "But let 
me tell you we have all been interested in that baby. Your daily news about her 
has been mighty interesting."
"Glad to hear that," said Thinsell. "Now I suppose you can guess who the rest of 
my party are, if you have been receiving my flashes. This gentleman is Dr. 
Thornton, from Canada; the lady is Miss Susan Crabtree, the adopted mother of 
the adopted baby Rose."
Mrs. Blake chucked the baby under the chin. "Look at her smile at me. Miss 
Crabtree, our women are going to make it rather hard for you to keep this little 
one to yourself."
"Are babies such a rare happening nowadays?" asked the nurse.
"Shouldn't be," Blake answered for his wife. "But it's just a part of the fear. 
Our women thought it would be bad enough for the older people to die, and 
decided that they would not deliberately expose any little ones to the red 
terror, though goodness knows all we know about it is what we read for a few 
days in the papers. Of course we have received all of Mr. Thinsell's radio 
talks. Sorry we could not talk to you, old man, but something went wrong with 
our machine and we couldn't send any messages."
"Suppose you tell us all about your side of the world," suggested Thinsell. 
"Isolated in New York we could only guess as to what was happening outside."
"How about feeding Rose some goat milk," suggested Miss Crabtree. The two women 
walked over to the plane where the mother and her kid were contentedly feeding, 
one on grass and the other milk.
"The story of our colony is rather simple and yet I feel that in some respects 
it is rather unusual. It is probably the only prearranged colony in the world, 
though no doubt there are many other little colonies organized by necessity and 
not planned for like ours.
"It all started because a man in Kansas City by the name of Manson had 
imagination. Peculiar chap, never worked much, never had to so he specialized in 
imagination. When he read the first articles about the red death in the New York 
Tattler, he put that hobby of his to work, and within twenty-four hours asked 
ten of us and our wives to join him in a private conference. He told us that, if 
Dr. Jacobs was right, the new disease would sweep over the world like a gigantic 
tidal wave. It was his idea that something had to be done to prepare for a new 
civilization, retaining all that was possible of the old culture. His argument 
was so convincing that we all agreed to join him in the formation of an isolated 
colony. We raised all the cash we could and in three days left Kansas City, some 
driving trucks loaded with the things we thought would be necessary. The rest of 
our party traveled in automobiles; Mrs. Blake and I used our airplane.
"Our destination was Bay St. Pierre on the north shore of the Gaspe Peninsula. 
Manson had been there and thought it was an ideal location, isolated and easy to 
defend if the need arose. We arrived there as tourists. Of course we had to pay 
a heavy duty but that was the easiest part. The hard part was to induce the 
owners of the land to sell it to us. But ready cash looked good to most of them. 
We hired three families to stay with us. We could not close the shore road at 
first but we could keep people from stopping or staying with us. When the crash 
came we barricaded the roads, finally blocking them with dynamite.
"We have been living there ever since. It did not take us long to see that 
Manson was correct in his imagination, and when we started to receive your 
messages we were thanking God that he had that imagination. So there in Gaspe we 
have ten young men from Kansas City and their wives, and three French Canadian 
families. We raise cattle, make butter, have pigs and chickens, cut wood and 
fish. In some ways it is not very exciting but at least we are alive. We wanted 
you to join us, and that is why I am here."
"THAT is some story," said Thinsell, with a rather sad smile. "In the old days 
it would have been headline news for any paper. But I presume there are no 
papers any more."
"You are wrong there," corrected Blake. "Every week we issue a typed edition of 
The St. Pierre Times. Three copies, one original and two carbons. Your arrival 
will be real news, Mr. Thinsell."
"I am not going with you," the radio artist announced definitely. "I want you to 
take Dr. Thornton, Miss Crabtree and Rose. I am going back to the city. There is 
some work for me to do there."
"You can't go back there alone!" declared Dr. Thornton.
"Maybe I can't but I am. Here is the reason. Six young people go to New 
Brunswick. They contract a disease there, return to the city, spread the 
disease, die, and in this way destroy most of the human race. Accident? I have 
always doubted it. I have been wondering about it for a long time. So I am going 
to return to the city, find out if I can just where those first victims of the 
red death lived, who their friends were, try and find some letters or a journal 
kept by one of them. Somewhere I may find just where they camped in New 
Brunswick, who their guide was, the People they met and what they did. In all 
this there may be a slight clue as to just how they became sick. I want to know 
the why of it all. That will be real flash news for any radio reporter."
"What do you think of it, Dr. Thornton," asked Blake.
"Seems like a waste of time to me, but I will tell you one thing. There is no 
use arguing with Thinsell. I have tried it several times and never have won. If 
he says he wants to do this masterly piece of detective work, the only thing to 
do is to let him do it. I don't like the idea of his going back alone but I 
suppose there is no other way. There is another reason why I should go with you 
to Gaspe. Miss Crabtree thinks that baby Rose should have an adopted father, and 
she has selected me. You men know how determined a woman can be when she makes 
up her mind to anything and the young woman seems to think that the baby just 
has to have a father."
"That is real flash news!" shouted Thinsell. "I don't know when I have heard 
anything that has pleased me more."
"Glad of that," said the Canadian doctor. "I was afraid you might have had some 
similar ideas about Susan."
"None at all. Miss Crabtree is a lovely woman, and I am very fond of her, but I 
am satisfied to be the adopted Uncle of Baby Rose. Rose certainly needs a 
father. But perhaps you adventurers in love had better start back to Gaspe. Give 
the home folks my best regards and I will be seeing you some day."
He helped load them into the plane and stood there alone as the plane shot 
airward. The last they saw of him for some months was his figure waving farewell 
to them.
"And now to get to work. It looks like a real man's job. Alone in the city of 
the Dead! No doctor friend, no little baby, and no charming nurse to keep me 
company. At least I saved the three from certain death. They belong to me. This 
job is not going to be an easy one but at least it may end in satisfaction. A 
new civilization will rise in this world and they will want to know why the old 
culture passed away. The books of the future will teach that Dr. Jacobs gave the 
warning and Thinsell, the flash reporter, gave the explanation. That should be 
glory enough for any man."
He shoved his boat out into the river and slowly rowed across the Hudson towards 
the silent metropolis.
CHAPTER V
THINSELL returned to his apartment, arranged his scanty supply of canned goods, 
ate supper, and tried to go to sleep. All the next day he foraged through shops 
and apartments hunting more food. All of the stores had been looted but slowly 
he found things to eat, a can of tomato juice here, cornbeef and sardines there. 
By the end of the day he had found and taken to his apartment enough to keep him 
alive for at least a month. He realized that he would have to go to the river 
for water, and decided it would be best to drink ginger ale, of which he had 
found several cases.
On the second day he went to the city hospital and started looking through the 
records for the case histories of the six young people who had vacationed in New 
Brunswick. He finally found them and carefully copied all of the family history, 
and names and addresses of the nearest relatives. This took him some time. After 
that he visited the apartments where the six lived and carefully began what 
seemed to be an endless search for some scrap of paper that would tell him just 
where in New Brunswick the six had spent the two weeks. He found some postal 
cards, postmarked "St. John's, N. B." with casual messages on them. "Having a 
good time. Wish you were with us." "Went fishing today. Lots of trout."
He found a few letters but they told him nothing. When he finally finished with 
his search of the apartment he had to admit that all he knew was that the young 
people had camped in New Brunswick, had a good time and caught some trout.
It seemed reasonable to believe that the six had written to others besides their 
families. They must have had friends but who? And then he suddenly remembered 
that he had flashed the announcement of the engagement of two of the six, and 
had had a bad half hour with a young lady who said she was a friend of the 
debutante involved. That made him almost run to his old office. A frantic search 
through his old notes and there it was. The indignant lady was Miss Caroline 
Young. Easy enough to secure her address in the old telephone directory. Easy 
enough to find her empty home. Not so easy to enter, but a door can be broken 
down with a fire ax.
He found the young lady's bedroom. There he started a careful search and located 
one letter. He read it carefully.
"My dear Caroline,
I wish I had time to tell you all the news, but I have to hurry because the boy 
that mails our letters for us is in a hurry to start. We have been having a 
perfectly lovely time. John had a bad headache but the guide had some capsules 
and two of them put the dear boy on his feet again.
Am taking a lot of pictures and will have them developed at Smith's as soon as I 
return, and give you a complete set. I hope the ones of our guide turn out well. 
He is a fine old man, by the name of John Johnson. To hear him talk you would 
think he had been everywhere and done everything. Yesterday he showed us the 
scars on his back received the time he killed a bear with his hunting knife. 
Hard to believe but there is the evidence.
Loads of love.
Will be seeing you soon.
Agnes.
"There is something worth while," mused Thinsell to himself. "Her sweetheart, 
John, was the first of the six to die. That means that he was the first one 
infected. And there are pictures of the guide and he had scars on his back. Now 
where are those pictures? Perhaps at Smith's photography. Smith!! No doubt 
several thousand of them in the telephone book."
He was correct. Exactly twenty-three Smiths who were photographers. That meant a 
careful elimination, but he at once realized that some lived in Brooklyn and 
some in Harlem and some in the Bronx.
The natural thing, Thinsell reasoned, was for Agnes to take them to the shop 
around the corner. He found the place and, after some hours of searching, 
located the envelope with the films and a double set of pictures. Pictures 
finished and never called for, because the young woman had become ill and died, 
before she had time even to think about calling for them. They were good 
pictures, especially the ones of the old guide.
"This winds up the New York end of this investigation," said Thinsell. "No doubt 
it will turn out to be the easiest part of it. And now to find the guide if he 
is alive. He may be dead or, if living, several hundreds of miles away from the 
place the seven of them camped over a year ago. Of course if I find him it will 
be easy to identify him since I have some of his pictures, and then there are 
the scars. He must be a big man, and his beard shows that he is rather old. If 
he is living I have to find him. He gave two capsules to Agnes' fiance. What was 
in those capsules ? Is there any connection between them and the red death?"
THINSELL went to New Brunswick in an automobile he found in a garage in the 
Bronx. It was a new car, a Dodge. Thinsell knew nothing concerning the mechanism 
of the car but he knew how to drive one. For a few days he was busy filling 
every available space with cans of gasoline, oil and food. Then he started his 
journey. Several times he had to stop and clear the road of smashed wrecks. When 
the people left the big cities they had observed no speed laws. On the way he 
saw few signs of human life, though cattle, already growing wild, were 
plentiful, and he saw several packs of dogs reverting rapidly to savagery.
Through sheer curiosity he drove through Boston and Portsmouth. In his carefully 
kept diary he stated that he drove over seven hundred miles without seeing a man 
or a woman. Twice he saw little groups of houses on hills, smoke coming from the 
chimneys, but they were surrounded by high barbed wire fences and, having no 
reason for doing so, he did not stop to investigate the colonies.
At last he came to St. Johns in New Brunswick. Like all other centers of 
population it was a dead, deserted city, with grass already growing in the 
cracked cement streets.
By this time he had developed a habit of talking to himself. He called it 
thinking out loud.
"These six young people must have come here, and engaged a guide. They, perhaps, 
engaged him by letter before they left New York. Now just how would they know 
who to write to? That is a good point. They wrote to the Chamber of Commerce, 
and the Chamber sent them a list of guides, and from that list they selected 
this man John Johnson. The best thing to do would be to eat and then visit the 
Chamber of Commerce and look over their advertising literature."
He had better luck than he could have hoped for. In the deserted office he found 
an abundance of advertising matter, which included a list of official guides, 
their post office address, their rates and their specialties. This list included 
Johnson and there was only one guide by that name.
"At least," sighed Thinsell, "I know where he got his mail."
The next day he drove one hundred and fifty miles more and came to the end of 
the old civilization. He stopped his car in front of the Post-Office of St. 
Stephens, a town of not more than a dozen houses. Nobody was home. He went 
behind the door of the post-office and looked over the mail. Nothing for Johnson 
in the J general delivery box. What was there for him to do next?
CHAPTER VI
THINSELL spent the next two days making a careful study of the little town of 
St. Stephens. He visited and examined all of the houses and walked over the 
little farms. As far as he could see, the people had simply left their
homes, driven by fear of the new disease. They had taken very little with them. 
In one home the wash was still waving rather tattered on the rope line in the 
back yard. An outdoor oven had bread in it. Beds were unmade; children's toys 
were scattered on the floors.
"The place," Thinsell thought, "reminds me of a ship in perfect condition, found 
drifting on the ocean, abandoned for some unknown reason by its crew and 
passengers. The people simply went away and never came back, and the reason for 
that is simple. They are all dead. What happened to Johnson? Did he go with 
them? What would an old guide do under such circumstances. The most probable 
thing is that he would go out into the woods, and stay there. Perhaps he was in 
the woods when the people left. He may not know anything about the new disease. 
There may be hundreds of isolated people who have not yet heard of what happened 
to the world. If he is in the woods, far away from civilization, he may be 
alive. But some day he will come beck. He will need flour and coffee and salt 
and ammunition. It is hard to do but it seems the only thing is to stay right 
here and wait for him."
He started to talk aloud,
"Now is the time for you to write your story of the death of New York City, Mr. 
Thinsell. You are the only one who can write it in its entirety. Stop your flash 
stuff and begin writing real literature. Eight hours a day for sleep; eight 
hours a day to gather wood and food and prepare for the winter, and eight hours 
a day writing. I wonder how much paper I can find in the store. No doubt about 
there being pens and ink there. And now all there will be for me to do will be 
to work and wait and write."
He selected the late storekeeper's desk as the best place to write. It was 
pleasurable at first. At the end of two weeks he became restless. It was hard to 
talk to no one but himself and the dogs and cats that rapidly adopted him as 
their master. He was not sure that he was doing the wise thing in waiting.
His dogs began barking furiously. Going to the door, he saw a woman come walking 
down the street. As she neared the store he saw that she was a young woman, and 
pretty.
She came near and then hesitated as she called,
"Where is everybody ? And who are you?"
"I don't know where anybody is," Thinsell replied. "I came here and decided to 
stay for a while. My name is Thinsell. Can I do anything for you? And who are 
you, anyway?"
The girl came over to the store and sat down wearily on the wooden steps.
"I am Jean Johnson," she replied, "My grandfather, John Johnson, and I live out 
in the woods, about seventy miles from here. Grandfather fell and hurt his back 
a long time ago. He has not been able to walk since. We needed supplies for the 
winter and so I made him as comfortable as I could and came for them. We always 
trade here. Where have the people gone, and where is the store keeper?"
"I told you I do not know," Thinsell said kindly, restraining his excitement, 
"There has been no one here for two weeks except myself. I am sure it would be 
all right for you to take anything you want that you need for the winter. You 
could leave a record of what you take if you want to. So your grandfather is 
John Johnson? Is he a guide and bear hunter?"
"He used to be before he hurt his back. I think he was the best guide in New 
Brunswick. And he has killed a lot of bears; even killed one with a hunting 
knife, though the bear clawed his back plenty before he died."
Thinsell gave a sigh of relief. Things were happening far better than he had a 
right to expect.
"I tell you what I am going to do, Miss Johnson. You pick out all the supplies 
you need. Gather together all the two of us can carry. I suppose there is no 
road ?"
"There is a wood road for the first thirty miles."
"Good. We will load my car full of supplies and take it as far as we can. Before 
winter starts we can carry it to your home, even though it takes a lot of 
walking. You eat something and then go to sleep. You look as though you needed 
rest. Fantastic things have been happening, as I'll explain. In two days, I will 
have you back to your home--unless the car breaks down. You take care of your 
grandfather and I will carry the supplies in to you. I never did anything like 
that before but I suppose it will do me good to work hard for once in my life. 
Now you eat and sleep and rest. And tomorrow we will start. Give me a list of 
what you need and I will start loading the car. I think there is gasoline enough 
to make the distance even on low."
Jean thanked him and went into one of the little houses.
"And that is that," said Thinsell. "Johnson the bear hunter disappeared because 
he had to. Neither he nor the girl know anything about the red death. This is 
the first time she has been here for many months. Now we will see what Johnson 
knows about those six young people he guided for two weeks--and the capsules he 
gave to the man who was the first to become sick."
THINSELL worked till late that night collecting stores and loading the 
automobile. They started soon after sunrise. The radio reporter considered that 
he was an expert driver, but he did not know that such roads existed. He had a 
flat, used his spare; had another flat and decided to go on. All his tires were 
ruined and he was running on metal for the last five miles; but he finally came 
to the end of the road. Jean congratulated him.
"You did better than I thought you could. Now there is fifteen more miles to 
walk and the rest is by canoe on a lake. Shall we carry some things, and will 
you go with me?"
"I think it would be better for me to stay here. If you go by yourself you can 
travel faster. The old man may need you. I have a revolver and I will stay with 
the food. If you can come back tomorrow, we will start moving things."
"I don't like to think of your staying alone all night," said Jean. "You, being 
a city bred man, will not be used to it."
"Be a good experience for me," the man said with a laugh. "I don't promise to 
kill any bears with a hunting knife, but I can keep the raccoons away from the 
bacon. So travel on and I will be waiting for you here tomorrow."
He felt lonely after the girl left.
"She is lovely," he whispered. "I only hope that her grandfather does not turn 
out to be the villain in this play. Even if he does, it is not her fault. After 
seeing her I doubt that Johnson had anything to do with it, at least knowingly. 
He has killed in his lifetime but he is not a killer, not a man who would 
deliberately plan the slaughter of the human race."
It took four days of hard work for Jean and Thinsell to carry the food from the 
automobile to Johnson's three room cabin. For some reason, which, the man 
acknowledged, was hard to explain, he did not want to meet the old bear hunter 
till this work was completed. Unused as he was to hard work, he ended each day 
completely tired. Finally the automobile was empty, and the last sack of flour 
and last slab of bacon safely delivered and put away for the winter. Then and 
only then, after shaving, and dressing as neatly as he could, Thinsell entered 
the old man's bedroom.
The bear hunter looked at him critically, as he said,
"Pleased to meet you. Thanks for being so kind to little Jean. Since I was hurt 
she has had a hard, lonely time of it. But she told me that you were a young man 
and your hair is as white as mine."
Thinsell laughed.
"Mine used to be black, but during the last year it turned white. Guess it was 
the life I lived and the things I saw. And I really am not so very young at 
that. I am glad that I could help the two of you. Jean would have had a rough 
time of it had I not been at St. Stephens, but I was there and you two have lots 
of food for the winter. How do you feel?"
"What do you think? All my life I have done anything I wanted to do and now I do 
only what I can and that is very little. Do you know anything about medicine? I 
thought I would get better; always have, no matter what happened to me, but I 
think that this is my last journey. Know anything about the woods I am going to 
live in? Any bears there?"
"You are going to improve. You have to. Lots of work for you to do. Campers to 
guide and bears to kill."
"No. Not this time. But where did you come from, Mr. Thinsell, and what were you 
doing in St. Stephens?"
"I came from New York."
"Never been there. Went to St. Johns once but only stayed a day. Too many people 
there. Too many in St. Stephens. Used to live there, but when the third family 
moved in, I moved out. Don't like crowds. Jean and I have lived by the side of 
this lake for nearly fifteen years. She was just a little thing when her folks 
died, so I took her and we have lived it alone together since then. She is as 
fond of the woods as I am, and she is a good hunter, too. The girl can take care 
of herself, but that is not worrying me. She is going to be alone when I leave."
"Don't worry about that," Thinsell replied, "because both of you have a friend 
now, even though he is a tenderfoot. If anything happens to you, I will look 
after Jean. I may have to leave now and then but I will come back every month or 
so."
The old man laughed,
"You are a tenderfoot and a real one. Shows what you know about our winters. 
It's September and soon the snow will start. Been times when nothing showed of 
this cabin but the chimney. Alone in the woods you would die. Better get back 
when you can."
"I am not going back," declared Thinsell. "I don't want to. I came here because 
I wanted to and I am going to stay if you and Jean will permit me to do so. I 
may be of some help."
"You are welcome. Now get out and go fishing with Jean. I have things to think 
about and I want to be alone. I want to think and I always think best when I am 
alone."
CHAPTER VII
THERE REMAINED a few glorious days. The golden brown of oak, maple and birch, 
mingling with the multitinted evergreen, changed the mountains surrounding the 
lake. Finally they seemed to be covered with a Paisley shawl. Thinsell and Jean 
fished, tramped through the woods, shot an occasional deer, and talked. But 
talking gradually seemed an unimportant form of social activity. For hours they 
were happily silent. Though the man's hair remained white, the deep lines of 
worry, carved in his face by the chisel of experience, grew fainter. He learned 
to laugh again.
There were hours when he almost forgot just why he had come to New Brunswick.
One day he was forced to admit that Johnson was growing weaker and might die at 
any time. Against his desire he forced himself to question him.
"Mr. Johnson," he said, "I came to this part of Canada to find you. There are 
some questions I wanted to ask you. Do you remember guiding a party of six young 
people more than a year ago?"
"I certainly do. It was my last party. I took them into the woods and brought 
them out again safe and sound. They were nice folk and paid me well for my 
service."
"Do you remember the man called John?"
"Very well."
"One day he had a headache and you gave him two capsules of medicine. Is that 
right?"
"Yes, but how did you know it?"
"His fiancee, the girl you knew as Agnes, wrote about it to a friend In New York 
and I saw the letter. Now what I want to know is--where you got those capsules 
and whether you have any more?"
"Let me think. . . Oh, yes. Told you I went to St. Johns and spent a day there. 
I was feeling bad. Too many people and it hurt my head. Saw a doctor and he gave 
me a piece of paper. Took it to a store and they gave me a dozen of those white 
things and charged me plenty for them. I took two and brought the rest back. Now 
and then I would take one. When John complained of headache I remembered them 
and gave him the last two. What about it?"
"Nothing special. Just interested. Now about John. During the two weeks you 
guided the party did he eat anything unusual, something the Other five or 
yourself did not eat?"
"No, we all ate the same grub. Of course he might have found some wild berries 
or something like that in the woods, but I do not think so. I cautioned them all 
not to eat anything without asking me; some of the berries are good to look at 
but make folks sick."
Thinsell felt as though he had dropped one hundred floors in an elevator without 
stopping. He had spent months, traveled hundreds of miles, to investigate those 
two capsules, and now he found himself in an impasse. If the old man had taken 
ten of the capsules they could not have been the cause of the Red Death. Of 
course the old man might have been immune but it was hardly likely, practically 
impossible, that doctor and druggist were both tied up in a world-destroying 
conspiracy. Some other cause must be found for John's illness!
"Think it over, Mr. Johnson," he urged. "Here is my reason for insisting on it. 
John went back to New York and died. He had a strange disease and infected the 
other five of the party and they died. I have always thought that he contracted 
his illness when with you."
"You mean," said the old man, sitting up in bed, and very angry, "that I 
poisoned him?"
"No. Nothing of the kind. You have killed animals and perhaps sometime you may 
have killed a man in self defense, but I cannot imagine your deliberately 
poisoning a man. But something happened to this man John while you were with 
him. Some thing that did not happen to the other five. And I want you to tell me 
what it was."
Johnson sank back on the bed and kept his eyes shut for a long time. Finally he 
called,
"Jean! Come here. Look through my hunting pack. In it you will find a little 
glass jar, like a pepper shaker. Bring it to me. It has a piece of paper with 
writing on it, and the writing is in red ink, vegetable salt."
Jean found the shaker and brought it to her grandfather.
"Now, this man John was persnickety in his eating," the bearhunter explained. 
"He did not like the way I seasoned the food. For my taste, salt and pepper is 
good enough for anyone and the rest of the party never complained about my 
seasoning. So one day I wearied of his constant talk and happened to remember 
this shaker; so I hunted it up and handed it to him and told him to sprinkle it 
over his potatoes and see if it would make them taste better. He used it once 
and handed it back to me, and said he did not like it. So I put the other top 
back on. As far as I know that was the first and last time any one used it and 
here it is."
Thinsell's hand shook as he took the piece of glass.
"Where did you happen to get hold of this? Certainly not in a store!"
"No. It was given to me. There was a nice old man came here salmon fishing. 
Don't know why he did that because up in the Gaspe country, where he said he 
lived, there is the best salmon fishing in the world. One night he said to me, 
`Johnson, sometime you may be guiding someone who does not like just salt and 
pepper and then you have them use this for seasoning.' I stuck the jar in my 
pack and John was the first and last tenderfoot to try it."
"Do you remember the name of the man and where he lived?"
"Sure. My mind is all right even if my back is weak. He was an odd sort of 
fellow, a little old and moodylike. Have a salmon on his hook and he showed some 
interest in life. Most of the time he just sat and sat."
"But his name?"
"Odd name. Henry Van Dorn. Sounded to me like a name he made up instead of being 
christened with. Said he had been living by himself for many years. Made a map 
of the country and showed me just where his home was. The map is around 
somewheres. Said if I ever got lonely or in trouble I should hunt him up. Jean 
will remember him. He used to sit by the hour and look at the girl without 
saying a word. Odd man, but he paid good for my time. Now you get out and let me 
sleep. Snow is in the air and I guess I want to start sleeping like my bears do 
in the winter time."
Thinsell left him. To Jean's astonishment he took the little shaker, put it in a 
tin can and covered it with melted lard.
"That is a very important can," he explained to Jean. "Take good care of it and 
if anything happens to me take it to that little colony on Bay St. Pierre, the 
place I told you baby Rose is. I am going to write a letter and you give the can 
and the letter to Dr. Thornton."
"Nothing is going to happen to you!" said Jean, with a catch in her throat.
"Of course not. But just remember what I am asking you. Now you go and sit with 
your grandfather. He looks sick to me."
EARLY the next morning Johnson woke, called Jean and asked her to call Thinsell.
"I want you to leave us alone for a while," he told the young woman. "I have 
things to talk to him about."
"I think I am going on that trip, Mr. Thinsell, and there are some things that 
have to be said to you before I go. About Jean. She is not my real 
granddaughter, just adopted and cared for by me since her parents died.
"This was the way it happened. The three of them had me guide them one summer. 
Jean was just three years old. We were in as wild a part of the woods as there 
is, were going to summer there and for a while we had a fine time. They were 
nice folk and Jean was a darling child. I taught her how to swim. When I take a 
party out, I always write down their home address and the names of their 
kinfolk, but this time I did not do this because the man simply said something 
that sounded mighty odd to me. `The world is our home and we have no one who 
cares anything about us !' They both died the same day, went down a rapids in a 
canoe when they had no business to do so without me in the boat, and the canoe 
turned over. That left me with Jean. She never knew but what I was her real kin. 
Never told her about it. I buried them and marked the grave and put it on a map 
and brought Jean back. There was no one to write to about it.
"Her mother was a nice lady, also named Jean. Big Jean and Little Jean we called 
them. Her father was Paul Horton; at least that is what he called himself, but 
he told me one night after the women were asleep that it was not his right name; 
just one he used and as good as any. Guess he had been in trouble of some kind 
and was trying to forget it.
"I often wondered just who they were. They must have been somebody, out in the 
world, because she had a lot of jewelry and he had considerable gold in his 
belt. I kept it all for Jean and you can find it after I go hunting. It is all 
in one of my chests; never used a bit of it; never had much use for money; did 
all my trading at St. Stephens and they were glad to take my skins. You take 
care of Jean, because she will miss me and she is a nice girl. She would make a 
good wife to any hunter."
A FEW HOURS later John Johnson went on his last trip through the deep, dark 
woods. Sadly the two young people buried him in the forest by the lake he loved 
so much. For a few days nothing was said about the future. Then Thinsell rather 
timidly broke the ice.
"Have you any plans for the future, Jean?"
"No. But I think we will have to stay here, or get away as soon as we can. In a 
few weeks there will be three feet of snow in the forest."
"I want to travel, Jean, and at the same time I do not want you to be alone 
here."
"You can't travel by yourself, Harry." This was not the first time she had 
called him by his first name. "You would die in the woods at this time of year. 
If you have to go, I am going with you. And if you have to go, we better start, 
because the winter is cruel here."
"Of course you could stay here in perfect safety, Jean." Thinsell said 
confidently. "There would be no danger. There is food enough and lots of wood. 
It is just the idea of your loneliness."
"Then why not stay with me till spring ?"
"I have something to do. I want to go and see a man, and his name is Henry Van 
Dorn. Your Grandfather went salmon fishing with him a few years ago. There is a 
map showing where he lives somewheres in this cabin. Suppose you stay here and I 
will go and see him and then come back?'
"Find a man in this country with a home made map? Find him in the winter time? 
Get back here? It is impossible," the girl said with a little smile. "Of course 
you know more than you did when you came here, but I still am going to refuse to 
let you go wandering through these woods by yourself. But suppose we look for 
that map."
For two days they searched, finding many things that Jean did not know were in 
the three rooms, but no map. There was only one little chest unopened and this 
was locked. Jean suggested smashing it with an ax, but Thinsell refused.
"You get breakfast," he told her, "and I will work at the lock. Seems a shame to 
destroy such a fine piece of wood work."
To his surprise he had no difficulty prying the lock open. There he found what 
he expected. Some of her mother's clothing, the jewelry, and the belt of gold 
pieces. At the bottom was the searched-for map, an X showing Van Dorn's house. 
No doubt about that. His name was clearly printed there near the X. A heavy 
black line ran between the X, and what seemed to be the Johnson cabin. Thinsell 
replaced everything in the chest, put the lid down and showed the map to Jean.
She looked at it critically.
"He lives better than three hundred miles from here. I have never been up that 
far but I can find the place. When do we start?"
"As soon as you say."
"Going to let me go with you?"
"Yes, and I'll tell you why. As far as I can tell from the map, Van Dorn lives 
only about a hundred miles from Bay St. Pierre where those Kansas people, Dr. 
Thornton, Miss Crabtree and Baby Ruth are. I will either take you there and 
back-track to Van Dorn, or you can leave me at his place and go on by yourself. 
You understand that if this man is living, I may spend the winter with him, and 
this is especially probable if the weather gets bad. We will travel with as 
little as possible and live on the country. You select what you know we will 
need, and we'll start tomorrow."
Their intentions were good, but in an hour it began snowing and kept on snowing 
for three days. It was not an ordinary snow but one that left their world 
covered anywhere from five feet on the level to twenty-five feet in the hollows. 
It was a soft snow through which travel was an impossibility till sun and frost 
made a hard crust. There was nothing to do except wait. A few days of sun and 
then more snow, and more, with cold wind and short days. Sean said never a word 
about the trip. Thinsell knew nothing could be done.
She showed him how to set traps and preserve the skins. He read to her. It was 
surprising what good literature her grandfather had, not many books but 
classics. The days passed swiftly. The two might have been father and daughter, 
brother and sister, or looking at them as they strode through the woods on 
snowshoes, just two pals. Nothing was said, nothing was done, to show that they 
were rapidly falling in love. Perhaps both knew it but both felt that nothing 
should be done to disturb the status quo of their friendship, at least not at 
this time.
CHAPTER VIII
ALL THAT WINTER Harry Thinsell spent much time thinking over the problem of the 
red death. He realized that no discovery on his part could restore the lives of 
the millions who had died from that disease. At the same time he felt that 
someone, someday, should be able to tell the few scattered survivors just why 
mankind had been swept, as though by a tidal wave, off the earth.
He had finally told Jean the story of New York, and the part he believed John 
Johnson had played in it, even though innocently. He was confident that the bear 
hunter knew nothing about the debacle of humanity, had died without realizing 
that he had been one of the links in the chain leading to the world disaster. In 
the course of the story, it became necessary to explain just why he wanted to 
find the man of mystery, Henry Van Dorn.
"I don't think I can rest till I have a talk with him," he said. "In my 
detective work I have been wrong as often as right. For all I know, Van Dorn may 
be as innocent as your grandfather was. The death of the first six may have been 
purely accidental. The man who was the first to die may have eaten something in 
the woods that poisoned him. We have only one fact of any value, and that is he 
seasoned his food once, and only once, with this seasoning given your 
grandfather by Van Dorn. As I see it, there is no way of experimenting with that 
seasoning. Some man might be brave enough to eat some and go off by himself in 
the woods and find out what would happen, but it looks as though we need all the 
men we have left.
"It seems to me that the best thing would be for us to start going north in the 
springtime, as soon as you feel it safe to travel. We will try and find this 
place where Van Dorn lives. Once we locate it, we will go on to Bay St. Pierre. 
I will leave you there and back-track to Van Dorn. You will be heartily welcomed 
by my friends, and I will have nothing to worry about as far as your safety is 
concerned. After I finish with Van Dorn I will meet you, and then we can make 
definite plans for your future. How does that all sound to you ?"
"All right," replied Jean, "except for one thing. Why do you feel you have to 
take me to St. Pierre? Why leave me when you see Van Dorn ? Why do we have to be 
separated and have you face the danger alone'?"
"There is no danger, Jean. I am simply going to talk to the man."
"How do you know he is alone? He might have other men there with him. If he is 
responsible for the red death he is bound to be dangerous, and certainly if he 
feels that you suspect him. Let me stay with you. Suppose we compromise."
"No. I am going to have my way. I want this problem settled as soon as I can do 
so."
"Well, then, if you have to, get through with it as soon as you can. You ought 
to be able to make the last hundred miles alone. We'll part at Van Dorn's house 
and I will go on to the colony. When you finish you can join me there. How is 
that? Are you going to take a gun?"
"Only a revolver."
"Then be sure to put it up against Van Dorn before you shoot. You would miss him 
at ten feet. You never have learned to hit a target."
"You have the advantage there, I admit, but remember that you have been shooting 
since you were a little girl.
"Now just as soon as you think we can travel you say the word and off we go. I 
will write a letter introducing you to Miss Crabtree. She'll be just like a 
mother to you."
"Don't need a mother, Harry, as much as I need--something else."
"I know, clothes and all that sort of thing, but you will be well taken care 
of."
"Sometimes I think you are just stupid."
"Bet I am. This must have been a hard winter for you--with just me for company."
"It was, in many ways," sighed Jean.
A WEEK later the two left the cabin that had so safely and comfortably housed 
them during the long winter. The snow was melting rapidly, though it was still 
deep. Snowshoes were necessary. Jean was as much at home as Thinsell had been on 
Broadway. She had a compass but never looked at it. She directed every part of 
the journey, the time of starting, stopping, shelter for the night and the 
meals. At Thinsell's suggestion they deliberately avoided all the little towns 
on the map. Not traveling fast, soft at first from the relaxing influence of the 
winter's inactivity, they made little distance for the first week. Gradually 
Thinsell's muscles hardened, and Jean increased the distance covered each day. 
Day by day they traveled more and talked less. At last, from the top of a 
mountain, the girl pointed to a little cluster of buildings.
"There," she said softly, "is the home of Van Dorn."
"Then here is where we say good-bye for a little while."
"Looks that way. I have gone over your pack and you have enough food to last 
you. You should know how to build a fire and cook a meal by this time. When you 
finish with Van Dorn go due north. Take the compass. Keep on going until you 
reach the St. Lawrence and then follow the coast line west. That is the best 
thing for you to do. I will take a short cut and should be at Bay St. Pierre in 
three days, but it may take you twice that time. If you fail to come, I am going 
to come back for you."
"I'll be there. Good-by and good luck, and thank you for everything you did for 
me this winter."
He turned and started down the mountain.
"You forgot something, Harry," the girl called after him.
"What is it?" he asked, turning towards her.
"Oh! Nothing, I guess. Yes. There was something--the compass."
She handed it to him.
"Thanks," and once again he started down the mountain.
This time she let him go.
"I suppose I'm just a silly, romantic child," she said with a frown. "For all I 
know he may be desperately in love with that Miss Crabtree. He thought she was 
rather fine. Just because he was nice to me and read poetry to me after supper 
is no reason for me to think he was in love with me. If he wants to be away from 
me, he has had his wish. So I guess there is nothing for me to do except to go 
on with my plans and see what happens at the end of the trail."
CHAPTER IX
ONCE at the edge of the woods Thinsell paused. Down in the little valley, 
surrounded by meadows, were three stone cabins and a log barn. Smoke was pouring 
out of their chimneys. The meadows were still covered with snow. He realized 
that against this snow he would be an easy target, so he decided to wait till 
the night would cover him. He went back into the woods, built a rough shelter, 
hung his food on a limb, safe from animals, ate some cold food and waited. 
Towards dark he went to the edge of the meadow. Lights showed from one of the 
cabins.
"If there are dogs there, I won't get near that cabin without their barking at 
me," he muttered, "but that is a chance I have to take."
There were, apparently, no dogs. Thinsell slowly worked his way to the lighted 
cabin and looked through a window. An old man sat at a table writing. The 
reporter judged that if there were not two old men in the little settlement, and 
if this was the right place and if Van Dorn was still alive, this would be the 
man he was looking for. He could not be sure, could only hope. He went to the 
other cabins and peered in. They seemed to be unoccupied. The barn was empty of 
live stock.
He went back to the cabin and knocked at the door.
He heard the man walk across the plank floor and lock the door. Nothing more! He 
decided to call.
"I am a stranger looking for a Mr. Van Dorn," he shouted. "Can you tell me where 
he lives?"
"What do you want to see him about?" cried a voice.
"I have news for him from John Johnson, the bear hunter."
"Why didn't you say so in the first place?"
The door opened.
"Come in," said the old man. "Take off your things. Any friend of Johnson is a 
friend of mine. How is he?"
"Not so good."
Thinsell was thinking fast now. He did not know anything definite about this 
man; had only guessed that he had something to do with the red death. He did not 
want to show his hand till he found out about the cards Van Dorn held. He had 
not played poker for many years without learning something about the same. And, 
if Van Dorn was implicated, this was going to be some poker game!
"Make yourself comfortable," urged Van Dorn. "Tell me about the old guide?"
"You haven't seen him recently?"
"No, not since I went salmon fishing with him. The fact is that I have not seen 
anyone for nearly two years, but I don't mind being alone. The neighbors used to 
visit me very occasionally but they stopped coming over a year ago. About that 
time my short wave set broke down so I have been out of touch with the world for 
a long time. You are the first man I have talked to for just about a year and a 
half."
"You must have been lonely."
"A person would think so, but I had lots of food and lots of wood and a great 
deal to occupy my mind. Where are you from, and just how did you find me?"
"It's a long story. Perhaps it had better keep till tomorrow."
"It is early. Unless you are tired, I am naturally curious to hear about the old 
guide. He was a fine old man, peculiar, but in every way a gentleman."
"He was all of that. I only saw him once, the day he spent at St. Johns. You see 
I am interested in the Chamber of Commerce there and the old man met me when he 
was down there ten years ago to. arrange for an advertisement as a guide. I 
wrote to him often after that and grew to know him. All last year I never heard 
from him, so this spring I decided to look him up. My friends didn't like the 
idea. They said, `Hanson'--my name is Peter Hanson. They said, `Hanson. You 
can't find Johnson without a guide. Better wait till summer.' But summer is my 
harvest time so I started out, and I guess plain pride in not being a hundred 
percent tenderfoot made me go in alone from St. Stephens.
"At last I came to his cabin and found him. Just as I expected, or feared, he 
was dead. It was not a pleasant sight. He was in one bed and in the next room 
was his granddaughter and she was dead also. No telling how long they had been 
that way."
"Both dead?" asked the old man, slumping back in his chair.
"Absolutely dead! And their bodies as dry as though they were mummies. I 
couldn't bury them because the frost was in the ground and plenty deep, so I 
placed them in one bed, covered them with a blanket, and when I go back I will 
put them in the ground under a pile of stones."
"That is too bad," muttered Van Dorn, "really too bad. He was a good old man and 
his granddaughter was beautiful, really beautiful. Go on. Where do I come into 
it?"
"I HUNTED around and found some things Johnson had written after he knew the two 
of them were sick. He mentioned you and spoke of a map, and asked anyone who 
found them to hunt you up and tell you about the girl, and what his idea was 
about their sickness. In his writing he told about the girl's parents and the 
jewelry her mother had left when she died. You see, he was not her actual 
grandfather. When her parents died she was just a little thing and he adopted 
her, and raised her as his own. He had intended to talk to you about her and see 
if you could not find her people, but for some reason he had never done so. When 
he became sick he regretted this and thought you might be interested and do some 
investigation. He wrote that you were rich enough to do that. At the time he 
wrote, the girl was still well and he hoped she might not contract the disease. 
So, out of the jewelry, he picked a locket containing the pictures of her father 
and mother, and he asked that this be taken to you. He wanted to know if you 
would come and get the girl.
"It all seemed rather sad to me, seeing the girl he loved so much was also dead. 
But of course he did not know that would be the case when he wrote. Anyway, I 
decided to take the map and find you, so here I am."
"That is all very interesting," murmured Van Dorn. "Very interesting and very 
sad. Now, you said something in regard to Johnson's idea of his illness. How 
about that?"
"Oh! I guess that was just the imagination of a sick man. When he became sick he 
tried to reason out just why, as he had always been very strong and well. 
Thought it might be something he had eaten. Finally his granddaughter confessed 
that she had sprinkled his potatoes with some seasoning you had given him when 
you were fishing with him. He never said anything to her about it, but he 
thought it might be that seasoning. He went and threw the rest of it in the 
lake. Of course it was just an idea of his but he asked anyone who found his 
writing to mention it to you and get your opinion on it."
"A sick man, as you say; is apt to have a lot of peculiar ideas. I remember 
about that seasoning. It was made of mixed herbs and tasted something like 
celery salt. I told him that he might have some city people with jaded appetites 
who would tire of just salt and pepper and he could season their food with it. 
Never thought for a moment that he would use it. Of course he never did but the 
girl used it for him. But that could not have killed him."
"Of course not. Not just mixed herbs. It must have been some contagious disease, 
because the girl caught it from him. They both died of the same disease; of that 
I am certain."
"Too bad. They were nice people. You say you are from St. Johns? How are times 
down there?"
"Fine. City is growing every day. Lots of new people. The depression is over and 
folks are spending their money. I really should be back home because every day I 
am away from there now is costing me just so much money."
"Has there been very much sickness ?"
"Practically none in the last year. The death rate is actually falling."
"That is good," said Van Dorn, "very good. Now tell me something more about 
Johnson and the girl. You say they both died from the same disease? Are you 
sure?"
"That is a hard question to answer positively." Thinsell was looking at the old 
man's hands, but they seemed to be safely folded in his lap. "I do not know 
anything about medicine, but there was something queer about their bodies. 
Growing from the chest of each was a large red tumor, perhaps a cancer, and it 
was blood red and shaped like a toadstool. There was a stem, and at the top of 
the stem was a large red ball probably four inches in diameter. I never read of 
such a thing growing out of a human being, but it must have been some form of 
cancer. Its appearance was horrible; perhaps the fact that I am not a physician 
made me react more to the sight than had I been accustomed to the changes 
disease makes in the human body. It must have been highly contagious, but 
fortunately no one had been near them till I came."
"You say that the tops of these tumors were still hard?"
"They seemed to be. Of course I did not touch them."
"Not dry or broken?"
"No, seemed to be like wax."
"It is all very strange," mused Van Dorn, "but you must be tired. Let me get you 
something to eat and then go to bed."
"I have had my supper. If you can put me up for the night I will stay here. 
Tomorrow I must be back on my way home. I forgot about the locket. Here it is, 
and if you want the other things in the chest I will send them to you." He 
handed over the little round locket.
VAN DORN took it. Simply took it and put it in his pocket. He showed Thinsell 
where he might sleep. The New Yorker placed a candle by the bed. He took off his 
coat and shoes as though starting to undress. It was his idea to keep awake and 
have his revolver ready for any emergency. It was impossible for him to 
determine just how Van Dorn had reacted to the imaginary tale. Had he been 
telling the truth when he said he had heard nothing from the world for many 
months? Did he know that Thinsell had been lying in almost everything he had 
said? If that was true, if he knew the real facts about the red terror, had been 
the monster who had started it on its destructive course, then he would not 
hesitate to kill Thinsell. A man who had killed billions would not stop at 
making one more man leave the world.
The reporter knew that he was playing a most dangerous game. He might be pitted 
against a man who was cunning, desperate and undoubtedly insane. He was not sure 
but that he had overbid his hand; he wondered if he had been wise in refusing to 
take the food offered him. He had done so because he was afraid of being 
poisoned, but had the old man intended to do so? And would Van Dorn realize the 
suspicion and see that the story was a network of lies?
There was nothing to do except pretend to sleep, to stay awake and hold on to 
his revolver. Pulling a blanket over him he started to snore first softly and 
then in increasing volume. The sound must have soothed him for he went to sleep. 
When he woke he found to his dismay, that the sun was beaming through the 
bedroom window, and also, to his delight, that he was still alive. He put on his 
shoes and coat and walked into the next room. There he saw Van Dorn on one side 
of the center table and a stranger on the other side. On the table were several 
small glass jars, a few notebooks and, almost in the middle, a blood red toad 
stool, an exact copy of the thousands he had seen on the bodies of dying and 
dead New Yorkers.
Van Dorn looked, up, smiled, and asked Thinsell to sit down at the table. He 
made, at that time no reference to the other man, who seemed to be asleep.
"I have a story to tell you this morning, Mr. Thinsell," he began, "and I think 
you will find it, in many ways, far more accurate, and even more interesting 
than the one you told me last night."
"Excuse me, my name is Peter Hanson."
"That, as far as I can see, is of little importance. You are you no matter what 
you call yourself. First I want to tell you something about myself. Van Dorn is 
my right name, and I am a physician, but more than that, a biological scientist.
"For many years I have been living here working on the cause of cancer. 
Yesterday you saw a barn and three cabins. I kept my experimental animals in the 
barn and two of the cabins served as my laboratories. I isolated myself far away 
from the rest of the world because I was afraid that I might discover something 
that would be dangerous to humanity. My work was pointed only towards the relief 
of mankind from a disease that no one thus far had conquered.
"You said you were not a doctor and that part of your story is true, at least I 
think so. It is therefore useless for me to give you details of my experiments, 
or indicate just what I was trying to find out. It is sufficient to state that 
for some years I tried to inoculate animals with a deadly form of toadstool, the 
wax model of which is on the table.
"I published a very few preliminary reports of my work and as a result an 
Italian physician, Dr. Viletti, visited me. He asked for permission to stay and 
work with me. We had long conversations and when I realized that, along some 
lines, he was my intellectual superior, I accepted his offer. We worked together 
for three years at the end of which we were able to inoculate sheep with this 
toadstool. The plant grew inside of them, and when it flowered it did so just as 
though the plant had been growing in the ground. We carried the disease through 
many generations of animals till we knew that it could perpetuate itself.
"It is needless to say that in this work we protected ourselves. First we wore 
rubber gloves and masks, and then, working on a protective serum, found one that 
would keep animals from being infected, and took it ourselves. It worked very 
well, and at last we were not afraid even to breathe the air containing the dust 
from the dry and exploding fruit.
"I thought that we had found a new form of cancer, transferred by our skill from 
a wood parasite to something that could live generation after generation on 
mammalia. My final idea was that a serum protecting men from this new cancer 
might protect from other forms.
"That idea sounds slightly illogical," interrupted Thinsell. "Of course I am not 
a physician, but I thought there were different kinds of cancer. Did you think 
it would work in all kinds?"
"I did not know. My idea was that I would take a supply of the blood serum from 
my protected sheep and go to some city such as New York, and secure permission 
to try it on some very early cases of the different types.
"One day, when we had reached a solution to most of our problems, Dr. Viletti 
calmly announced that he was going to leave. I had no right to ask him to 
remain, and so I permitted him to go without any argument. I even urged him to 
carry on our work; he took a pint of the antiserum with him when he left.
"Now I want to tell you something else. I am very fond of rare and unusual 
seasonings. Before I came here, on a vacation trip to Italy, I found one made of 
many dried herbs. I was so pleased with it that I bought a pound. On my way 
here, I bought several salt shakers and filled them with this seasoning. I used 
it rarely but when I did, I enjoyed it as much as the first time I tasted it. I 
always took a shaker of it with me when I fished or hunted. It was one of those 
shakers that I gave to John Johnson.
"Last night, listening to your story, part of which I know now is not true, I 
was completely at a loss to account for the death of Johnson and his 
granddaughter. There was no doubt in my mind as to the cause of their death but 
I did not see how they became infected. It was not a pleasant story to listen to 
but when you told me that you were the only one to see the bodies and that the 
toadstools had remained hard and not exploded, and when I saw you were still 
well, I realized that the danger of an epidemic was past. I determined to ask 
you to burn the bodies on your return instead of burying them.
"After you were asleep I started to think, as best I could, because I was 
decidedly upset over your story. But I arrived at no scientific or logical 
reason for their dying from this new form of cancer, unless, of itself, this 
parasite had been able to form a new and unusual habitat.
"Then, without any warning, Dr. Viletti walked in.
CHAPTER X
"I WAS GLAD to see him. From past experience with him I knew that his mind was 
in many ways more keen than mine. It seemed to me that he might be able to help 
in the solution of the problem.
"But before I could begin to talk about it he started with his own story. It 
was, and even you will have to admit that, though you can tell a rather good 
story when you want to do so, a very unusual tale.
"After he left me he had bought a small island, isolated some miles from the 
coast of Maine, and supplied it to last for some years. He placed in his cabin a 
very reliable short wave set, and then he waited. For what? For a world disaster 
he felt sure would happen sooner or later.
"As I talked I realized that the man was insane, had been insane all during the 
time he worked with me. But I never dreamed of it all the time we lived 
together. Not till last night--will you excuse me if I take a drink of brandy? I 
am rather shaken."
"You might give me some," said Thinsell. "I don't feel any too well myself."
"What he told me convinced me of his insanity. Since his college days he was 
certain that the hand of all mankind was raised against him, thwarting him, 
depriving him of greatness. Therefore he determined to kill humanity. But he was 
not certain of the proper method. The fact that his father's death made him 
wealthy made his insane ideas worse because he found that wealth did not bring 
him the scientific recognition he craved. Then he read one of my little 
preliminary reports and decided to join me.
"The time came when he knew that we had discovered a new disease, one that was 
very deadly and very contagious. We knew that this disease could be spread in 
different ways but we also knew that the most deadly thing about it was the dry 
powder from the exploding toadstools.
"And now he showed his cunning. He was really fond of me and knew that I was 
immunized against the disease. I am sure that he did not want me to die from it. 
He knew that I went hunting and fishing with guides, and he also found out that 
I always took with me a bottle of that Italian seasoning, and often gave some 
away. He told me all this, very slowly, so I could be sure of my part in the 
drama.
"One day when I was away from the cabin, he took a quantity of the dry dust from 
an exploded toadstool and mixed it with the seasoning in every shaker. Last 
night he explained to me that he was confident that after many generations of 
growing in the body of mammals it would not start growing on the dry herbs. Of 
that, of course, he had to take a chance.
"Then he left me and hunted a place of shelter on that island. He said that it 
was lonely at times and hard for him to wait and find out what was going to 
happen. But he stayed there and kept in touch with the world with his short wave 
set. Months passed and finally the news that he was waiting for came. A new 
disease had begun to kill people in New York and spread all over the world with 
great rapidity. He felt that at last he was revenged on humanity for the way it 
had treated him.
"He took a long time to describe this epidemic. The thing that pleased him most 
was the fact that no one could ever trace it to him. This pleased him, but it 
hurt his vanity. He had done something big in the world and what was the use of 
it unless someone knew that he was the hero of it all?
"Then he told about the short-wave broadcasts from New York by a radio reporter 
by the name of Thinsell. He admired and at the same time feared this man. And 
then, after all in the city were dead except the reporter, a doctor, a nurse and 
a baby, and they were preparing to leave the city, he became afraid of this man. 
He thought that Thinsell would try to find out what had started the destruction 
of mankind, afraid that finally he might find me and that in my innocence I 
might talk about him.
"But it seemed to me that he was equally afraid of something else, and that was 
that he would not be the first one to tell me of the success of the experiment. 
His pride was involved there. He wanted me to know about it, and from him, 
rather than anyone else. At that time he slipped on the rock and hurt his leg 
and by the time it healed winter set in; but just as soon as he could travel, he 
came here.
"I knew that I was dealing with an insane man, one who would kill one man as 
casually as he had killed billions. It occurred to me that you might be 
Thinsell. So that the only way to save your life was to not let him know you 
were here. I started to laugh, and that was not hard, because I was rather 
hysterical.
"HE ASKED me what I was laughing about and I told him. That he had been ahead of 
me, and that my entire work was based on the hope that I could find some way of 
exterminating men as rapidly as if they were ants being poisoned. The only 
difference between us, I told him, was the fact that he had gone ahead with the 
ant poison while I waited, and yet that I deserved some credit because I had 
given the deadly condiment to a John Johnson, a New Brunswick guide, who must 
have spread it.
"He decided that it was all a good joke and called for a drink. I went and 
poured out two glasses of brandy. In one I placed thirty grains of chloral. 
Looking into the room from my bedroom, where I kept my drug case, I saw him 
comfortable by the fire, reading. Then something caused me to take that locket 
you gave me out of my pocket and open it and look at the picture of Jean's 
parents. Dr. Viletti was still reading. I reopened my drug case and shook a 
lethal dose of morphine into the glass. We drank to each other's health, and 
then we sat here at the table laughing and talking. He died during the night but 
I tied him to the chair with a rope so he could not fall. He is in rigor mortis 
now.
"Now I think you are Thinsell, but no matter what your name is, I want you to 
take this story back to whoever are still alive in the world. I do not want my 
good name spoiled by any part in it except what is true. I admit that I was the 
instrument by which Johnson and little Jean died and, before their death, 
infected others.
"I am Thinsell," admitted the reporter, "and I am willing to say that part of my 
story last night was not true. I wanted to find out what part you played in all 
this before I told you what I knew. But I am sorry that you felt you had to kill 
the Italian doctor. If he was insane he was not responsible."
"It had to be done. He would have killed you had he known you were here. It was 
his life or yours."
"No doubt you are right. There is one thing that I have to ask you. What part 
did the locket play in your final decision ?"
"That was the most bitter part of it. That locket showed me something. The woman 
in it was my daughter Jean. For years I had never seen her; her mother and I 
separated when she was a baby. But she used to write to me and after she married 
sent me her picture, asked if she could bring her husband and visit me. I was 
still bitter in regard to her mother, and never answered that letter. I never 
received a second. No doubt she thought it useless to write.
"All my life I have wanted someone to love. When I went fishing with Johnson, I 
used to look at little Jean and wonder why she looked so much like my daughter. 
Now I know, but it is too late. She is dead. After thinking of all the misery I 
innocently caused the world in trying to free it of the menace of cancer, all I 
have accomplished is a terrible destruction which included my own granddaughter. 
There was nothing left for me to do. And I have done it."
"But it is not too late," cried Thinsell. "What I told you was--"
He never finished the sentence. The old man had slumped forward on the table. 
Thinsell realized that he was dead.
CHAPTER XI
VAN DORN'S death was almost too much for Thinsell. He walked towards the cabin 
door.
"I have to get out of here," he muttered to himself. "I thought I was doing 
something fine in finding a solution to the problem of the red death. But in 
doing it I was the indirect cause of two more deaths."
He came to an abrupt stop just inside the doorway. A number of men were coming 
across the meadow. Friends or foes? He couldn't tell, but for some reason, he 
did not like their looks. Some quick thinking had to be done, rapid action 
taken. Instantly he recalled the fear all living men had of the epidemic. 
Perhaps he could use that fear!
Working rapidly, he took Van Dorn and threw his dead body on the floor. He 
untied Viletti and placed him on the floor under the table. He undressed to the 
waist, seized the wax mushroom and ran over to the fireplace. There he took some 
ashes and rubbed his face and chest, heated the stem of the mushroom, fastened 
it to his chest and lay down on the floor with eyes shut.
He heard steps outside the cabin, then voices. Then one above the rest.
"Don't go in that cabin! Two men dead and the third dying of the plague. Keep 
away from them or we will all get it!"
There was a loud discussion outside the cabin, but no one entered. All the 
visitors seemed to be talking at once. Finally one voice cried,
"We might as well get away from here. Let's go on with our plans and raid St. 
Pierre. We will be able to kill the men before they know what is going on. Then 
we will have all the food and women we want."
The voices gradually died. Thinsell cautiously went to the door. He could see 
the men walking across the meadows, northward. Saved, himself, he realized the 
danger threatening his friends and the little colony. But what could he do? 
Certainly something, but what? At least he could follow their tracks and at the 
last moment reach St. Pierre before they did and warn them of the danger. In the 
soft snow it should be easy to track that many men. He wished Jean were with 
him. She could almost walk blindfolded through the woods!
It did not take him long to find his pack, hidden in the woods the day before. 
He discarded everything he could, since he wanted to travel light. Then he 
picked up the trail. It was far easier than he had any reason to suspect, as the 
party ahead of him had no reason to conceal it, having left not only footprints 
but other things behind them.
"Wolves, plain wolves!" muttered Thinsell. "If they ambush the men of St. Pierre 
they will act like wolves. I must get there in time. They might even kill baby 
Rose. What use would they have for a baby?"
HE BECAME bolder. For four nights he saw their campfire. The next morning, from 
the top of a mountain, he saw them a few hundred feet ahead of him, through the 
brush and trees. Then he saw the bay in the morning sunshine, and a little group 
of buildings on the shore. The men came to the edge of the woods. Beyond it was 
meadow land. Men, women, little children were walking in the street.
To Thinsell the situation seemed hopeless. By making a wide circle he might 
reach the colonists before the men started their attack, but it was a forlorn 
hope. It would take time, and of time he had little. If he could get close 
enough to them he might kill a few with his revolver, but what good would that 
do? At least the sound of shooting would warn his friends of the danger. It was 
worth trying.
Throwing off his pack, he cautiously walked towards the edge of the woods. He 
was close enough to see the men. They were on the edge of the meadow. He aimed 
at one of them and hesitated. Perhaps it would be better to come a little closer 
to them.
Thinsell raised his revolver. Just as he was prepared to shoot, he heard a voice 
behind him.
"Don't waste your ammunition, Harry. Let me handle this."
He turned and cried, "Jean!"
"None other," answered the young woman. "Now suppose we see what kind of a shot 
I am?"
She raised her rifle and began firing. The distance was short, her marksmanship 
perfect, her rifle an automatic. One after another the wolves dropped. The men 
of St. Pierre started to fire. Caught in a crossfire, the raiders started to run 
back into the woods, towards Thinsell and Jean. She pulled Harry behind a rock 
and kept on firing. Only one man reached the rock. Thinsell jumped up. They were 
only three feet apart and the reporter used his revolver.
He turned and took Jean in his arms. Woman-like, after the danger was over, she 
started to cry. Thinsell, without clearly realizing what he was doing, kissed 
her.
"How did you come here?" he finally asked.
"I never left you. I have been behind you all the time!"