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JavaScript in 10 Simple Steps or Less 1st Edition Arman
Danesh Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Arman Danesh
ISBN(s): 9780764542411, 0764542419
Edition: 1
File Details: PDF, 14.11 MB
Year: 2003
Language: english
 TM
JavaScript
in 10 Simple Steps or Less
 TM
JavaScript
in 10 Simple Steps or Less

Arman Danesh
JavaScriptTM in 10 Simple Steps or Less
Published by
Wiley Publishing, Inc.
10475 Crosspoint Boulevard
Indianapolis, IN 46256
www.wiley.com

Copyright © 2004 by Wiley Publishing, Inc., Indianapolis, Indiana

Published simultaneously in Canada
Library of Congress Control Number: 2003114066
ISBN: 0-7645-4241-9
Manufactured in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
1Q/QZ/RS/QT/IN
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise, except as permitted under Sec-
tions 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without either the prior written permission of the
Publisher, or authorization through payment of the appropriate per-copy fee to the Copyright Clearance Cen-
ter, 222 Rosewood Drive, Danvers, MA 01923, (978) 750-8400, fax (978) 646-8600. Requests to the Publisher
for permission should be addressed to the Legal Department, Wiley Publishing, Inc., 10475 Crosspoint Blvd.,
Indianapolis, IN 46256, (317) 572-3447, fax (317) 572-4447, E-mail: permcoordinator@wiley.com.
Limit of Liability/Disclaimer of Warranty: While the publisher and author have used their best efforts in
preparing this book, they make no representations or warranties with respect to the accuracy or completeness of
the contents of this book and specifically disclaim any implied warranties of merchantability or fitness for a par-
ticular purpose. No warranty may be created or extended by sales representatives or written sales materials. The
advice and strategies contained herein may not be suitable for your situation. You should consult with a profes-
sional where appropriate. Neither the publisher nor author shall be liable for any loss of profit or any other com-
mercial damages, including but not limited to special, incidental, consequential, or other damages.
For general information on our other products and services or to obtain technical support, please contact our
Customer Care Department within the U.S. at (800) 762-2974, outside the U.S. at (317) 572-3993 or fax (317)
572-4002.
Wiley also publishes its books in a variety of electronic formats. Some content that appears in print may not be
available in electronic books.
Trademarks: Wiley, the Wiley Publishing logo, and related trade dress are trademarks or registered trademarks
of John Wiley & Sons, Inc. and/or its affiliates in the United States and other countries, and may not be used
without written permission. JavaScript is a trademark of Sun Microsystems, Inc. All other trademarks are the
property of their respective owners. Wiley Publishing, Inc. is not associated with any product or vendor men-
tioned in this book.
To my beloved Tahirih for her support and encouragement.
 Credits

Acquisitions Editor Project Coordinator

Jim Minatel Courtney MacIntyre

Development Editor Graphics and Production Specialists

Sharon Nash Elizabeth Brooks, Joyce Haughey, Jennifer Heleine,
LeAndra Hosier, Heather Pope, Mary Gillot Virgin
Production Editor
Felicia Robinson Quality Control Technician
John Tyler Connoley, John Greenough,
Technical Editor Charles Spencer
Will Kelly
Proofreading and Indexing
Copy Editor Sossity R. Smith, Johnna VanHoose
Joanne Slike

Editorial Manager
Kathryn Malm

Vice President & Executive Group Publisher

Richard Swadley

Vice President and Executive Publisher

Robert Ipsen

Vice President and Publisher

Joseph B. Wikert
 About the Author

Arman Danesh is the Internet Coordinator for the Bahá’í International Community’s Office of Public
Information. In that capacity, he manages the development of numerous Web sites, including The Bahá’í
World (www.bahai.org), the official Web site of the Bahá’í Faith, and the Bahá’í World News Services
(www.bahaiworldnews.org), an online news service, both of which use JavaScript. Additionally, he is the
Technical Director for Juxta Publishing Limited (www.juxta.com). He has been working with JavaScript
since the mid-1990s and is the author of some of the earliest books on the subject, including Teach Yourself
JavaScript in a Week and JavaScript Developer’s Guide. Arman has authored more than 20 books on tech-
nology subjects, including ColdFusion MX Developer’s Handbook (Sybex), Mastering ColdFusion MX (Sybex),
SAIR Linux & Gnu Certified Administrator All-in-One Exam Guide (Osborne/McGraw-Hill), and Safe and
Secure: Secure Your Home Network and Protect Your Privacy Online (Sams). He is pursuing an advanced
degree in computer science at Simon Fraser University outside Vancouver, British Columbia.
 Acknowledgments

T he task of writing these long computer books is a daunting one, and it is a process that requires
significant contributions from many people who help these projects see their way to completion.
For this project, I need to thank the entire team, including Sharon Nash and Jim Minatel at Wiley, as
well as all the myriad others involved in preparing, designing, and producing the books there.

I also need to thank my family for their patience during the writing of the book. In particular, my wife,
Tahirih, and son, Ethan, deserve credit for tolerating the time I had to devote to the preparation of
this book.
 Contents

Credits vi

About the Author vii

Acknowledgments ix

Introduction xix

Part 1: JavaScript Basics 1

Task 1: Creating a script Block 2
Task 2: Hiding Your JavaScript Code 4
Task 3: Providing Alternatives to Your JavaScript Code 6
Task 4: Including Outside Source Code 8
Task 5: Commenting Your Scripts 10
Task 6: Writing a JavaScript Command 12
Task 7: Temporarily Removing a Command from a Script 14
Task 8: Using Curly Brackets 16
Task 9: Writing Output to the Browser 18
Task 10: Creating a Variable 20
Task 11: Outputting a Variable 22
Task 12: Creating a String 24
Task 13: Creating a Numeric Variable 26
Task 14: Performing Math 28
Task 15: Concatenating Strings 30
Task 16: Searching for Text in Strings 32
Task 17: Replacing Text in Strings 34
Task 18: Formatting Strings 36
Task 19: Applying Multiple Formatting Functions to a String 38
Task 20: Creating Arrays 40
Task 21: Populating an Array 42
Task 22: Sorting an Array 44
Task 23: Splitting a String at a Delimiter 46
Task 24: Calling Functions 48
 xii JavaScript in 10 Simple Steps or Less

Task 25: Alerting the User 50

Task 26: Confirming with the User 52
Task 27: Creating Your Own Functions 54
Task 28: Passing an Argument to Your Functions 56
Task 29: Returning Values from Your Functions 58
Task 30: Passing Multiple Parameters to Your Functions 60
Task 31: Calling Functions from Tags 62
Task 32: Calling Your JavaScript Code after the Page Has Loaded 64
Task 33: Using for Loops 66
Task 34: Testing Conditions with if 68
Task 35: Using Short-Form Condition Testing 70
Task 36: Looping on a Condition 72
Task 37: Looping through an Array 74
Task 38: Scheduling a Function for Future Execution 76
Task 39: Scheduling a Function for Recurring Execution 78
Task 40: Canceling a Scheduled Function 80
Task 41: Adding Multiple Scripts to a Page 82
Task 42: Calling Your JavaScript Code after the Page Has Loaded 84
Task 43: Check If Java Is Enabled with JavaScript 86

Part 2: Outputting to the Browser 89

Task 44: Accessing the document Object 90
Task 45: Outputting Dynamic HTML 92
Task 46: Including New Lines in Output 94
Task 47: Outputting the Date to the Browser 96
Task 48: Outputting the Date and Time in a Selected Time Zone 98
Task 49: Controlling the Format of Date Output 100
Task 50: Customizing Output by the Time of Day 102
Task 51: Generating a Monthly Calendar 104
Task 52: Customizing Output Using URL Variables 106
Task 53: Dynamically Generating a Menu 108
Task 54: Replacing the Browser Document with a New Document 110
Task 55: Redirecting the User to a New Page 112
Task 56: Creating a “Page Loading ...” Placeholder 114

Part 3: Images and Rollovers 117

Task 57: Accessing an HTML-Embedded Image in JavaScript 118
Task 58: Loading an Image Using JavaScript 120
Task 59: Detecting MouseOver Events on Images 122
Contents xiii

Task 60: Detecting Click Events on Images 124

Task 61: Switching an Image Programatically 126
Task 62: Using Multiple Rollovers in One Page 128
Task 63: Displaying a Random Image 130
Task 64: Displaying Multiple Random Images 132
Task 65: Using a Function to Create a Rollover 134
Task 66: Using a Function to Trigger a Rollover 136
Task 67: Using Functions to Create Multiple Rollovers in One Page 138
Task 68: Creating a Simple Rollover Menu System 140
Task 69: Creating a Slide Show in JavaScript 142
Task 70: Randomizing Your Slide Show 144
Task 71: Triggering Slide Show Transitions from Links 146
Task 72: Including Captions in a Slide Show 148
Task 73: Testing If an Image Is Loaded 150
Task 74: Triggering a Rollover in a Different Location with a Link 152
Task 75: Using Image Maps and Rollovers Together 154
Task 76: Generating Animated Banners in JavaScript 156
Task 77: Displaying a Random Banner Ad 158

Part 4: Working with Forms 161

Task 78: Preparing Your Forms for JavaScript 162
Task 79: Accessing Text Field Contents 164
Task 80: Dynamically Updating Text Fields 166
Task 81: Detecting Changes in Text Fields 168
Task 82: Accessing Selection Lists 170
Task 83: Programmatically Populating a Selection List 172
Task 84: Dynamically Changing Selection List Content 174
Task 85: Detecting Selections in Selection Lists 176
Task 86: Updating One Selection List Based on Selection in Another 178
Task 87: Using Radio Buttons instead of Selection Lists 180
Task 88: Detecting the Selected Radio Button 182
Task 89: Detecting Change of Radio Button Selection 184
Task 90: Updating or Changing Radio Button Selection 186
Task 91: Creating Check Boxes 188
Task 92: Detecting Check Box Selections 190
Task 93: Changing Check Box Selections 192
Task 94: Detecting Changes in Check Box Selections 194
Task 95: Verifying Form Fields in JavaScript 196
Task 96: Using the onSubmit Attribute of the Form Tag to Verify Form Fields 198
 xiv JavaScript in 10 Simple Steps or Less

Task 97: Verifying Form Fields Using INPUT TYPE=”button”

Instead of TYPE=”submit” 200
Task 98: Validating E-mail Addresses 202
Task 99: Validating Zip Codes 204
Task 100: Validating Phone Numbers 206
Task 101: Validating Credit Card Numbers 208
Task 102: Validating Selection List Choices 210
Task 103: Validating Radio Button Selections 212
Task 104: Validating Check Box Selections 214
Task 105: Validating Passwords 216
Task 106: Validating Phone Numbers with Regular Expressions 218
Task 107: Creating Multiple Form Submission Buttons Using
INPUT TYPE=”button” Buttons 220
Task 108: Reacting to Mouse Clicks on Buttons 222
Task 109: Using Graphical Buttons in JavaScript 224
Task 110: Controlling the Form Submission URL 226
Task 111: Validating a Numeric Text Field with Regular Expressions 228
Task 112: Encrypting Data before Submitting It 230
Task 113: Using Forms for Automatic Navigation Jumping 232

Part 5: Manipulating Browser Windows 235

Task 114: Using the Window Object 236
Task 115: Popping Up an Alert Dialog Box 238
Task 116: Popping Up Confirmation Dialog Boxes 240
Task 117: Popping Up JavaScript Prompts 242
Task 118: Creating New Browser Windows 244
Task 119: Opening a New Browser Window from a Link 246
Task 120: Setting the Size of New Browser Windows 248
Task 121: Setting the Location of New Browser Windows 250
Task 122: Controlling Toolbar Visibility for New Browser Windows 252
Task 123: Determining the Availability of Scroll Bars for New Browser Windows 254
Task 124: Restricting Resizing of New Browser Windows 256
Task 125: Loading a New Document into a Browser Window 258
Task 126: Controlling Window Scrolling from JavaScript 260
Task 127: Opening a Full-Screen Window in Internet Explorer 262
Task 128: Handling the Parent-Child Relationship of Windows 264
Task 129: Updating One Window’s Contents from Another 266
Task 130: Accessing a Form in Another Browser Window 268
Task 131: Closing a Window in JavaScript 270
Task 132: Closing a Window from a Link 272
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 “You want me to find this Armenian treasure?” I went on, risking
the “Armenian.”
“You know about it?” the Pimple asked in surprise. “How did you
know? Did the Spook tell you?”
“I have had several communications,” I said guardedly. “You’ve
been concentrating on the wrong places.”
(I did not know whether Moïse had been digging or merely
thinking about digging. “Concentrating” covered both.)
“We tried the Schoolhouse garden,” said the Pimple, “but did not
find it.”
“Of course not,” said I. “Digging at random is like looking for a
needle in a haystack.”
The Pimple was much struck by the phrase, and made a note of it
in his pocket-book, to practise it some days later on a choleric major
who wanted his parcel dug out in a hurry. Thus he acquired English
—and unpopularity!
“You will grant me a séance?” he asked.
“Oh yes! Let’s see! What’s the best day?” I pondered deeply.
“How’s the moon, Moïse?”
“Moon?” said Moïse. “What has the moon to do?”
“Do you want the best results?” I asked.
“Certainly.”
“Then how’s the moon?” (He told me.) “Ah! Then three days
hence will be best. We’ll have a séance on the evening of the 10th
September in the Hospital House. You must get me permission to
sleep there for the night.”
It was directly contrary to the rules of the camp that a prisoner
should be absent from his own house after dark. The readiness with
which Moïse granted the privilege showed he had nothing to fear
from the Commandant.
The interview had been most satisfactory. I had learned, first, that
the Turks believed that there was a treasure; second, that two or
more of our captors had already been looking for it (Moïse had said
“WE tried the Schoolhouse garden”); and third, that one of the
group was probably the Commandant, Kiazim Bey himself. No doubt
I could have learned all these facts quite easily by direct questioning.
But the whole art of mediumship is to gather information by indirect
methods, in order that, at a later stage, it may be reproduced by the
Spook as an original utterance from the unknown. The only memory
of our conversation Moïse was likely to carry away with him was the
“fact” that the success of a séance depends on the state of the
moon.
My plans had been formed during our interview. This was
obviously what I had waited for so long—an opportunity of attaining
my object of properly intriguing the Turk. A treasure-hunt has a
glamour of its own in the most material surroundings. A treasure-
hunt under the guidance of a Spook ought to be a stunt beyond
price. It only remained to prove that the Spook could find things and
the Turk would be on the string. I determined, if necessary, to
ground-bait with my own poor little store of gold and let the Pimple
acquire a taste for the game of treasure-hunting by finding it. The
advantage of this method would be that the rest of the camp would
remain as much in the dark as to the origin of the gold as the
Pimple, and I saw the prospect of much fun by organizing digging
parties throughout the autumn. Had gold been at all plentiful this
would undoubtedly have been the proper course to pursue. But it
was a rare commodity, and I was reluctant to part with my small
stock without first trying a cheaper method.
I therefore waylaid Cochrane.
“I hear,” said I, “that you dug up a revolver the other day. Was it a
good one?”
“It was a Smith and Wesson 450,” said Cochrane, “and we got
some ammunition with it. But the weapon’s quite unserviceable—the
action has rusted to pieces.”
“Would you mind very much parting with it?” I asked.
“It’s of no value,” said Cochrane; “but it isn’t mine, it’s Lloyd’s.
What do you want with it?”
I told him.
“Bones, you old villain,” he laughed, “you’ll get yourself hanged
yet if you are not careful.” That was an uncomfortably correct
prophecy! I remembered it six months later when Hill and I were cut
down just in time to save our worthless lives. But I am anticipating.
 “I’ll take the risk,” I said, “if you’ll get me the gun.”
Half an hour later the revolver, its holster, and some dozen rounds
of rust-eaten ammunition were in my possession. It had been
cleaned, and some of the rust removed. We re-rusted it with
sulphuric, re-muddied it, and next morning re-buried it. The spot
chosen was not that where it had been found. The garden was
terraced in six-foot drops, and a wall of uncemented stones upheld
each terrace. By removing a few stones from the face of the wall,
scooping out a cavity in the earth beyond and thrusting in the
revolver and ammunition, Cochrane and I succeeded in planting the
revolver in such a way that the ground above it was quite
undisturbed. The only difficulty we might have to overcome was to
explain the freshness of the mud on the holster; for the surrounding
ground was bone dry.
The position now became somewhat delicate. A number of officers
in the camp knew that Cochrane had discovered a revolver. Several
of them had seen it. If the Spook rediscovered it, somebody was
sure to recognize it and the fat would be in the fire. Suspicion would
be cast on all our spiritualistic performances, and the edifice of
credulity so painfully built up in the camp might easily come crashing
to earth. This would have been disastrous, for my principal asset in
converting the Turk was the childlike belief of many of my fellow-
prisoners in the genuineness of our séances. The general
atmosphere of faith had an effect on the Pimple which no amount of
concerted lying could have achieved. It was essential to retain the
atmosphere as far as possible, and to bring off the coup against the
Pimple without affecting the belief in spiritualism of the camp as a
whole.
The best plan was obviously to take the camp, up to a certain
point, into my confidence. I announced that the Pimple was about to
be subjected to a practical joke. My plan was not to have a séance
at all, but to pretend to the Turks we had held one, and had
received instructions from the Spook as to where to dig.
But on the morning of the 10th, the Pimple announced his
intention of being present at the sitting. This involved our bringing
out the answers on the spook-board, and placed a fresh difficulty in
my way. It was obvious that if I brought out the answers by my
usual methods, the audience would at once realize that if I could
fake thus for the Turks, I could also fake for them! There must
therefore be some difference from our ordinary procedure which the
audience could easily detect for themselves.
The affair was arranged very simply, to the satisfaction of all
concerned. As between myself and the audience, we agreed that
wherever the Turk happened to sit I was to take the place
immediately on his right. I could then so shade my face from him
with my left hand that he could not see whether or not my eyes
were open. With my eyes open, I explained to my little school of
True Believers,[9] I could push the glass to the answers required. The
part of the audience on my right would see the deception. I begged
them to give no sign.
Such was the public plan. But the private plan was quite different.
I wanted to be free to watch the Interpreter, and to be ready for
emergencies. If my attention was to be concentrated on spelling out
the correct answers I could not do this efficiently. So far as my
fellow-prisoners were concerned, I would be the centre of interest.
They knew beforehand the thing was to be faked by me, and they
would naturally watch me closely to see how the fake could be
carried out. Nightingale and I talked the matter over. It was decided
that he should be responsible for pushing the glass to the correct
letters. This would leave me free to act my double part so as to
appear genuine to the Pimple and fraudulent to the rest of the
audience, without being bothered with what the glass was doing on
the board. Further, in order fully to occupy the Pimple’s attention, we
decided to employ him as a recorder and keep him so busy writing
down letters that he would not have any time to spare for watching
the mediums.
The result was most gratifying. Nobody for one moment suspected
Nightingale. Everybody, except the Pimple, “detected” me pushing
the glass. They came up to me afterwards, congratulated me on my
excellent imitation of a séance, and remarked “Of course it was quite
easy to see you were pushing the glass. We could see you were
watching the board.” Surely there were no further fields to conquer!
The True Believers had first been convinced that I wasn’t pushing
the glass when I was, and now they were equally convinced that I
was pushing the glass when I wasn’t!
The Spook fixed the 12th of September for the treasure-hunt. At 2
p.m. on that day, by the Spook’s orders, Mundey (who wanted to
share in the joke) waited with me outside the woodshed by the
Majors’ house. The Pimple came fussing up.
“Good morning, Mundey! Morning, Jones! You are ready?”
“Yes,” we answered.
“Let me see.” Moïse consulted his record of the séance. “The
shavings for fire? The cord to bind your hands? The cloaks? The ink
and saucer?” he ticked off each item as we produced them.
“What about your companion, Moïse?” Mundey asked. “The Spook
said there must be two of you.”
“Soon the Cook will be here,” the Pimple said, “and like myself he
is carrying hidden steel. Feel! A bayonet”—he thrust forward a stiff
leg. Inside the trouser-leg, according to the Spook’s instructions, he
was wearing a naked bayonet which reached well below the knee.
I was a little disappointed that the Commandant’s Cook should be
the fourth, for I had hoped the Spook’s orders might bring out
Kiazim Bey himself. But the Cook was no ordinary cook—he was the
confidant as well as the orderly of our Commandant, was practically
Second in Command of the camp, and was altogether as big a rascal
as ever wore baggy trousers. The Pimple’s selection of this man to
accompany us instead of one of the regular sentries was another
proof that the Commandant was in the know.
“Do you think there will be danger?” Moïse asked.
Mundey, with a fine air of martyrdom, shrugged his shoulders.
“One never knows in these things,” he said carelessly, “but if we
follow instructions it should be all right.”
“Oh, I hope so,” said the Pimple. “Why do you think the Spook
says, ‘the Treasure is by Arms Guarded’? Why does he insist that
first we find the arms? Why not lead us straight to the treasure?”
“Don’t be impatient,” said Mundey severely; “for all you know the
treasure may be mined, and if we go digging it up without
disconnecting the mine we would all go up together. Our job is to
obey the Spook’s instructions, not to argue about them.”
“Do you think we shall find these arms which are guarding our
treasure?” Moïse asked.
“I think so,” Mundey said. “You have done this sort of thing
before, haven’t you, Bones?”
“Oh yes,” I answered.
The Cook arrived, walking gingerly on account of the bayonet. He
spoke rapidly in Turkish to the Pimple, who turned to us and
translated.
“The Cook wants to know what are we to do if the Spook leads to
a harem?”
Mundey and I had the utmost difficulty in keeping our faces
straight—we had not thought of such an enterprise.
“We can stop outside, I suppose,” said Mundey.
The Pimple translated to the Cook, who burst into a torrent of
agitated Turkish.
“He is saying,” Pimple translated, “you will be entranced and the
Spook says on no account must you be touched or spoken to. How
then are we to stop you if you are making to go into the women’s
quarters?”
“Probably only one of us will be entranced,” I said, “and if that is
me you tell Mundey to stop me. You know how, don’t you, Mundey?”
Mundey rose to the occasion. “Certainly,” he said. “I can use the
Red Karen teletantic thought transmission.”
“What is that?” asked the Pimple.
“Never you mind,” said I. “That’s a secret process I taught Mundey
in Burma. Come on! Let’s get ready.” I stretched out my hands and
the Cook bound them together with the cord we had brought for the
purpose. Then he did the same for Mundey. These little things all
count in instilling credulity.
“Now what to do?” asked the Pimple.
“Hush!” said Mundey. “Look at Jones! He’s going off! Don’t speak
—for Heaven’s sake don’t speak to him.”
I went gradually off into a “trance.” It was hard acting in broad
daylight, with the two eager treasure-hunters watching at close
range. The fact that I had never seen anybody go off into a trance
did not make it any easier. But I had big plans at stake.
At last, speaking in a slow, sleepy voice, I addressed an invisible
person behind the Interpreter, looking through him as if he were not
there. “What did you say?” I asked.
The Pimple twirled round, but of course saw nothing.
“What?” I repeated. “I—can’t—hear.”
“To whom is he speaking?” asked Moïse. “There is nothing I see!
Can you see?”
“Hush—hush! For any sake be quiet!” Mundey was acting
splendidly.
“South!” I shouted, and started off at a great pace down the lane.
“South! South!”
Mundey kept step with me. The Pimple and the Cook trotted
(uncomfortably because of the bayonets) close behind us. With eyes
fixed on the “spirit” I rushed past the astonished sentry, who obeyed
a signal from Moïse and made no effort to stop me. As I went I
called to the spirit to have mercy on us poor mortals, and not to go
so fast. Then, as my breath failed, I came to a stop and sat down in
the cabbage-patch outside the camp.
“What has happened? Where am I?” I looked up at Moïse with a
dazed expression.
“You cannot see it now?” Moïse asked in great agitation. “It is not
quite gone away, surely?”
“Quick!” said Mundey. “The Ink Pool! Before it goes! Hurry up,
Moïse!”
The Interpreter produced the bottle of ink and saucer which the
Spook had ordered him to bring. We poured the ink into the saucer,
and Mundey and I stared fixedly into it.
“Ah!” said Mundey.
“Ah!” said I.
“What is it?” asked the Pimple, peering over our shoulders into the
ink pool. We paid no attention to him.
“Can you see which way it is pointing?” Mundey asked.
“Yes,” said I. “West! Come on!” Jumping to our feet, Mundey and I
started westwards up the hill as fast as we could go. Our bayonet-
hobbled friends had the utmost difficulty in keeping up with us. We
led them a pretty dance before we pulled up at the spot where the
revolver was buried.
Here I asked for instructions from the invisible Spook. I was once
more in a trance—a fact to which Mundey judiciously drew the
Pimple’s attention.
“Which test do you suggest?” I asked.
The Spook’s reply was audible only to myself. I turned on the
Pimple.
“Quick!” I said. “Do what he says, or we’ll be too late!”
“And what does he say?” the Pimple asked.
“He wants the test of the Head-hunting Waas,” I explained
excitedly. “Quick, man! Quick!”
“I do not understand.” The unhappy Pimple wrung his hands.
“The fire! The shavings! Quick, you idiot!” I raved. (It was great
fun being able to abuse our captors without fear of punishment.)
With trembling fingers the Pimple undid the bundle of shavings. I
snatched it from him, deposited it directly over where the revolver
lay, and put a match to it. Then standing over the blaze, with arms
outstretched towards the heavens, I recited—
“Tra bo dŵr y môr yn hallt,
A thra bo ’ngwallt yn tyfu,
A thra bo calon dan fy mron
Mi fydda ’n fyddlon iti,”

etc., etc., and so on. Celtic scholars will recognize a popular Welsh
love lyric. In Yozgad it passed muster, very well, as the Incantation
of the Head-hunting Waas. The Pimple and the Cook listened open-
mouthed. Even Mundey was impressed.
“Something is here,” I called. “I feel it. Get a pick!”
Moïse turned to the Cook in great excitement and translated.
Opposite us, at the foot of the little garden, was a high wall. The
Cook was over it in a flash, like a monkey gone mad, and a moment
later we could see him racing up the road towards the
Commandant’s office to get the necessary implements for digging.
 I glanced round and saw Corbould-Warren’s grinning face
watching from behind a neighbouring wall. Close to him was a little
crowd of my fellow-prisoners, all more or less helpless with
suppressed laughter. The impulse to laugh along with them was
almost irresistible. To save myself from doing so I sat down heavily,
in a semi-collapse, against Tony’s hen-house, and buried my face in
my arms. Mundey ministered nobly to me until the Cook reappeared
with the pick. I began to dig.
I calculated the revolver ought to be about fifteen inches
underground. When the hole was a foot deep I stopped, and again
appeared to listen to the invisible Spook.
“I forgot,” I said apologetically, “I am sorry.” Then, turning to
Moïse, “We’ve forgotten the fourth element, Moïse! Hurry up! Get it!”
“Fourth element! I do not understand.”
“Oh, you ass!” I shouted. “We’ve had Air and Earth and Fire. We
want the other one.”
“But what is it?” Moïse wailed.
“Water!” said Mundey. “Quick—a bucket of water!”
Moïse rushed into the house and brought out a pail of water. I
took it from him and poured it into the hole. As the last drops
soaked into the dry earth I breathed more freely. Any fresh mud or
dampness on the revolver due to the re-muddying process would
now be properly accounted for. I resumed the digging. A moment
later the butt of the revolver came to light. With a wild yell I pointed
at it, staggered, and “threw a faint.” It was a good faint—rather too
good—not only did I cut my forehead open on a stone, but one of
our own British orderlies who was not “in the know” ran out with a
can of water and drenched me thoroughly. I was then carried by
orderlies into the house and laid on my own bed.
Outside, the comedy was in full swing. When the revolver was
found, neither the Cook nor the Interpreter worried for a moment
about my condition. For all they cared I might have been dead.
Without a glance in my direction, they let me lie where I had fallen,
and seizing pick and shovel, began to dig like furies. If “the Treasure
was by Arms guarded” surely it must be somewhere near those
arms! They dug and they dug. They tore away the terrace wall. They
made a hole big enough to hide a mule. The Sage, who lived in a
room just above the rapidly growing crater, was roused from his
meditations. He sallied forth and cross-examined Mundey.
“What—aw—have we here?” he asked. “What—aw—what
nonsense is this?”
“Shut up, Sage,” said Mundey, fearful that the Pimple would
overhear.
“But—ah—what is the—aw—object of this excavation?”
“Do be quiet!” Mundey begged.
“You—aw—you appear to me to be—ah—bent on uprooting the
garden! What are you—aw——”
In despair Mundey imitated my procedure and fainted too! The
grinning orderlies helped him up to my room. The Sage continued to
look on, in mute astonishment. Luckily the Pimple was too excited to
have eyes for anything but the treasure.
A few minutes later Stace, who shared the Sage’s room, came up
to me.
“For any sake, Bones, go out and stop the Cook digging.”
“Has he dug much?” I asked.
“Much?” said Stace. “He has torn up the garden by the roots! If
you don’t stop him he’ll have the house down.”
“Right-o, Staggers. I’ll stop him!”
Stace went off, leaving me to think out the next move. A few
minutes later, I went downstairs, supporting myself by the banisters,
with every appearance of weakness. Moïse and the Cook, bathed in
perspiration and grime from their exertions, met me at the foot. I
leant feebly against the wall beside them.
“Are you better?” asked Moïse.
“What happened?” I asked. “How did I get back to my room? Did
we find anything?”
The Pimple patted me affectionately on the shoulder.
“Magnificent!” he said. “You have been in a trance. You found the
revolver.”
“No!” I exclaimed. “Where?”
They led me to the hole. “Bless my soul!” I said. “Did I dig that?”
 “Not all,” said the Pimple. “When you found the revolver you
fainted. Then the Cook and I, we digged the ground, but found
nothing.”
“What?” I said. “You dug?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you’ve spoiled everything then! The Spook ordered you to
do nothing without instructions from me.”
“You think the Spirit will be angered?”
“Think! Tell me, did you find anything more?”
“No,” said the Pimple.
“Well, there you are!” said I.
The Pimple translated into Turkish for the Cook’s benefit. For some
minutes they talked together eagerly. Then the Cook seized my
hand, pressed it to his ragged bosom, and became very eloquent.
“He is thanking you,” said Moïse. “He says you are most wonderful
of mediums. You will know how the Spirit may be appeased. We
shall dig no more without orders.”
 CHAPTER VII

OF THE CALOMEL MANIFESTATION AND HOW KIAZIM FELL

INTO THE NET

The camp as a whole had enjoyed the treasure-hunt. Mundey and

I were congratulated on having pulled off a good practical joke
against the Turk. On the other hand, there were a few who
disapproved of what we had done. They held that discovery of the
fraud would anger the Turk, not only against the perpetrators, but
against the whole camp. Our success, however, deprived their
criticism of any force, and they confined themselves to a warning
that it was foolish to run such risks without an object.
Nobody guessed that behind my foolery there was an object, and
a very serious one. It was the first real step in a considered plan of
escape.
Escape from any prison camp in Turkey was difficult. From Yozgad
it was regarded as practically impossible. Here the Turks sent
Cochrane, Price, and Stoker, who had made such a gallant but
unsuccessful attempt to get away from Afion Kara Hissar in 1916;
and here, later on, came the Kastamouni Incorrigibles—some forty
officers who had refused to give their parole. Yozgad was the
punishment camp of Turkey.
Escape was not a question of defeating the sentries. The
“Gamekeepers” who preserved our numbers intact were nearly all
old men, and were very far from being wide awake. On fine days
they snoozed at their posts; if it was cold, or wet, or dark they
snuggled in their sentry-boxes. As several officers proved by
experiment, it was no difficult matter to get out of the camp and
back again without detection.

“ON FINE DAYS THEY SNOOZED

AT THEIR POSTS”—A
“GAMEKEEPER” ON GUARD IN
YOZGAD

The real sentries were the 350 miles of mountain, rock and desert
that lay between us and freedom in every direction. Such a journey
under the most favourable conditions is something of an ordeal. I
would not like to have to walk it by daylight, in peace-time, buying
food at villages as I went. Consider that for the runaway the ground
would have to be covered at night, that food for the whole distance
would have to be carried, and that the country was infested with
brigands who stripped travellers even within gunshot of our camp;
add to this that we knew nothing of the language or customs of the
people and had no maps. It is not difficult to understand why we
were slow to take advantage of our sleeping sentries.[10]
There was another factor that prevented men from making the
attempt. It was generally believed that the escape of one or more
officers from our camp would result in a “strafe” for those who
remained behind. We feared that such small privileges as we had
won would be taken away from us—the weekly walk, the right to
visit one another’s houses in the daytime, and access to the tiny
gardens and the lane (it was only 70 yards long) for exercise. We
would revert to the original unbearable conditions, when we had
been packed like sardines in our rooms, day and night, and our
exercise limited to Swedish drill in the 6ft. by 3ft. space allotted for
each man’s sleeping accommodation. A renewal of the old conditions
of confinement might—probably would—mean the death of several
of us. Such, we believed, would be the probable consequences of
escape.[11]
The belief acted in two ways in preventing escapes. Some men
who would otherwise have made the attempt decided it was not fair
to their comrades in distress to do so. Others considered themselves
justified, in the interest of the camp as a whole, in stopping any man
who wanted to try. And the majority—a large majority—of the camp
held they were right. The general view was that as success for the
escaper was most improbable, and trouble for the rest of us most
certain, nobody ought to make the attempt. For we knew what
“trouble” meant in Turkey. Most of the prisoners in Yozgad were
from Kut-el-Amara. We had starved there, before our surrender: we
had struggled, still starving, across the 500 miles of desert to
railhead. We had seen men die from neglect and want. Many of us
had been perilously near such a death ourselves. We had felt the
grip of the Turk and knew what he could do. Misery, neglect,
starvation and imprisonment had combined to foster in us a very
close regard for our own interests. We were individualists, almost to
a man. So we clung, as a drowning man clings to an oar, to the few
alleviations that made existence in Yozgad possible, and we resented
anything which might endanger those privileges.
It is easy enough for the armchair critic to say it is a man’s duty to
his country to escape if he can. As a general maxim we might have
accepted that. The tragedy in Yozgad was that his duty to his
country came into conflict with his duty to his fellow-prisoners. I
thought at the time, and I still think, that we allowed the penny near
our eye to shut out the world. But it was only a few irresponsibles
like Winfield-Smith who shared my view that the question of whether
a man should try or not should be left to the individual to decide,
and if he decided to go the rest of us ought to help him, and face
the subsequent music as cheerfully as might be. And I must confess,
in fairness to the officers who undertook the unpleasant task of
stopping Hill when he was ready to escape in June 1917, that
though in principle I disapproved of their action, in fact I was
exceedingly glad, for my own sake, that he did not go.
I suppose every one of us spent many hours weighing his own
chances of escape. For myself I knew I had not the physical stamina
considered necessary for the journey. If the camp stopped a man
like Hill, they would be ten times more eager to stop me. Secrecy
was therefore essential. Believing, as I did, that the War might
continue for several years, I had made up my mind in 1917 to make
the attempt and trust to luck more than to skill or strength to carry
me through. But because of the feebleness of my chance, and the
extreme probability that my comrades would not have the
consolation of my success in their suffering, it behoved me more
than anyone else to seek for some way of escape which would not
implicate my fellows, and not to resort to a direct bolt until it was
clear that all other possibilities had been exhausted.
My plan was to make the Turkish authorities at Yozgad my
unconscious accomplices. I intended to implicate the highest Turkish
authority in the place in my escape, to obtain clear and convincing
proof that he was implicated, and to leave that proof in the hands of
my fellow-prisoners before I disappeared. It would then be clearly to
the Commandant’s interest to conceal the fact of my escape from
the authorities at Constantinople (he could do so by reporting my
death); or, if concealment were impossible, he would not dare to
visit his wrath upon the camp, as they could retaliate by reporting
his complicity to his official superiors. By these means, I hoped, not
only would my fellow-prisoners retain their privileges, but by
judicious threatening they might even acquire more.
The most obvious way to accomplish my object was by bribery,
and it was of bribery that I first thought. The difficulties were
twofold: first, there were no means of getting money in sufficient
quantity; second, supposing I got the money together, I could see
no method by which the camp could satisfy the Constantinople
authorities that it had gone into the pocket of the Commandant. The
Turk takes bribes, readily enough, but he is exceedingly careful how
he takes them, and he covers up his tracks with Oriental cunning. If
I could not provide the camp with proof of the Commandant’s guilt, I
might as well save my money and bolt without bribing him.
I was trying to convince myself that these difficulties ought not to
be insuperable when the Interpreter first evinced an interest in
spooking, and the Commandant’s belief in the supernatural was
proved by his official notice of May 6th (see p. 51). From that
moment I discarded all thought of bribery. I was filled with the
growing hope that my door to freedom lay through the Ouija. And
first and foremost in pursuance of my plan, I aimed at inveigling the
Commandant into the spiritualistic circle and making him the
instrument of my escape. The news that there existed a buried
treasure which the Turks were seeking gave me an idea of how to
do it.
To my fellow-prisoners the farcical hunt for the revolver had
appeared a complete success. To me it was a bitter failure. I felt that
if the Spook’s achievement in finding the weapon did not bring out
the Commandant, nothing would. But day followed day, and he
made no sign. A considerable experience of the Eastern mind made
it easy enough for me to guess the reason for his reticence. Like the
Oriental he was, he wished above all things to avoid committing
himself. He clearly intended to work entirely through his two
subordinates, the Interpreter and the Cook. If anything went wrong,
he could not be implicated. If everything went right, and the
treasure were discovered, he could use his official position to seize
the lion’s share. It was clear that there would be a long struggle
before I could get into direct touch with the Commandant. I decided
that the Pimple must learn for himself that he could get “no
forrarder” with the Spook until he put all his cards on the table. It
was to be a battle of patience, and knowing something of Oriental
patience, I almost despaired.
Time and again after the revolver incident the Pimple attended
séances. To his amazement and regret he found the attitude of the
Spook had undergone a complete change: for a long time nothing
but abuse of the Turks emanated from the board. The Spook was
very angry with them for exceeding instructions and continuing to
dig after the revolver had been found. Not one word would It say
about the treasure. The Pimple apologized to the board abjectly,
humbly, profusely. It made no difference. The Spook turned a deaf
ear to all the little man’s pleas for forgiveness. Its only concession
was to produce a photograph of the owner of the treasure on a
piece of gaslight paper which the Pimple obtained in the bazaar and
held to his own forehead at a séance. With commendable
perseverance the Pimple kept up his appeals for two months. Then
at last he delivered himself into my hands. He lost his temper with
the Spook.
“Always you are cursing and threatening,” he said to the glass,
“but you never do anything. Can you manifest upon me?”
“To-night,” answered the glass, “you shall die!”
“No! Please, no! Nothing serious, please! I beg your pardon!
Please take my cap off, or my gloves! I only wanted you to move
something!”
“Very good,” said the Spook, “I shall move something. For this
occasion I pardon. I shall not kill. But to-morrow morning you shall
suffer. I shall manifest upon you.” The Spook then went into details
of what would happen to the Pimple to-morrow morning.
Two hours later we gathered in my room, as usual, to discuss the
séance, and as usual the Pimple drank cocoa—our cocoa—with
infinite relish. He enjoyed it very much that night, because it was
extra sweet. That was to cover any possible flavour from the six
grains of calomel I had slipped into his cup!
I met him again on the afternoon of the following day. He looked
pale.
“Well, Moïse,” I said, “did the Spook fulfil his promise?”
Moïse gave me all the gruesome details in an awed tone. “And it
was no use sending for the doctor,” he added, “because I knew it
was all supernatural. I am most thankful it is all over.”
I congratulated him on being alive.
“I shall press no more for the treasure,” said he; “this lesson is for
me sufficient.”
“Good,” said I.
It was more than good. It was excellent. His subordinate having
failed, surely the Commandant would now come forward. I waited
hopefully, a week, a fortnight, a month. But Kiazim Bey never put in
an appearance. I thought I was beaten and all but gave up hope. So
far as was possible, I backed out of spooking. There seemed no
alternative to the direct bolt. I made my plans to go on skis at the
end of February, or beginning of March. I warned my room-mates, in
confidence, that I might disappear, sent a cryptogram to my father,
and began to train. But early in January I met with an accident while
practising. A bone in my knee was injured in such a way as to put
escape out of the question for me till well on in the spring. I sold my
skis to Colbeck and turned back to my first love.
Perhaps the pain in my knee acted as a counter-irritant to my
sluggish wits. A few days after the accident the necessary brain-
wave arrived. The Pimple was in the lane at the time. I hobbled out
to him through the snow. We chatted, and our chat came round to
the old subject—the Spook—quite naturally.
“This rage of the Spirit’s—it cannot be explained,” the Pimple said.
“No,” I replied, “I have only seen one previous instance where the
Spook behaved so badly for so long. And there the circumstances
were different.”
“What were the circumstances?”
“It was soon after my adventure with the Head-hunting Waas,” I
said, “about which I shall tell you some day.”
 The Pimple smiled knowingly. “I know it,” he said; “months ago
Captain Freeland told me in confidence.”
“Did he? Well, it got about that I had learned occultism in
captivity. A lady asked me to consult the Spirit about a gold watch
she had lost.”
“Did you find it?” the Pimple asked.
“Oh yes. Quite easily. Then several other people came who had
lost other things. The Spook found them all. Then came a man who
asked me to find a diamond necklace for a friend of his, whose
name he would not give. I tried, and the Spook became abusive—for
three months it abused us. Finally a fakir told me the reason. The
Spook was angry because the sitter kept back the name of the lady
who wanted the necklace. It wanted our full confidence and full
faith.”

“I MADE MY PLANS TO GO ON SKIS AND BEGAN TO

TRAIN”

“But we have full faith,” said the Pimple, “yet it abuses us.”
 “Of course we have,” I agreed. “The present case is quite
different, for we are not keeping back anything from the Spook or
hiding anybody’s interest in the search. You see, in the affair of the
diamond necklace the lady who wanted it was in a very high social
position, and she was afraid of being laughed at for consulting the
Spook, so she remained in the background. That made the Spook
angry.”
“I see,” said Moïse. “And did you find the necklace in the end?”
“Oh yes. Once the lady learned the reason, she allowed her name
to be mentioned, and we found it at once.”
“I see,” said the Pimple. “Who was the lady?”
“I don’t mind telling you in confidence,” I replied; “it was Princess
Blavatsky.”
“Oh!” said the Pimple.
Then I hobbled back to my room to be abused by dear old Uncle
and Pa for playing the fool with my knee, and to await results.
On January 30th the result came. Our Mess were sitting down to
the regulation lunch of wheat “pillao” and duff when a sentry
appeared and handed me a note demanding my presence at the
office. Thinking there might be a parcel awaiting me, I nodded and
indicated by signs (for in those days we knew no Turkish) that I
would come as soon as lunch was over. The man got excited.
“Shindi!” (now), “Shindi!” he said. “Commandant! Commandant!”
My heart seemed to stand still. The time had come. Hickman
looked at me anxiously.
“What’s up, Bones?” he asked. “Are you ill? You’ve gone white.”
“It’s my knee,” I said. “It got a twist just now.”
“Chabook! Gel! Commandant! Commandant!” repeated the sentry.
“It—aw—seems the Commandant wants you,” the voice of the
Sage explained from the next table.
The Sage was wrong, as usual. It was I who wanted the
Commandant. But I let it pass and went off with the anxious sentry.
In the office Kiazim Bey returned my salute with dignity and
politeness. Then he shook hands with me and placed me in a seat
on one side of the table. He sat opposite. The Interpreter stood at
attention by his side.
 This was my first introduction to the Commandant. During my
nineteen months of prison life in Yozgad I had seen him only rarely,
and never spoken to him. Small fry like Second Lieutenants had
small chance of getting to know the man who refused interviews
with our most senior Colonels and consistently kept aloof from us all.
As he spoke to the Interpreter I studied him with interest. He was a
man of about fifty years of age, a little above middle height, well
dressed in a uniform surtout of pearly grey. Except for a slight
forward stoop of the head when he walked, he carried himself well.
His movements were slow and deliberately dignified; his voice low,
soft, and not unpleasing. The kalpak which he wore indoors and out
alike covered a well-shaped head. His hair, at the temples, was
silver-white, and an iron-grey moustache hid a weak but cruel
mouth. His features were well-formed, but curiously expressionless.
I believe that no prisoner in Yozgad, except Hill and myself, ever saw
him laugh. His complexion was of an extraordinary pallor, due partly
to much illness, and partly to his hothouse existence indoors; for like
most well-to-do Turks, he rarely took any exercise. And he had the
most astonishing pair of eyes it has ever been my fortune to look
into; deep-set, wonderfully large and lustrous, and of a strange deep
brown colour that merged imperceptibly into the black of the pupil.
They were the eyes of a mystic or of a beautiful woman, as his
hands with their delicate taper fingers were those of an artist. He
played nervously with a pencil while he spoke to me through the
Interpreter, but never took his eyes from my face throughout the
interview. He began with Western abruptness, and plunged in
medias res.
“Before we go into any details,” he said, “I want your word of
honour not to communicate to anyone what I am now going to tell
you.”
“I will give it with pleasure, Commandant, on two conditions.”
“What are they?”
“First, that your proposals are in no way detrimental to my friends
or to my country.”
“They are not,” said the Commandant. “I promise you that. What
is your second condition?”
 “That I don’t already know what you are going to tell me.”
“It is impossible for you to know that,” he replied. “How can you
know what is in my mind?”
I looked at him steadily, for perhaps half a minute, smiling a little.
“It is impossible for you to know,” he repeated.
“You forget, Commandant, or perhaps you do not know. I am a
thought-reader.”
“Well?”
The time had come to risk everything on a single throw.
“Let me tell you, then,” I said. “You are going to ask me to find for
you a treasure, buried by a murdered Armenian of Yozgad. You want
me to do so by the aid of Spirits. And you are prepared to offer me a
reward.”
The Commandant leant back in his chair, in mute astonishment,
staring at me.
“Am I correct?” I asked.
He bowed, but did not speak. We sat for a little time in silence, he
toying again with his pencil, I endeavouring to look unconcerned,
and smiling. It was easy to smile, for the heart within me was
leaping with joy.
“I am afraid,” he said at last, “that if our War Office learned that I
had entered into a compact with one of my prisoners, it would go ill
with me.”
“There will be no compact, Commandant,” I said; “I have no need
of money. You mustn’t judge by this” (I touched my ragged coat and
laughed). “What I seek from the Spirits is not money. It is
knowledge and power. But I feel I owe you something. You have had
me in your power, as your prisoner, and have shown me no
discourtesy. I am grateful to you for what you have done for us, for
the privileges you have granted, and the kindnesses you have
shown. And in return any small skill I possess as a medium is wholly
at your service. I shall do my best to find this treasure for you, if you
wish it.”
“You are very kind,” said Kiazim Bey, and bowed. He was obviously
waiting for my parole.
 “As to secrecy,” I went on, “it is as essential for myself as for you.
If I find this money for you, the British War Office may quite well
shoot me on my release for giving funds to the enemy. And there is
much more danger of me being discovered than of you. It is very
hard to keep what happens at séances secret from the camp. For my
own sake, of course, I must do my best to keep it dark. I cannot
promise more than that.”
“The camp does not matter much,” said the Commandant, “it is
Constantinople that is important.”
“I cannot see, Commandant, that you are doing them any harm by
seeking to find this money by any means in your power. But that is
neither here nor there. Before this game is played out I shall require
helpers—and at least one other medium, and perhaps recorders,
must get to know. I promise that if you play the game with us,
Constantinople will remain in the dark so far as I am concerned. But
I cannot promise that the camp may not find out.”
“The great danger will be if we find the treasure. Then you must
be silent as the grave,” he said.
“That I can promise—it is to my interest as well as yours,” I
replied.
“Silent as the grave, then,” he said, holding out his hand.
“As the grave,” I answered, and grasped it.
I arranged with the Pimple for an early séance and rose to go. The
Commandant accompanied me to the door. I could see, more by his
expressive fingers than by his impassive face, that he was greatly
agitated. He put a detaining hand on my arm.
“That was a most serious oath,” he said, looking at me strangely. I
tried to fathom the meaning behind the dark eyes, and think I
succeeded. It was the vultus instantis tyranni.
“Serious as Death, Commandant,” I said.
He half nodded, and returned my salute with slow gravity.

As I limped down the road in charge of my sentry I felt like

singing with happiness. The long weary period of waiting and
groping in the dark was past, and the first big step in my plan had
been achieved. The Commandant was hooked at last. There would
be real excitement in spooking now, with Liberty to greet success at
one end, and Heaven knows what to greet failure at the other. And
best of all I would no longer be alone. I had long since determined
that as soon as the preliminary difficulties had been overcome and a
definite scheme became possible, I would seek a companion. I had
had enough of plotting and planning in solitude during the last six
months. I longed for companionship.
There were probably many men in the camp who would have
joined me had they been asked, but there was only one who had
given clear proof of his deadly keenness to get away. This was
Lieutenant C. W. Hill, an Australian Flying Officer. I knew how he had
trained for three months in secret during the spring of 1917; how,
while others slept, he had crept down to the cellar and spent hours a
night doing the goose-step with a forty-pound pack of tiles on his
back, and how time and again he had tested the vigilance of the
sentries. As has been already mentioned, his plan was discovered by
his fellow officers on the eve of his departure, and he was stopped
by them and placed on parole. The disappointment to him had been
almost unbearable. I guessed he was in the mood for anything, and
knew he would never “talk,” even if he refused my offer.
He possessed other qualities which would make him an invaluable
collaborator for me. He had extraordinary skill with his hands. He
was, perhaps, the most thorough, and certainly the neatest
carpenter in the camp. (The camera which he secretly manufactured
out of a Cadbury’s cocoa-box was a masterpiece of ingenuity and
patience.) He could find his way by day or night with equal ease,
and he could drive anything, from a wheelbarrow to an aeroplane or
a railway engine. Lastly, he was a wonderful conjuror, the best
amateur any of us had ever seen.
I knew I was choosing well, but I little knew how well. Seeking a
practical man, with patience and determination and a close tongue, I
was to find in Hill all these beyond measure, and with them a great
heart, courage that no hardship could break, and loyalty like the sea.
I went straight to him on my return from the Commandant, and
led him aside to a quiet spot where we could talk. I asked him what
risks he was willing to take to get away from Yozgad. He objected,
at once, that he was on parole, and that the feeling of the camp had
to be considered.
“I know,” I said, “but supposing I can get you off that parole, and
fix the camp safely, how far would you go?”
Hill did not answer for a considerable time.
“You’re not joking?” he said, at last.
“No,” I replied.
“Then I’ll tell you.” Hill spoke slowly and with emphasis. “To get
away from this damned country I’ll go the pool!—all out. I won’t be
retaken alive.”
The man was terribly in earnest. I told him, briefly, how I had
been struggling for months to get a hold over the Turks, and how
the opportunity had come that very afternoon. I outlined my plans
as far as they had been framed. Hill listened eagerly, and in silence.
“It amounts to this,” I concluded; “before we openly commit
ourselves in any way towards escape, we must obtain proof of the
Commandant’s complicity and place that proof in the hands of
somebody in the camp. That will make the camp safe. I guarantee
you nothing but a share in what will look like a practical joke against
the Turk. It may go no further than that. And I warn you that if the
Turk finds us out, it may be unpleasant. It must be one thing at a
time. Once we have got the proof it will be time enough to decide on
our final line of action. We will then have a choice of three things—
escape, exchange, or compassionate release. Finally, if you join up
with me in this, you will be handicapping yourself should we decide
upon a straight run away. Apart from my game leg, you could find
plenty of fellows in camp who could make rings round me across
country.”
We discussed the matter in and out, and finally agreed—
(1) So far as we ourselves were concerned, to risk everything and
go any length to get away.
(2) But on no account to implicate anyone else in the camp. We
must so arrange the escape that the Turks would have no excuse
whatsoever for strafing the others.
 (3) To take nobody into our confidence until it was absolutely
necessary. There were plenty of men we could trust not to give us
away intentionally. But any one of them might make a slip which
would defeat our plans.
(4) When possible, to discuss every move beforehand, and to
follow the line agreed on.
(5) If circumstances prevented such discussion, Hill was to follow
my lead blindly, without question or alteration.
(6) If or when it came to a bolt across country, Hill was to take
charge.
We shook hands on this bargain, and separated: it did not do to
whisper too long in corners at Yozgad. I returned to my Mess.
“What did they want with you in the office?” Pa asked.
“Just some money that’s expected,” I said. “Where’s my lunch?”
“Oh, we gave it to Jeanie, hours ago. Thought you weren’t
coming.”
Jeanie was the house dog. It was a mess joke to threaten to give
her my food if I was late for meals. I hunted round till I found where
Pa had hidden my cold porridge.
“You’re up to some devilment,” said Pa, watching me wolf the
nasty stuff.
“Why?”
“Because you’re grinning. You’re enjoying something, and I know
it’s not that grub.”
I must be more careful!
 CHAPTER VIII

IN WHICH WE BECOME THOUGHT-READERS

Hill and I met daily in odd corners, to discuss our plans. The first
step was obviously to get Hill adopted as my fellow medium. It
would have been simple enough had Hill taken any prominent part in
our séances, but all his work had been behind the scenes. He had
been responsible for the manifestations, which was a task of an
extremely private nature, so the Pimple had no acquaintance with
him as a spookist. His sudden appearance as a medium might give
rise to suspicion.
Fortunately there was a way out of the difficulty which, if properly
handled, would not only solve it but at the same time add to my
reputation as a student of the occult in all its branches. For a couple
of months past Hill and I had been secretly engaged on getting
ready a leg-pull for the benefit of the camp wiseacres. Hill knew
from his study of conjuring that stage telepathy was carried out by
means of a code, and we set to work by trial and error to
manufacture a code for our purposes. By the middle of January it
was almost complete, and we had become fairly expert in its use.
With the object of bewildering the camp, Hill then announced to a
few believers in spooking that he had learned telepathy in Australia
and would give lessons to one pupil who was really in earnest. As a
preliminary to the lessons, he said, the pupil must undergo a
complete fast for 72 hours, to get himself into a proper receptive
state. Most of us had had enough of fasting during the last few
years, so his offer resulted, as we hoped it would, in only one
application for lessons in the telepathic art—that one being, of
course, from myself. For three days I took no meals in my Mess, and
I made a parade of the reason. To all appearances I was fasting
religiously. People told me I was getting weaker, and that the whole
thing was absurd. Which shows what the imagination can do;
because three times a day I fed sumptuously on tinned food (a
luxury in Yozgad) and eggs, in the privacy of Hill’s room. At the
conclusion of the “fast” Hill “tested” me, and announced to the few
believers interested that I had attained the necessary receptive
state, and that he had accepted me as a pupil.
This was the position when the Commandant was hooked, and
after some discussion we saw how to use it to the greatest
advantage. We did not let the grass grow under our feet. As luck
would have it, there was an orderlies’ concert on the afternoon of
February 2nd—just three days after my interview with the
Commandant. Hill was down on the programme to give his usual
conjuring entertainment. When his turn came to perform, he made a
carefully rehearsed speech from the platform. He said (which was
quite true) that he had injured his finger. He had found at the last
moment that his finger was too stiff to allow him to perform, but
rather than leave a gap in the programme he had decided to alter
the nature of his show at a moment’s notice.
“As some of you know,” he said, “I once underwent a course of
telepathy, or thought-reading, in Australia. Within the last fortnight
an officer in this camp went through the painful preliminary of a
three days’ fast, and became my pupil. Possibly because of his
previous knowledge of the occult, he has progressed at a surprising
rate; and, although he considers himself far from ready for a public
exhibition, he has very kindly consented to help me in this
predicament. (Loud applause.) I ask you to remember that he is only
a beginner, and if our show turns out a complete failure you will, I
am sure, give him credit for his attempt.”
Heaven knows it takes little enough to interest an audience
composed of prisoners of war. During the intervals between our
concerts and pantomimes and dramatic performances the crowded
camp was driven half crazy by fellows “practising” for the next
entertainment on landings and in bedrooms, and all over the place.
We knew every tune, and every mistake it was possible to make in
singing it, long before the “first” (and usually only) “night.” And
especially did we abhor to distraction the clog-dance practices. Yet,
when the great day came, we enjoyed every turn, and shouted
vociferous and most genuine applause. Everything was appreciated,
from the scenery painted on old Turkish newspapers to the
homemade instruments of the band. “As good as the Empire,” or
“Drury Lane can’t beat that,” we would say.
The camp knew nothing of the long hours Hill and I had spent
together asking and answering such innocent sounding code
questions as, “Quickly! What have I here?” “Tell me what this is?”
“Now, do you know what this article is?” and so on. It was
something new for them to get an apparently unrehearsed show.
The fact that the audience contained a number of converts to
spiritualism assisted us greatly in obtaining the necessary
atmosphere of credulous wonder. Hill walked through the audience,
asking me (blind-folded on the platform and “in a semi-hypnotic
state”) to name the various articles handed to him, to quote the
numbers on banknotes, to read the time on watches, to identify
persons touched. Our failures were few enough to be negligible—not
more than half a dozen in all—and our successes were numerous,
and sometimes (as when Slim Jim produced a stump of a candle
from the “cag” in his pockets) startling. Naturally, in the end, we
were “as good as the Zanzigs,” and so on. A few suspected a code,
and said so, but were utterly in the dark as to how such a code
could be arranged.[12] Others were simply bewildered. And still
others, and among them none more ardently than the Pimple,
professed themselves entirely satisfied that here at last was genuine
telepathy and nothing less. We learned afterwards that the Pimple
left the concert before its close to inform the Commandant of the
supernatural marvels he had witnessed.
On the evening of the same day (February 2nd, 1918), the Pimple
came round for his séance. He asked that it should be as private as
possible. It was therefore arranged that only Mundey and Edmonds
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