Ling staggered under the weight of his burden. For all that, he gained the junk, where he threw the sack into an open hatchway in the forepart of the ship.

He then returned to the glade, and by a great effort lifted a second sack upon his shoulder. In all, he made the journey twenty times; and on each occasion his gait was more unsteady, his breathing shorter and faster. It appeared to Frank, who watched him, that the man diminished in stature; his shoulders became round--when he had once been so upright--and he walked like an old man, with bent knees and hollowed chest.

He was not able to complete his final journey without a rest. Half-way between the glade and the junk, he threw down the last sack upon the ground, and seating himself upon it, placed his head between his hands and came out with a great sob that was pitiful to hear. He needed his last ounce of strength to steady himself to walk the narrow gangway. No sooner had he reached the deck of the junk than the sack fell from his hands, and he himself collapsed. His knees gave way from under him, and he lay for several minutes quite motionless, curled up like a great dog that sleeps.

Frank, thinking that the man was unconscious, knew not what to do. He began to search for a tin can or pannikin of some sort in which to give him water, but he had failed to find anything suitable for such a purpose when Ling struggled to an elbow.

"Come here," said he. "I would speak to you."

His voice was so low as to be scarcely audible. Frank hastened to his side and, kneeling down, placed an ear close to his mouth.

The boy had no fear now of the mighty Ling. Indeed, it would have been mere foolishness to fear one so stricken, in so sorry a plight. Ling was no longer an incarnate monster, a blustering, boisterous bully. The tiger was caught, choked and enfolded in the meshes of a net. And yet, he still struggled for life--struggled to the last.

He was a man who, during the last few hours, had been possessed by but one idea, which had absorbed the whole of his mind and strength and energy. Call it avarice, greed of gold, or the nobility of a supreme endeavour, it is all the same--it means that there was something in him of the earthly hero. It means that a power that is immortal had given him strength to accomplish all that he desired, had given him courage to live but a little longer. And now, with the plunder safely on board, and the wide river of the valley extending to the open sea, he knew that his days were numbered, his time on earth was short.

"I would speak with you," he whispered. "I would tell you, you are my friend. Go below and release the European prisoners, but keep Cheong-Chau's men bound hand and foot. You cannot trust them. They are all of a breed--of the same breed as their leader. In Canton--if you wish it--you can hand them over to justice. Tell the prefect that they were captured by the mighty Ling."

In that thought he appeared to find some degree of satisfaction. He had always been vain of his strength, his wisdom and his courage.

He was silent a moment. Frank noticed that he smiled--a smile that was terrible to see, because his face was so pinched and haggard. His thoughts must have turned to things divine, for when he spoke again, it was in the words of the Celestial Emperor's prayer. He had turned over upon his back, and lay with his eyes wide open, looking up at the stars.

"To Thee, O mysteriously working Maker, I look up in thought. How imperial is Thy expansive arch! I, Thy child, dull and unenlightened, come to Thee with gladness, as a swallow rejoicing in the spring, praising Thine abundant love."

All his vanity had left him now. The heart of the monster was that of a little child. The violence of the life he had lived, the cruelty of his deeds, departed from him as the life's blood flowed from his wound; and the wisdom and the reverence he had learned on earth rose superior to earthly joys. He closed his eyes, and lay for a long time, breathing more easily, as if asleep.

Frank got to his feet and, descending into the cabin below, cut the bonds that bound Mr Waldron and his uncle. In as few words as possible, the boy explained exactly what had happened; and then all three went on deck, to the place where Ling was lying at the foot of the mast.

As they approached, he endeavoured to lift his head, but it fell back again, as if he had lost control of the muscles of his neck.

"Can you sail the junk?" he asked, speaking for the first time in English.

"I think so," said Frank. "In any case, if we can but get her out into mid-stream, she will drift upon the current."

"That is what I would wish," said Ling. "Let me drift into the other world. Forty years since, I was born upon the turbulent waters of the Hoang-Ho. Let me breathe my last upon the tranquil Pe-kiang. One is inclined to believe," he continued, "that destiny is expressed in symbols. The Hoang-Ho is the most boisterous, violent and unmanageable river in all the thirteen provinces of this celestial land. And my life has been such, in very truth. I have lived by violence, and now I die a death by violence. But--I know not why--I die calmly, in peace with all men and my Maker. I think that, perhaps, the bad that was within me has gone out of me with the brute strength that was mine, and the good that was within me has taken possession of my soul, to conduct me to the expansive arch of heaven. And now, that I may rest in peace, bring me a pillow for my head. You cannot move me--I am too heavy. Besides, I desire to remain here, to regard the stars."

Searching the junk, they found several cushions, and these they disposed so that the man could lie in greater ease. And Mr Waldron, who--as a man who had lived much of his life in the wilds--had some little experience in surgery and medicine, attended to Ling's wound, washing away the blood and folding another and a cleaner bandage.

And then they loosed the junk from her moorings, and with difficulty at last succeeded in getting the ship clear of the creek. She at once swung round with the current. And when they lowered what little canvas she carried, the ship drifted down the river, with Sir Thomas Armitage at the tiller.

On this account progress was very slow, and they had not progressed many miles when the red dawn began to appear in the east. They passed villages upon both banks of the river, surrounded by flooded ricefields, purple in the dawn. As the light grew, they were able to perceive distant wooded hills, with ancient temples and pagodas built upon their slopes.

They had taken turn and turn about at the work of steering, relieving one another every half-hour, so that there were always two of them in attendance upon Ling. He did not speak again until the sun had risen, when he complained that the light was trying to his eyes.

As he had said, he was far too heavy to be moved. They constructed an awning above him, a small sail tied to the mast. He thanked them with Chinese courtesy, and then closed his eyes again, as if he desired to sleep.

A little after, they rounded a bend of the river, and found that they had gained the Pe-kiang, or North River, which joins the West River a little above Canton. And there, lying in mid-stream, like a watch-dog at the mouth of its kennel, was a British gunboat, her paint glistening in the sun, the great muzzle of a 4.5 gun directed at the bows of the junk. They could see the gunners, each man in his place, standing ready to fire.

The junk drifted nearer and nearer to the man-of-war. They could see the commander on the bridge. He shouted to them through a megaphone, ordering them to heave to and drop their anchors, or else he would open fire. When he saw that there were Europeans on board, however, who were free to do what they liked, and that the only Chinaman visible was a man stretched at full length upon the deck beneath an awning, he threw back his head with an exclamation of surprise.

At the commander's side upon the bridge stood a long-coated Chinaman; and as the junk drew alongside, Sir Thomas and his nephew recognised their old servant, Yung How.

A moment later, the lieutenant-commander was on board the junk, listening in astonishment to the extraordinary tale which Frank Armitage had to tell. It was not easy to believe, but there was on board the junk indisputable evidence that the boy spoke the truth. For there was the sack of silver dollars upon the deck, where Ling had thrown it; Cheong-Chau's seven men were below, bound hand and foot; and there was the great Honanese himself, with the spark of life no more than glimmering in that colossal frame.

Whilst Frank was relating his story, Sir Thomas addressed himself to Yung How, who stood upon the deck of the gunboat. The man explained that he had done all in his power to atone for his treachery and ingratitude. He had reached Hong-Kong--as we know--on the same boat as the letters, but had not been able to pluck up sufficient moral courage to present himself before the police authorities until after he had been several hours on the island. The ransom had already been despatched, when the Chief of Police presented himself before Sir John Macintosh, the Governor.

It would have been easy to telegraph to Canton, instructing those on board the launch to wait for His Majesty's gunboat Ferret. It was decided, however, to allow the ransom money to be taken over by the brigands, who could afterwards be brought to book at the junction of the Sang River with the Pekiang. It would not be possible for Cheong-Chau to remove the treasure by any other means than by junk or wupan. Of the operations of Ling and the undoing of Cheong-Chau and his band, the Hong-Kong police authorities, of course, knew nothing.

Yung How himself was ordered to accompany the ship's doctor, who immediately hastened to the assistance of the dying man on board the junk. When the servant found himself face to face with his master, he immediately fell upon his knees, imploring Sir Thomas to be merciful. The judge was not slow to forgive, realising that Yung How had at last been made to realise the evils of the drug to which for so many years he had been a slave, and the depths of degradation to which the opium smoker can sink.

Upon that fateful morning, however, beyond a few brief words of mutual congratulation, little enough was said. The attention of all was taken up by the prostrate figure of the notorious Canton robber, who for years past had defied all authority and law.

The naval surgeon declared that he could do nothing. The man was already as good as dead. The surgeon's sole cause for wonderment was that Ling still lived.

The great Honanese remained insensible until the moment when Cheong-Chau's brigands were brought on deck. Then, opening his eyes, he looked at them, at first not appearing to remember who they were. Then, very slowly, a smile spread upon his face.

"They go the way of all men," said he; "to the Potter's Yard, if evidence can be produced against them; at all events, to the wooden cages that are to be found at the gates of the city. As for myself, I go before a greater court of justice. And I am not afraid."

He remained silent for a moment, and then, seeing Frank, he asked the boy to come to him.

"Had I not met you," said he, "that morning on the wharf at Sanshui, perhaps I should not now be bidding farewell to all my earthly troubles. Still, that is a matter of no importance. I would like to thank you, because you have been true to me. It does not flatter me to think that you preferred me to Cheong-Chau. You obeyed me in the first instance through fear, and then because you saw that I was one upon whom you could rely. Tell me, is that so?"

"I think it is," said the boy, and then he added: "You are a strange man indeed."

"I believe I am," said Ling. "A singular mixture: evil and good, brutality and kindness, strength and weakness."

"I should not call you weak," said the boy.

"Then you do not know me, after all. What was all my vanity and boasting but weakness? What right has any man to boast? In the midst of the universe he is smaller than the ant; his voice, beside the thunder, is no more than the croaking of a frog. And now, bid me farewell, for I am about to die, and would gladly do so, that the pain I suffer may be ended."

It was just as if the man passed into the other world of his own free will. Slowly he closed his eyes; and then he breathed no more. The features of his face relaxed; the hardness and the cruelty, the lines of agony and crime, vanished from his features. The tiger was no more. And let us believe what he himself believed: that the evil that was in him remained upon this earth in that great casket of sinew, nerve and muscle, destined to decay, and the good that was within him--all that was noble and heroic, the great thoughts that he had had and the wisdom he had acquired--was carried by his soul into what he himself had described as "the expansive arch of heaven."

"Boys who read Mr. Strang's works have not merely the advantage of perusing enthralling and wholesome tales, but they are also absorbing sound and trustworthy information of the men and times about which they are reading."--DAILY TELEGRAPH.

Phil Trentham, a young English trader, and his friend Hoole, an American, are amongst the few survivors of a tramp steamer sunk by a German raider in the Pacific. Together with Grinson, the boatswain, and Meek, a seaman, they reach the coast of New Guinea, and find themselves between the devil and the deep sea, in the shape of cannibal natives on the one hand and the German raiders on the other. After running imminent risk of being devoured, the party come to terms with the natives, who have themselves suffered much at the hands of the Germans; and they unite against the common foe. By a clever stratagem Trentham wrecks the German raider and outwits the crew, who make an attack on his party. The fat boatswain, Grinson, and the lean, melancholy Meek are good examples of Mr. Herbert Strang's power of characterisation.

This is a story of African adventure that carries the reader on breathlessly. Two English lads, who had gone to Africa prospecting for tin, come into contact with the wild race of the Tubus, and unwittingly cross the ambitions of their leader, Goruba. They are besieged, with their carriers, in a tumble-down fort, have encounters with savage beasts as well as savage men, and ultimately, getting the better of Goruba, have their reward in the shape of a hoard of ivory which lay concealed beneath the fort.

A Story of Elizabethan Days. Eight plates in Colour by CYRUS CUNEO, and thirty-eight line drawings by T. H. ROBINSON.

This book is unique In literature for boys. It relates the adventurous career of an Elizabethan gentleman, in a style carefully modelled on the simple prose of the century which produced the Authorised Version of the Bible. No previous writer for boys has ever attempted a similar achievement. Apart from its romantic and exciting incidents, this story has great value by reason of its historical and geographical information, and its exceptional style.

Asia and Australia have been the scene of Mr. Strang's most recent romances of Empire. In this book he turns to Africa, where the colonising activity of rival powers is raising problems of the greatest interest and importance. The presence of a young Englishman in one of the debatable lands at a time of upheaval and international rivalry enables him to uphold the interests of the Empire against formidable opposition. The story is brimful of adventure, and its moral is that of patriotic self-sacrifice.

"Father Christmas brings many good things in his train, but It Is doubtful If he brings anything better in its own way than a new story by Mr. Herbert Strang. The multitude of his youthful readers are likely to find their most insatiable thirst for adventure satisfied by this new volume."--Bookman.

In this book Mr. Strang looks ahead--and other books have already proved him a prophet of surprising skill--to a time when there is a great Mongolian Empire whose army sweeps down on to the North-West Frontier of India. His two heroes luckily have an aeroplane, and with the help of a few Pathan miners they hold a pass in the Hindu Kush against a swarm of Mongols, long enough to prevent the cutting of the communications of the Indian army operating in Afghanistan. The qualities which marked Mr. Strang's last long story, "The Air-Scout," and won extraordinarily high commendation from Lord Roberts, Lord Curzon, and others, as well as from the Spectator and other great journals, are again strikingly displayed; and the combination of thrilling adventure with an Imperial problem and excellent writing, adds one more to this author's long list of successes.

"An exceptionally good book, written moreover In excellent style."--Times.

"The 'Air Patrol' is really a masterpiece."--Morning Post.

The problems of National Defence are being discussed with more and more care and attention, not only in Great Britain, but also in all parts of the Empire. In this story Mr. Strang imagines a Chinese descent upon Australia, and carries his hero through a series of exciting adventures, in which the value of national spirit, organisation, and discipline is exemplified. The important part which the aeroplane will play in warfare is recognised, and the thousands of readers who have delighted in the author's previous stories of aviation will find this new book after their own heart.

LORD ROBERTS writes: "It is capital reading, and should interest more than boys. Your forecast is so good that I can only hope the future may not bring to Australia such a struggle as the one you so graphically describe."

LORD CURZON writes: "I have read with great pleasure your book, 'The Air-Scout.' It seems to me to be a capital story, full of life and movement: and further, it preaches the best of all secular gospels, patriotism and co-operation."

"We congratulate Me. Strang on this fine book--one of the best fighting stories we have read."--Morning Post.

Rob Somers, son of an English settler in New York State, sets out with Lone Pete, a trapper, in pursuit of an Indian raiding party which has destroyed his home and carried off his younger brother. He is captured and taken to Quebec, where he finds his brother, and escapes with him in the dead of the winter, in company with a little band of New Englanders. They are pursued over snow 'and ice, and in a log hut beside Lake Champlain maintain a desperate struggle against a larger force of French, Indians, and half-breeds, ultimately reaching Fort Edward in safety.

Desmond Burke goes out to India to seek his fortune, and is sold by a false friend of his, one Marmaduke Diggle, to the famous Pirate of Gheria. But he escapes, runs away with one of the Pirate's own vessels, and meets Colonel Clive, whom he assists to capture the Pirate's stronghold. His subsequent adventures on the other side of India--how he saves a valuable cargo of his friend, Mr. Merriman, assists Clive in his fights against Sirajuddaula, and rescues Mr. Merriman's wife and daughter from the clutches of Diggle--are told with great spirit and humour.

"An absorbing story.... The narrative not only thrills, but also weaves skilfully out of fact and fiction a clear impression of our fierce struggle for India."--Athenaeum.

The first work of fiction in which the cause of the hapless Congo native is championed.

"It was an excellent Idea on the part of Mr. Herbert Strang to write a story about the treatment of the natives in the Congo Free State.... Mr. Strang has a big following among English boys, and anything he chooses to write is sure to receive their appreciative attention."--Standard,

"Mr. Herbert Strang has written not a few admirable books for boys, but none likely to make a more profound impression than his new story of this year."--Scotsman.

Of all our Native Indian regiments the Guides have probably the most glorious traditions. They were among the few who remained true to their salt during the trying days of the great Mutiny, vying in gallantry and devotion with our best British regiments. The story tells how James Barclay, after a strange career in Afghanistan, becomes associated with this famous regiment, and though young in years, bears a man's part in the great march to Delhi, the capture of the royal city, and the suppression of the Mutiny.

A rousing story of adventure by sea and land. The hero, Dennis Hazelrig, is cast ashore on an island in the Spanish Main, the sole survivor of a band of adventurers from Plymouth. He lives for some time with no companion but a spider monkey, but by a series of remarkable incidents he gathers about him a numerous band of escaped slaves and prisoners, English, French and native; captures a Spanish fort; fights a Spanish galleon; meets Francis Drake, and accompanies him in his famous adventures on the Isthmus of Panama; and finally reaches England the possessor of much treasure. The author has, as usual, devoted much pains to characterisation, and every boy will delight in Amos Turnpenny, Tom Copstone, and other bold men of Devon, and in Mirandola, the monkey.

In this story two boys are left on a volcanic island in the South Seas, destitute of everything but their clothes. The story relates how they provided themselves with food and shelter, with tools and weapons; how they fought with wild dogs and sea monsters; and how, when they have settled down to a comfortable life under the shadow of the volcano, their peace is disturbed by the advent of savages and a crew of mutinous Englishmen. The savages are driven away; the mutineers are subdued through the boys' ingenuity; and they ultimately sail away in a vessel of their own construction. In no other book has the author more admirably blended amusement with instruction.

"Written as well that there Is not a dull page in the book."--The World.

Each of the following stories is concerned with some particular discovery of Modern Science, such as the aeroplane and the submarine, which is made use of in the working out of the plot; and the heroes of these adventures, who face dangers that were unknown in olden times, cannot fail to make a strong appeal to boys of to-day.

The flying boat Is a logical development of the hydroplane. At a sufficiently high speed, the hydroplane leaves the water and becomes a hydro-aeroplane. The possession of such a machine gives the hero of the story (the scene of which is laid in China) opportunities of highly exciting adventures, and Incidentally the chance of rescuing an old chum who has fallen into the hands of Chinese revolutionaries.

"The book is alive with vigorous action from cover to cover, 'The Flying Boat' is a rattling good story."--Bookman.

In the interest aroused by the solution of the problem of flying, the motor bicycle has been entirely overlooked by story-writers. Happily Mr. Herbert Strang has now thought of making it the pivot of a story, the scene of which is one of the Latin States of South America. Mr. Strang tells the story of an Irish boy who is living in this State just at the time when one of the periodical revolutions breaks out. He is forced to take sides, and with the help of his motor-cycle is able to assist his friends, but not without running risks unknown to scouts provided with less novel means of traversing the country. "A really fine story, full of life, and one that any bay can enjoy."--Outlook.

"This is a book which any boy would revel in, and which people who are no longer boys will read with equally breathless interest."--Educational News.

(The Gyro-Car, which is a road vehicle or a boat at pleasure, is the logical outcome of the gyroscope applied to the bicycle.)

"It is one of the most exciting of this season's works for boys, every page containing a thrill, and no boy will leave it to a second sitting if he can help it."--Teacher.

"One of the best boys' stories we have ever read."--Morning Leader.

"The best book of its kind now in existence."--Manchester Guardian.

"The excitement lasts from cover to cover."--Manchester Courier.

Captain G. B. McKean is a Canadian officer who served throughout the war, first as a private, afterwards gaining a commission, and winning successively the Military Medal, the V.C., and the Military Cross. In his book he recounts some of his most thrilling experiences on the Western Front, particularly the exploit by which he gained the V.C. Captain McKean was Scout Officer in his battalion, and his chapters are amongst the most vivid and thrilling accounts of the war yet written--not the war of "big pushes," massed attacks, bayonet charges, and the capture of miles of trenches, but of nights spent crawling about in the mud of No-Man's-Land, of lonely vigils in shell-holes, bombing raids, and unpleasant experiences "on the wire."

GENERAL SIR ROBERT BADEN POWELL writes: "I have devoured it with great relish.... It gives a life-like representation of the risks and thrills of scouting and the 'real thing'; and as a moral lesson of chucking everything aside to get your duty done, it is bound to have powerful results."

"Brother o' Mine" is a story of Harley, a great public school. Toby Nicholson, an old Harleian, after making a shot at one or two possible openings for a career, accepts the post of Games Master at his old school. To his younger brother Terence the prospect of being at Harley with Toby is one of unalloyed pleasure, and as he is pretty sure of his First XI. colours next term, the world for him is rose-coloured. But his anticipations are not altogether realised, for Slade, the Captain of Cricket, having no particular liking for Terence to start with, feels that the presence of Toby is a direct challenge to him to assert his independence; and on the plea that he will not show favouritism to a boy because his brother happens to be Games Master, he refuses to do him simple justice and keeps him out of the XI. In the duel that ensues, Slade makes several false moves that show him to be actuated by petty spite rather than by any high motive of justice and fair-play; and his own play proving anything but fair, his career at Harley comes to an abrupt conclusion. Terence is a fine bat, and the force of public opinion and his own worth secure him the coveted "last place" in the XI.

"The Harley First Eleven" is a collection of Mr. Hylton Cleaver's best short stories, all centring on the great public school Harley, and, individually, dealing with the sports for which it is famous. Mr. Cleaver's knowledge of public school-boy character is extensive and profound; he has a ready fund of wit and humour at his call, and he can describe a Rugger match in a way that makes the blood tingle with excitement. Rugger was Harley's great game, though the school produced many first-class cricketers; and the two games form the pivot of several stories. Others are concerned with boxing, running and swimming; and we are let into secrets regarding the giving or withholding of colours for which the school at large saw no justification at the time. The book is a history of battles fought and won on the playing-fields of Harley.

This book deals with the labours and exploits of those who have played an important part in bringing about the conquest of the air. It not only contains personal memoirs of the men themselves, but traces the progress of aerial flight from the early gliders to the aeroplanes of to-day. The story of the experiments of those who first essayed to fly--the problems that long baffled them and the difficulties they overcame--together with the accounts of the daring feats of modern aviators, make a stirring narrative, and carry the history of heroism and endurance a. stage further forward.

"This will prove a great attraction to a multitude of readers who wish to read of deeds of great daring and very narrow escapes."--Nation.

Mr. Grahame-White has not only repeatedly proved his skill and daring as a pilot, but the well-known type of biplane bearing his name shows that he is in the forefront of designers and constructors. With his practical and technical knowledge is combined the somewhat rare ability to impart his knowledge in a form acceptable to boys, as he has already shown in his "Heroes of the Air." This time he has written a vade mecum for the young aeroplanist, who is conducted to the aerodrome and initiated Into all the mysteries of flying. The structure of the aeroplane, the uses of the different parts, the propulsive mechanism, the steering apparatus, the work at a flying school, the causes of accidents, and the future of the aeroplane are all dealt with.

"It is surely one of the most entertaining books on a technical subject that have ever appeared, as well as one of the most instructive and comprehensive."--Nation.

Captain Gilson's new book carries us back to the early days of the war, when the hidden menace of spies in our midst was scarcely less formidable than the obvious menace from the enemy without. Daniel Wansborough, a retired Scotland Yard detective, takes up active service again in the hour of his country's need, and becomes aware of a well-organised system of espionage at work, with its headquarters in London; but for a time he cannot discover whose is the brain directing the organisation. His nephew, George, a lad of sixteen, is instrumental in obtaining this information. George falls into the hands of the arch-spy, and is kept a prisoner in London. Here he learns the details of an ingenious plan whereby the chief Government offices in Whitehall are to be destroyed by Zeppelins. The detective, in trying to unravel the mystery of his nephew's disappearance, finds the threads mingling with those of the spy-plot, and when at length he locates the house in which the boy is shut up, he finds himself with his hand upon the very nerve-centre of the German Secret Service organisation. George is able to supply the missing links in the chain of evidence, and the scheme for the destruction of Whitehall if frustrated at the eleventh hour.

To the work of story-writing Captain Gilson brings a remarkable combination of talents: an unrivalled knowledge of military history, an imagination that never flags, a dramatic literary style, and a keen sense of humour. These qualities are seen to perfection in "The Spy." The hero, Sir Jeffery Jones, Bart, when a boy of sixteen, secures a commission in a famous foot regiment, then under orders to sail for Portugal under the command of Sir Arthur Wellesley. His first encounter with the enemy takes place before he is fifty miles from home, for on the road to London he pursues and comes near to capturing a spy in the pay of Bonaparte. Several times subsequently the paths of the two cross, and eventually Sir Jeffery is the means of thwarting the Frenchman's schemes. He takes part in much of the fighting in the Peninsula, and, at the storming of Badajoz and elsewhere, renders his country good service.

"Every boy who loves tales of war and perilous enterprise--and what boy does not!--will read 'The Spy' with unqualified enjoyment."--Bookman.

This is the story of a middy who was taken prisoner by the French at the time of the Revolution. While in Paris he obtained possession of Napoleon's plans for the capture of India, and, after many adventures, was the means of frustrating that ambitious scheme.