ism--all published in Banchicheisi, the capital of
Atlantis--and the manuscripts, he affirms, had been transcribed by one
Coulmenes, who believed himself to be the only survivor of a
tremendous submarine earthquake that had destroyed the whole of
Atlantis. The manuscripts included a diary of the events leading up to
the catastrophe--even to the meals! How about this?--'Sunrise on the
day of Thottirnanoge in the month of Finn-ra. Breakfasted on cornsop,
fish (Semona, corresponding to salmon), fruit, and much sweet milk.'"

"For God's sake, don't!" Curtis groaned. "Skip over that part. The
very mention of grub makes the gnawing pain in my stomach ten times
worse."

"You're different to me then!" Hamar grinned; "I love to think of it.
My word, what wouldn't I give to be in Sadler's now. Roast beef--done
to a turn, eh! As only Sadler knows how! Potatoes nice and brown and
crisp! Horseradish! Greens! Boiled celery! Pudding under the meat!
Beer!--What, going?"

Curtis had risen from the table with his fingers crammed in his ears.
"There's a fat splice of the devil in you to-night, Leon!" he panted.
"I've had enough of it. I'm off. Come on, Matt. If you want us, you
know where to find us--only if we don't get something to eat
soon--you'll find us dead."

CHAPTER II

THE BLACK ART OF ATLANTIS

For some time after Kelson and Curtis had left him, Hamar lolled back
in his seat, lost in thought. Thought, as he told himself repeatedly,
should be the poor man's chief recreation--it costs nothing: and if
one wants a little variety, and the walls of one's rooms are tolerably
thick, one can think aloud. Hamar often did, and derived much
enjoyment from it.

"I'm convinced of one thing," he suddenly broke out; "I'd rather be
hungry than cold. One can, in a measure, cheat one's stomach by
chewing leather or sucking pebbles, but I'll be hanged if one can kid
one's liver. It's cold that does me! A touch of cold on the liver! I
could jog along comfortably on few dollars for food--but it's a fire,
a fire I want! The temperature of this room is infernally low after
sunset: and half a dozen coats and three pairs of pants don't make
up for half a grateful of fuel. Hunger only makes me think of
suicide--but cold--cold and a chilled liver--makes me think of crime.
Yes, it's cold! Cold that would make me a criminal. I would
steal--burgle--housebreak--cut the sweetest lady's throat in
Christendom--for a fire!

"There! that little