Evening Republican, Volume 21, Number 38, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 15 February 1917 — The Tracer of Egos [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

The Tracer of Egos

Chronicles of Dr. Phileas Immanuel. Soul Specialist

By VICTOR ROUSSEAU

THE TWO CHARIOTEERS

H ARRIS, in the Kuppeln automobile, had taken the lead and was racing round the course toward the grand stand, on the last lap, hotly followed by Morton in the Carrier. The immense concourse went ■ wild with enthusiasm. They istpod up and waved hats and handkerchiefs and yelled as Ha rr 1 s slow 1 y drew away frofn his pursuer. He had crept :up from ninth to first, and now shot like a projectile along the track, the wheels, of course, invisible, the long, 'dark body of the car conveying the sense of a continuous streak. The two figures in the Kuppeln looked IJke tiny automatons perched inside the body of the monster. “You haven’t anything like this in Greece!” I yelled exultantly to Dr. Phileas Immanuel who, at my side, was watching the race with restrained but obvious interest. “Not yet,” he answered. “But why should we? After all, Greece invented this and practiced it so long that our people have grown weary of it. When they are ready, they will revive the sport once more.” “Greece invented automobile racing?” I exclaimed. The little doctor’s rash statement almost withdrew my attention from the speeding cars. “Byzantium,” he corrected. "Of course, we modern Greeks were not there then, though you probably were, and many in this certainly Messrs. Harris and Morton.” “Automobile racing!” I exclaimed, looking at Doctor Immanuel to discover whether the excitement had . temporarily unhinged his brain. “Chariot racing, my deaf fellow,” he answered. “In the sixth century of the Christian era —” “Ah-h-h-h-h!” groaned the crowd. Harris had diverged from the "course^and his automobile, crashing Into the fence, passed through in a cloud of splinters, tottered upon the edgb of an embankment, leaped it, hung for an instant upon the outer edge, righted itself. and careered madly across a strip of marshy ground, un-til-an immense boulder tumbled it on its side, where it lay like some unearthed paleolithic monster. Harris shot from the car and landed upon his 'shoalder a dozen paces away. A moment latdr Morton passed the grand stand and, having won the race, began to slow down. For a moment the vast assemblage remained motionless; the next instant it was dissolved in a stream of shouting, hurrying units, pouring toward the scene of the accident. By chance Immanuel and I were among those nearest, and a minute after Harris had fallen the doctor was at his side, while volunteers kept back the curious multitude. < “Now, my good fellow, give me a pocket knife,” said the doctor to a bystander, and presently he had cut the bloody shirt from the shoulder of the unconscious man. His deft fingers went searching in the bruised flesh. “A dislocated humerus, a fractured clavicle, two ribs smashed,” he said. “It’s lucky he landed like that. Now Bomebodyjtelephone for an ambulance, please. Keep ‘back, gentlemen. No. madam, this shirt must not be cut up for souvenirs. If you will give him air he will recover consciousness shortly.” Harris was already manifesting signs of returning consciousness. He stretched his limbs and his eyelids quivered. Then he began muttering. I could not catch what he said. The doctor seemed to hear, though, for he listened with the utmost attention; and when Harris had ceased speaking and lay still again he jotted down, some memoranda in the little book he always carried. The timely arrival of the ambulance and the application of restoratives aroused the injured man once more. This time he seemed fully conscious of his surroundings.

“Will I be able to drive at Savannah next month?” he asked. “Not unless your bones have glue tn them,” answered the doctor. “But I’ve got to drive!” cried Harris, hysterically. "Here I’ve thrown away the Nestlewood cup, and who’s it gone to? Morton, in that rotten old Carrier, that couldn’t catch a snail on a five per grade. I tell you—” He stopped short, overcome with weakness, and glared at the doctor as though he had suffered a mortal injury at his hands. But he surrendered himself to the ministrations of the ambulance men, and then, somehow, by dint of hard pushing and dodging of newspaper men who wanted to crossquestlon us, we found ourselves on the road that led to the station. We had an engagement to dine with Paul Tarrant, the millionaire, at his magnificent city home, that night. Later, when Mrs. Tarrant had gone to bed, we sat smoking our host’s imported perfectos in front of his library fire. “D< d yon see what: the .evening carpers said about Harris’ interest in the race?” asked Tarrant,, as we reviewed the circumstances of the accident. “Several thousand dollars, wasn’t tt?“ I answered.

“No, more than that,” said our host. “It seems that there is an intense rivalry between himself and Morton over a girl—some worthless woman, I understand. It’s in the ‘American People.’ I guess it’s a case of professional rivalry which can drive his car harder and faster, and the man who wins the Savannah race will naturally be the hero in her eyes. No wonder the poor fellow wants to get out of the hospital in time for that event.” “Just like Byzantine times,” said Doctor Immanuel; and then we knew he was riding his hobby again.. “Doctor Immanuel was telling me this afternoon that the Greeks invented automobile racing,” I said, maliciously. “You referred, of course, doctor, to the fact that the Byzantines were crazy over chariot racing, and meant, I take it, that Harris and Morton were once competitors in the stadium for thfe laurel wreath and purse.” “Certainly,” answered the little doctor, nursing his knee. "Nations are reincarnated as well as individualsJust as ancient Greece, with her unparalleled painters, sculptors and architects, was reborn as the Italy of the middle ages, with Michaelangelo, Rafael and Da Vinci, and Rome lives again in England-, _ so ’ America is Rome’s mightiest offshot, Byzantium. How can you doubt these parallels? What were the Roman qualities? Justice, aggrandizement, a very poor appreciation of the arts but an unequaled sense of law, which gave us the foundations of every western system of jurisprudence until the common law of England spread through the English-speaking world. Has any country but England inherited the Roman instinct for self-government? And is the Englishman a member of an artistic nation?” “Weil,” said I, “but how about America being Byzantium?” “I am coming to that,” the doctor answered, letting his knee fall. "I shall pass by the common social instincts of the two nations, their amazingly similar love of luxury, and support my case by a single parallel. What is it that unites every American to his fellows on certain days of the year in a communion of passionate ecstacy?” - “The presidential election,” said Tarrant, laughingly. “The Fourth of July,” said I. “Pshaw, gentlemen; guess again!!!— “Baseball!” shouted the millionaire. “Yes, or, in its wider application, sport. You know, of course, that the Roman passion for games reached its apothesis in Byzantium. At the chariot races the Greens and the Blues fought and mauled one another as savagely as Orangemen and Hibernian today, or the backers of opposing baseball teams would wish to. Well, gentlemen, to cut this disquisition short. I have discovered who Harris and Morton are.” The doctor rose and walked toward our host’s well-filled library shelves, which were stocked with books of ancient' history and antiquities—his hobby. He took down a stout volume boun<incalfskin and~tUrnea" the pages until he found what he sought. He seemed about to read it, but suddenly replaced the volume on the shelf. • “Show us, Immanuel,” pleaded Tarrant. “No, gentlemen; not until my faith has been vindicated,” the doctor answered. “But I will tell you. Harris in his last birth is named Hippias, and was the son of a Bithynian slave. Morton was named Coluber, and was also a slave, but in the palace of Justinian. He was a skilful charioteer, and drove Empress Theodora’s chariots when she entered them in the races. The men were rivals for the love of a beautiful slave of the empress named Iris.” “And Iris is—" “Mae Connelly, the woman in this case. Hers was the name that Harris whispered as he recovered consciousness." “Do you claim, doctor,” said Tarrant, “that we must return to earth to go through the weary round of our past lives, with all their sins and failures—and even successes?” asked our host, seriously. “I confess that that prospect is not an alluring one. I, for example, have not the slightest wish to be a millionaire a thousand Or fifteen hundred years from now. I would like something different.” “Only when the past life has been cut short without the fulfilment of its destiny,” answered the doctor gravely. - “You told me opce, I think.” said Tarrant, “that it was sometimes possible to discover these lost secrets by hypnotism?” “Yes, rarely. All dreams of an intense nature, all the imaginings of delirium are usually a reflection of -former experiences. How else should these thoughts come to one?” . “But. you did not hypnotize Harris.?’ “He was already hypnotized.” •How SO?” “By the monotony of the race; by the eternal spectacle of the course, with its .everlasting single-hued track.

and the brown fence, and the spectators; Alrautomobile drfvers are hypnotized! It is when something wakes them that they lose control —as Harris did. Something, some powerful emotion, some unexpected shock awakened him —and he went through the' fence. It whs while he was coming back to this world of sense that he gave me the clue. “In Greek?” I asked, in amazement. “No. He saw, in that moment, a perfect picture of a king and queen enthroned, watching a race of street watering carts with four donkeys harnessed abreast. The mirror, of course, distorts its Images. Well, gentlemen, suppose we go to the hospital tomorrow and see the patient and try to locate Mae Connelly.” “By all means!” I exclaimed. “How about yourself, Mr. Tarrant?” “Well, I confess I’d like to go,” answered our host, “but being a man of much less leisure than yourselves, I’m afraid my absence from my office would tie things up badly In Wall, street However, pray let me know the result of your! researches. Come in any or every night in the week. I shall be at home alone, for I am recataloguing my Assyrian antiquities just now.” „ . On th a next morning Immanuel and I paid a visit to the Free Baptist hospital. My distinguished colleague’s card procured for us immediate admittance. We found the injured driver comfortably established in a bed in a private room, and were lucky enough to discover Miss Connelly seated at his side, reading to him the account of the accident in the “American People.” Harris recognized Doctor Immanuel at once and held out his free hand. “Glad to see you, Doc,” he said. “Glad to know your friend. This is my friend, Miss Connelly.” The girl, a coarse but handsome blonde, nodded to us amiably enough. She was an attractive looking girl of her type, with a full but well-propor-tioned figure, small bands, a large and not wholly home-grown coiffure, and a pleasing smile which disclosed

two rows of perfect teeth. She seemed to me just the type that would prove irresistible to the anemic, nervous man in the bed. “Miss Connelly’s a particular friend of mine, Doc,” said the driver, addressing my companion. “Cut it out, Frank,” said the girl petulantly. “Yoq ain’t the only pebble.” Harris' scowled. It was evident that he was well under her thumb, also that she took pleasure In tormenting him. I suspected that they had been quarreling recently. “Say, Doc,” said Harris confidentially, “tell me honest, ain’t there no chance of my driving at Savannah next month? Can’t my bones heal in five weeks? Old Murphy here says not. But I got to drive. I got to win that race.” _ “You certainly have, Frank,” said the girl, looking at him meaningly. “You are fond of watching the races?” asked Doctor Immanuel of the girl. Her eyes flashed. “Fond! Well, I guess so,” she answered, scornfully. “And I got no use for cold feet nor Clarences, neither.” She looked indignantly at the man in the bed. “You won’t need to say that no more,” said Harris furiously. “I. guess I’ll show you when the time comes." They began to quarrel bitterly. It was obvious to both of us that the girl was a racing “fan”, of the worst kind. No doubt the winner of the Savannah race—and it was conceded that this would probably be Harris or Morton — would oust the loser in her affections. We left them arguing and wrangling, and, when w 0 were outside the hostheory. . “She is a perfect modern type of the Roman woman who turned her thumbs up—or down, as the universal impression wrongly goes—to signify

death to the vanquished gladiator. She is a tigress tn a human frame, with all its savage cruelty. lam perfectly sure that she would go delirious with ecstacy if Harris and Morton went crashing to i their death at Savannah. Such women seem to possess an attraction for men of that type,” he added. “And yet they have many good qualities. Thqy make faithful and admirable wives and mothers. When they have chosen their mates they cling to them through thick and thin. I have no doubt- that nature, in creating such a bond between her Harrlsses and Mae Connellys, has her wise purposes. But Harris must not rat® at Savannah.” “It looks as though he meant to,” I replied. “If he races it means his death,” responded the doctor, and would say no more. ' But that evening at Tarrant’s he consented to make clear his meaning. I think it was Tarrant’s awakened interest which convinced him that we were sincere in our interrogations. Crossing to the book shelves again, the doctor-took down the bulky little volume in calfskin and read to us the passage which he Tiad picked out the evening before. It was from a Byzantium history. “In the year 527 A. D.” he read, “the hero of the Blue faction at Byzantium was a certain Hippias,. the son of a Bithynian slave. • A man of less than the average stature” —“Frank Harris,”' interposed the doctor- —“his power and control over his animals, as well as his keen eyesight made him, by common repute, the most skilful charioteer of his age. The champion of the Green party was one Coluber” — “Morton” —“a slave in the emperor’s palace and only second in skill to Hippias. Both these men were rivals for the love of Iris” —“May Connelly”—“a beautiful slave of the Empress Theodora, who pledged herself to the one Who should win the four-horse chariot race that year. The entire population of the capital assembled to witness the spectacle, and party feeling ran high. During almost the entire period of the

contest the twO drivers were abreast, nor could the most skilful of the judges have determined who had the precedence, but just as the chariots approached tlje judge’s stand, where sat the emperor and his consort, Coluber was seen to gain by a hair’s breadth, whereupon Hippias, swerving drove his horses against his rival's. Both chariots and horses went down in an inextricable mass, and when the spectators rushed to the scene it was found that Hippias was dead. Coluber, who escaped uninjured, received the beautiful Iris from the hands of Theodora herself.” The doctor closed the volume with a snap and replaced it on its shelf. “If Harris drives at Savannah, he diqp,” he said convincingly. “The old . instinct survives—it must survive until Harris develops from the half-ani-mal to. the man. He is as savage a barbarian today as ever he was when nursed by a Bithynian mother. The old Instinct will awaken in him. He will collide with. Morton and die. Morton will win the girl.” ‘ “You fail to allow for the accidents of fortune, doctor,” Tarrant “There are no accidents,” responded Immanuel quietly. “Every external event is nothing but the embodiment of countless soul impulses made manifest in It. No, if Harris races Harris Will (JIBT - - We were neither of us disposed to argue the matter with the doctor. We were*,- indeed, bent upon concealing our skepticism of the kindly little Greek's theories. And yet though neither of us placed much stock in them, ! confess I was alarmed when I read in the sporting columns of the “American JPeople.” three weeks Jater. thai Hazria would positively race at Savannah. And a few days later came the news that he-’ was out Of the hospital and preparing, for the event “Well, gentlemen,” said Immanuel to

ue a few evehlngs after this announcement had been made, "is either of you sufficiently interested in the fevent to accompany me to Savannah to watch the races?” "Are you going, Immanuel?” asked Tarrant in surprise, “When the prophecy is fulfilled the augur is at home, yoti know.” “I have to read a paper at the annual meeting of the Georgia Medical society that evening," the doctor answered. "What a coincidence!” I exclaimed. The doctor emiled. "As you please,” he answered. "At any rate, you see history is in. the making. Will you come, Tarrant?” “Yes, confound you, I will come,” answered our host, throwing aside his Assyrian catalogue. “Immanuel, you have got me thoroughly wrought up by your exotic beliefs. I’ll come and see Harris killed.” “And then you'll believe?” "Not if Harris confessed himself to be Hippias in his will and testament.” "Doctor Immanuel grinned broadly. I hpd never seen him look so facetious. “Some day, Mr. Tarrant,” he said, placing his hand upon the big man’s shoulder,, “we shall find out who you were when Rome was mistrees of the world. Like as not you were an Assyrian slave who spent his days making catalogues of his master’s manuscripts,” he added maliciously. “And was plagued by a confounded bone-setter from Athens who persisted in assuring me that in my next incarnation I should be the ownei* of some of the choicest of my master’s treasures,” answered Tarrant. “Well, I’ll come, anyhow. How about you?” he continued, turning to me. “I’m with you,” I answered. There is nothing more to record except the final spectacle. Ten cars had been entered in th® race, but by common opinion Harris and Morton would run close together at the finish. The grand stand was packed; excitement was intense. We had three of the best seats in the enclosure, close to the judges, and I remember pointing to dignified old Senator Smart and hjs wife and asking Immanuel whether they were and his consort. But he was obviously too distressed for me to continue this sort of badinage. His eyes were riveted upon Harris as he drove by to the accompaniment of tumultuous cheering, his broken collar-bone still supported by a slender brace. It was madness for him to attempt to drive. I saw him glare at Morton in his Carrier, and saw Morton return the gjare every whit as cruelly. There eould be no doubt that if a tragedy were averted one of the two would leave the course a broken man. never to race again. They were off. They had started on the long race, all ten of them, and as each car swept by the crowd cheered wildly and discussed the issue in a bable of tones. But eoon they settled themselves down to await the long drawn out issue. Presently the weaker cars began to lag behind or drop out of the race. Tires burst, mechanism went out of gear, defeated drivers sullenly retired. Five were left in, then four. Then three. Suddenly t caught sight of a woman upon the bench below me, not ten paces distant. It was Mae Connelly, and she looked as a Byzantine lady might have looked when the w'arrfdrs fought or the charioteers raced in the arena. She was cold, but as intensely cold as a bar of steel that sears the hand like fire in an arctic winter. She sat unmoving, hardly breathing, her flashing eyes dilated, her lips apart, as though she drank in the spectacle of the contest and awaited a bloody ending. She eeemed as perfectly poised and as self-sure as the tigress crouching for her victim. She did not move or change in one iota when Harris swept by, when Morton, now his only rival, raced after him, hardly three cars’ lengths distant. The specks in the far distance grew larger and resolved themselves into the cars again. Now they were passing on the penultimatelap, and I saw that Morton had drawn closer. The concourse roared, but still the woman sat unmoved. Tarrant was moved; Immanuel sat as though dumbly awaiting the inevitable catastrophe; but the woman was not moved. And I knew that it the lust for conquest that entranced her. It was for her theee men were striving, and she knew that it was to be a strife unto death. And now the cars were whirling back again on the last round of all, and the spectators stood up and yelled and screamed and shouted themselves into husky whispers. They were almost abreast now—Harris leading; they were abreast; Morton was passing him, inch by inch, inch by inch. Harris was falling back! No, it was the delusion caused by the foreshortening of the bend of the track. Harris was still in the lead—or was Morton? My eyes swam. I heard a thousand cries, asservating, denying. And then, amid all that confusion, I saw Mae Connelly again, seated just as immovably, but now with head craned forward, and her thumb — Her thumb was pointing upward. Unconsciously she had assumed the attitude of the degenerate Roman, woman, unsated by the' combat until* it reached the last extremity. Unconsciously and gracefully she had stretched out her arm, and the thumb stood up from the extended hand. Perhaps she might have solved the disputed question whether thumbs up or thumbs down meant the death signal. But unquestionable there was death in her face. There was. death in the air, every.L/alt -it. =aa. though «an. angel had passed by. Crash! There was no other sound, neither preliminary whirnorgriading of wheels and axles,‘nor burst of airinflated tires; Just one sharp sound.

and the deep-drawn and universal sigh. The race was over. Twelve paces from the judges* seats the cars had run together, cold-fused into a single mats of shattered metallic fragments. And . men were already pulling their human freight from under them. Perhaps it was because the fulfilment of her destiny had revived the human soul in the woman and slain the tigress for ever, or perhaps only my imagination had led me to see the inhuman qualities in her. But she was out among the crowd, and by her lover’s side, and her arms sought for him under the wrecked mass of his car, and even above the shouts 1 heard the agonized cry upon her lips: "Frank! Frank! Come to me!” I saw no more then because of the masses around the cars. I rose to go. Immanuel followed me, and Tarrant. As we reached the ground we heard shouting; then a lane was made and four men came through elowly, bearing something upon a stretcher, completely hidden beneath a blanket. And then somehow we found ourselves forming part of an enormous ring, and in the center of it was Mae Cannelly, and she was sobbing and laughing and clinging round the neck of a man who walked straight and erect and still carried his injured shoulder in a brace. And it was Harris. He was unhurt; not even the brace was shifted. There was a smile of bravado on his face, but on the woman’s such joy as I had never seen on any face before. Then I knew that Harris would never drive a racing car again. “It’s a miracle,” a man near by was saying. “I saw the whole thing. Morton tried to foul deliberately. He wanted to cut past—” “Cut past? I tell you he smashed bang into him,” answered another. “He’d rather have died than lose this race.” “Well, he had that wish gratified,** answered the first man. “So, Immanuel, you see that everything turned out exactly the opposite of what you prognosticated,” said Tarrant tauntingly that evening. “Come, how do you explain that? Was it poetic justice that gave the other man a chance? Or did you get them wrong and mistake Coluber for Hippias?” But somehow neither I nor the Greiek doctor felt like answering, and Tarrant, somewhat ashamed, began preparing his catalogue notes in silence. (Copyright, 1917, by W. G. Chapman.)

HER THUMB WAS POINTED UPWARD.