text:
The Tremendous Adventures of Major Brown
Rabelais, or his wild illustrator Gustave Dor�, must have had something to do with the designing of the things called flats in England and America. There is something entirely Gargantuan in the idea of economising space by piling houses on top of each other, front doors and all. And in the chaos and complexity of those perpendicular streets anything may dwell or happen, and it is in one of them, I believe, that the inquirer may find the offices of the Club of Queer Trades. It may be thought at the first glance that the name would attract and startle the passer-by, but nothing attracts or startles in these dim immense hives. The passer-by is only looking for his own melancholy destination, the Montenegro Shipping Agency or the London office of the Rutland Sentinel, and passes through the twilight passages as one passes through the twilight corridors of a dream. If the Thugs set up a Strangers' Assassination Company in one of the great buildings in Norfolk Street, and sent in a mild man in spectacles to answer inquiries, no inquiries would be made. And the Club of Queer Trades reigns in a great edifice hidden like a fossil in a mighty cliff of fossils.
The nature of this society, such as we afterwards discovered it to be, is soon and simply told. It is an eccentric and Bohemian Club, of which the absolute condition of membership lies in this, that the candidate must have invented the method by which he earns his living. It must be an entirely new trade. The exact definition of this requirement is given in the two principal rules. First, it must not be a mere application or variation of an existing trade. Thus, for instance, the Club would not admit an insurance agent simply because instead of insuring men's furniture against being burnt in a fire, he insured, let us say, their trousers against being torn by a mad dog. The principle (as Sir Bradcock Burnaby-Bradcock, in the extraordinarily eloquent and soaring speech to the club on the occasion of the question being raised in the Stormby Smith affair, said wittily and keenly) is the same. Secondly, the trade must be a genuine commercial source of income, the support of its inventor. Thus the Club would not receive a man simply because he chose to pass his days collecting broken sardine tins, unless he could drive a roaring trade in them. Professor Chick made that quite clear. And when one remembers what Professor Chick's own new trade was, one doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.
The discovery of this strange society was a curiously refreshing thing; to realize that there were ten new trades in the world was like looking at the first ship or the first plough. It made a man feel what he should feel, that he was still in the childhood of the world. That I should have come at last upon so singular a body was, I may say without vanity, not altogether singular, for I have a mania for belonging to as many societies as possible: I may be said to collect clubs, and I have accumulated a vast and fantastic variety of specimens ever since, in my audacious youth, I collected the Athenaeum. At some future day, perhaps, I may tell tales of some of the other bodies to which I have belonged. I will recount the doings of the Dead Man's Shoes Society (that superficially immoral, but darkly justifiable communion); I will explain the curious origin of the Cat and Christian, the name of which has been so shamefully misinterpreted; and the world shall know at last why the Institute of Typewriters coalesced with the Red Tulip League. Of the Ten Teacups, of course I dare not say a word. The first of my revelations, at any rate, shall be concerned with the Club of Queer Trades, which, as I have said, was one of this class, one which I was almost bound to come across sooner or later, because of my singular hobby. The wild youth of the metropolis call me facetiously `The King of Clubs'. They also call me `The Cherub', in allusion to the roseate and youthful appearance I have presented in my declining years. I only hope the spirits in the better world have as good dinners as I have. But the finding of the Club of Queer Trades has one very curious thing about it. The most curious thing about it is that it was not discovered by me; it was discovered by my friend Basil Grant, a star-gazer, a mystic, and a man who scarcely stirred out of his attic.
Very few people knew anything of Basil; not because he was in the least unsociable, for if a man out of the street had walked into his rooms he would have kept him talking till morning. Few people knew him, because, like all poets, he could do without them; he welcomed a human face as he might welcome a sudden blend of colour in a sunset; but he no more felt the need of going out to parties than he felt the need of altering the sunset clouds. He lived in a queer and comfortable garret in the roofs of Lambeth. He was surrounded by a chaos of things that were in odd contrast to the slums around him; old fantastic books, swords, armour---the whole dust-hole of romanticism. But his face, amid all these quixotic relics, appeared curiously keen and modern---a powerful, legal face. And no one but I knew who he was.
Long ago as it is, everyone remembers the terrible and grotesque scene that occurred in---, when one of the most acute and forcible of the English judges suddenly went mad on the bench. I had my own view of that occurrence; but about the facts themselves there is no question at all. For some months, indeed for some years, people had detected something curious in the judge's conduct. He seemed to have lost interest in the law, in which he had been beyond expression brilliant and terrible as a K.C., and to be occupied in giving personal and moral advice to the people concerned. He talked more like a priest or a doctor, and a very outspoken one at that. The first thrill was probably given when he said to a man who had attempted a crime of passion: `I sentence you to three years' imprisonment, under the firm, and solemn, and God-given conviction, that what you require is three months at the seaside.' He accused criminals from the bench, not so much of their obvious legal crimes, but of things that had never been heard of in a court of justice, monstrous egoism, lack of humour, and morbidity deliberately encouraged. Things came to a head in that celebrated diamond case in which the Prime Minister himself, that brilliant patrician, had to come forward, gracefully and reluctantly, to give evidence against his valet. After the detailed life of the household had been thoroughly exhibited, the judge requested the Premier again to step forward, which he did with quiet dignity. The judge then said, in a sudden, grating voice: `Get a new soul. That thing's not fit for a dog. Get a new soul.' All this, of course, in the eyes of the sagacious, was premonitory of that melancholy and farcical day when his wits actually deserted him in open court. It was a libel case between two very eminent and powerful financiers, against both of whom charges of considerable defalcation were brought. The case was long and complex; the advocates were long and eloquent; but at last, after weeks of work and rhetoric, the time came for the great judge to give a summing-up; and one of his celebrated masterpieces of lucidity and pulverizing logic was eagerly looked for. He had spoken very little during the prolonged affair, and he looked sad and lowering at the end of it. He was silent for a few moments, and then burst into a stentorian song. His remarks (as reported) were as follows:
`O Rowty-owty tiddly-owty Tiddly-owty tiddly-owty Highty-ighty tiddly-ighty Tiddly-ighty ow.'
He then retired from public life and took the garret in Lambeth.
I was sitting there one evening, about six o'clock, over a glass of that gorgeous Burgundy which he kept behind a pile of black-letter folios; he was striding about the room, fingering, after a habit of his, one of the great swords in his collection; the red glare of the strong fire struck his square features and his fierce grey hair; his blue eyes were even unusually full of dreams, and he had opened his mouth to speak dreamily, when the door was flung open, and a pale, fiery man, with red hair and a huge furred overcoat, swung himself panting into the room.
`Sorry to bother you, Basil,' he gasped. `I took a liberty---made an appointment here with a man---a client---in five minutes---I beg your pardon, sir,' and he gave me a bow of apology.
Basil smiled at me. `You didn't know,' he said, `that I had a practical brother. This is Rupert Grant, Esquire, who can and does all there is to be done. Just as I was a failure at one thing, he is a success at everything. I remember him as a journalist, a house-agent, a naturalist, an inventor, a publisher, a schoolmaster, a---what are you now, Rupert?'
`I am and have been for some time,' said Rupert, with some dignity, `a private detective, and there's my client.'
A loud rap at the door had cut him short, and, on permission being given, the door was thrown sharply open and a stout, dapper man walked swiftly into the room, set his silk hat with a clap on the table, and said, `Good evening, gentlemen,' with a stress on the last syllable that somehow marked him out as a martinet, military, literary and social. He had a large head streaked with black and grey, and an abrupt black moustache, which gave him a look of fierceness which was contradicted by his sad sea-blue eyes.
Basil immediately said to me, `Let us come into the next room, Gully,' and was moving towards the door, but the stranger said:
`Not at all. Friends remain. Assistance possibly.'
The moment I heard him speak I remembered who he was, a certain Major Brown I had met years before in Basil's society. I had forgotten altogether the black dandified figure and the large solemn head, but I remembered the peculiar speech, which consisted of only saying about a quarter of each sentence, and that sharply, like the crack of a gun. I do not know, it may have come from giving orders to troops.
Major Brown was a V.C., and an able and distinguished soldier, but he was anything but a warlike person. Like many among the iron men who recovered British India, he was a man with the natural beliefs and tastes of an old maid. In his dress he was dapper and yet demure; in his habits he was precise to the point of the exact adjustment of a tea-cup. One enthusiasm he had, which was of the nature of a religion---the cultivation of pansies. And when he talked about his collection, his blue eyes glittered like a child's at a new toy, the eyes that had remained untroubled when the troops were roaring victory round Roberts at Candahar.
`Well, Major,' said Rupert Grant, with a lordly heartiness, flinging himself into a chair, `what is the matter with you?'
`Yellow pansies. Coal-cellar. P. G. Northover,' said the Major, with righteous indignation.
We glanced at each other with inquisitiveness. Basil, who had his eyes shut in his abstracted way, said simply:
`I beg your pardon.'
`Fact is. Street, you know, man, pansies. On wall. Death to me. Something. Preposterous.'
We shook our heads gently. Bit by bit, and mainly by the seemingly sleepy assistance of Basil Grant, we pieced together the Major's fragmentary, but excited narration. It would be infamous to submit the reader to what we endured; therefore I will tell the story of Major Brown in my own words. But the reader must imagine the scene. The eyes of Basil closed as in a trance, after his habit, and the eyes of Rupert and myself getting rounder and rounder as we listened to one of the most astounding stories in the world, from the lips of the little man in black, sitting bolt upright in his chair and talking like a telegram.
Major Brown was, I have said, a successful soldier, but by no means an enthusiastic one. So far from regretting his retirement on half-pay, it was with delight that he took a small neat villa, very like a doll's house, and devoted the rest of his life to pansies and weak tea. The thought that battles were over when he had once hung up his sword in the little front hall (along with two patent stew-pots and a bad water-colour), and betaken himself instead to wielding the rake in his little sunlit garden, was to him like having come into a harbour in heaven. He was Dutch-like and precise in his taste in gardening, and had, perhaps, some tendency to drill his flowers like soldiers. He was one of those men who are capable of putting four umbrellas in the stand rather than three, so that two may lean one way and two another; he saw life like a pattern in a freehand drawing-book. And assuredly he would not have believed, or even understood, any one who had told him that within a few yards of his brick paradise he was destined to be caught in a whirlpool of incredible adventure, such as he had never seen or dreamed of in the horrible jungle, or the heat of battle.
One certain bright and windy afternoon, the Major, attired in his usual faultless manner, had set out for his usual constitutional. In crossing from one great residential thoroughfare to another, he happened to pass along one of those aimless-looking lanes which lie along the back-garden walls of a row of mansions, and which in their empty and discoloured appearance give one an odd sensation as of being behind the scenes of a theatre. But mean and sulky as the scene might be in the eyes of most of us, it was not altogether so in the Major's, for along the coarse gravel footway was coming a thing which was to him what the passing of a religious procession is to a devout person. A large, heavy man, with fish-blue eyes and a ring of irradiating red beard, was pushing before him a barrow, which was ablaze with incomparable flowers. There were splendid specimens of almost every order, but the Major's own favourite pansies predominated. The Major stopped and fell into conversation, and then into bargaining. He treated the man after the manner of collectors and other mad men, that is to say, he carefully and with a sort of anguish selected the best roots from the less excellent, praised some, disparaged others, made a subtle scale ranging from a thrilling worth and rarity to a degraded insignificance, and then bought them all. The man was just pushing off his barrow when he stopped and came close to the Major.
`I'll tell you what, sir,' he said. `If you're interested in them things, you just get on to that wall.'
`On the wall!' cried the scandalised Major, whose conventional soul quailed within him at the thought of such fantastic trespass.
`Finest show of yellow pansies in England in that there garden, sir,' hissed the tempter. `I'll help you up, sir.'
How it happened no one will ever know but that positive enthusiasm of the Major's life triumphed over all its negative traditions, and with an easy leap and swing that showed that he was in no need of physical assistance, he stood on the wall at the end of the strange garden. The second after, the flapping of the frock-coat at his knees made him feel inexpressibly a fool. But the next instant all such trifling sentiments were swallowed up by the most appalling shock of surprise the old soldier had ever felt in all his bold and wandering existence. His eyes fell upon the garden, and there across a large bed in the centre of the lawn was a vast pattern of pansies; they were splendid flowers, but for once it was not their horticultural aspects that Major Brown beheld, for the pansies were arranged in gigantic capital letters so as to form the sentence:
DEATH TO MAJOR BROWN
A kindly looking old man, with white whiskers, was watering them. Brown looked sharply back at the road behind him; the man with the barrow had suddenly vanished. Then he looked again at the lawn with its incredible inscription. Another man might have thought he had gone mad, but Brown did not. When romantic ladies gushed over his V.C. and his military exploits, he sometimes felt himself to be a painfully prosaic person, but by the same token he knew he was incurably sane. Another man, again, might have thought himself a victim of a passing practical joke, but Brown could not easily believe this. He knew from his own quaint learning that the garden arrangement was an elaborate and expensive one; he thought it extravagantly improbable that any one would pour out money like water for a joke against him. Having no explanation whatever to offer, he admitted the fact to himself, like a clear-headed man, and waited as he would have done in the presence of a man with six legs.
At this moment the stout old man with white whiskers looked up, and the watering can fell from his hand, shooting a swirl of water down the gravel path.
`Who on earth are you?' he gasped, trembling violently.
`I am Major Brown,' said that individual, who was always cool in the hour of action.
The old man gaped helplessly like some monstrous fish. At last he stammered wildly, `Come down---come down here!'
`At your service,' said the Major, and alighted at a bound on the grass beside him, without disarranging his silk hat.
The old man turned his broad back and set off at a sort of waddling run towards the house, followed with swift steps by the Major. His guide led him through the back passages of a gloomy, but gorgeously appointed house, until they reached the door of the front room. Then the old man turned with a face of apoplectic terror dimly showing in the twilight.
`For heaven's sake,' he said, `don't mention jackals.'
Then he threw open the door, releasing a burst of red lamplight, and ran downstairs with a clatter.
The Major stepped into a rich, glowing room, full of red copper, and peacock and purple hangings, hat in hand. He had the finest manners in the world, and, though mystified, was not in the least embarrassed to see that the only occupant was a lady, sitting by the window, looking out.
`Madam,' he said, bowing simply, `I am Major Brown.'
`Sit down,' said the lady; but she did not turn her head.
She was a graceful, green-clad figure, with fiery red hair and a flavour of Bedford Park. `You have come, I suppose,' she said mournfully, `to tax me about the hateful title-deeds.'
`I have come, madam,' he said, `to know what is the matter. To know why my name is written across your garden. Not amicably either.'
He spoke grimly, for the thing had hit him. It is impossible to describe the effect produced on the mind by that quiet and sunny garden scene, the frame for a stunning and brutal personality. The evening air was still, and the grass was golden in the place where the little flowers he studied cried to heaven for his blood.
`You know I must not turn round,' said the lady; `every afternoon till the stroke of six I must keep my face turned to the street.'
Some queer and unusual inspiration made the prosaic soldier resolute to accept these outrageous riddles without surprise.
`It is almost six,' he said; and even as he spoke the barbaric copper clock upon the wall clanged the first stroke of the hour. At the sixth the lady sprang up and turned on the Major one of the queerest and yet most attractive faces he had ever seen in his life; open, and yet tantalising, the face of an elf.
`That makes the third year I have waited,' she cried. `This is an anniversary. The waiting almost makes one wish the frightful thing would happen once and for all.'
And even as she spoke, a sudden rending cry broke the stillness. From low down on the pavement of the dim street (it was already twilight) a voice cried out with a raucous and merciless distinctness:
`Major Brown, Major Brown, where does the jackal dwell?'
Brown was decisive and silent in action. He strode to the front door and looked out. There was no sign of life in the blue gloaming of the street, where one or two lamps were beginning to light their lemon sparks. On returning, he found the lady in green trembling.
`It is the end,' she cried, with shaking lips; `it may be death for both of us. Whenever---'
But even as she spoke her speech was cloven by another hoarse proclamation from the dark street, again horribly articulate.
`Major Brown, Major Brown, how did the jackal die?'
Brown dashed out of the door and down the steps, but again he was frustrated; there was no figure in sight, and the street was far too long and empty for the shouter to have run away. Even the rational Major was a little shaken as he returned in a certain time to the drawing-room. Scarcely had he done so than the terrific voice came:
`Major Brown, Major Brown, where did---'
Brown was in the street almost at a bound, and he was in time---in time to see something which at first glance froze the blood. The cries appeared to come from a decapitated head resting on the pavement.
The next moment the pale Major understood. It was the head of a man thrust through the coal-hole in the street. The next moment, again, it had vanished, and Major Brown turned to the lady. `Where's your coal-cellar?' he said, and stepped out into the passage.
She looked at him with wild grey eyes. `You will not go down,' she cried, `alone, into the dark hole, with that beast?'
`Is this the way?' replied Brown, and descended the kitchen stairs three at a time. He flung open the door of a black cavity and stepped in, feeling in his pocket for matches. As his right hand was thus occupied, a pair of great slimy hands came out of the darkness, hands clearly belonging to a man of gigantic stature, and seized him by the back of the head. They forced him down, down in the suffocating darkness, a brutal image of destiny. But the Major's head, though upside down, was perfectly clear and intellectual. He gave quietly under the pressure until he had slid down almost to his hands and knees. Then finding the knees of the invisible monster within a foot of him, he simply put out one of his long, bony, and skilful hands, and gripping the leg by a muscle pulled it off the ground and laid the huge living man, with a crash, along the floor. He strove to rise, but Brown was on top like a cat. They rolled over and over. Big as the man was, he had evidently now no desire but to escape; he made sprawls hither and thither to get past the Major to the door, but that tenacious person had him hard by the coat collar and hung with the other hand to a beam. At length there came a strain in holding back this human bull, a strain under which Brown expected his hand to rend and part from the arm. But something else rent and parted; and the dim fat figure of the giant vanished out of the cellar, leaving the torn coat in the Major's hand; the only fruit of his adventure and the only clue to the mystery. For when he went up and out at the front door, the lady, the rich hangings, and the whole equipment of the house had disappeared. It had only bare boards and whitewashed walls.
`The lady was in the conspiracy, of course,' said Rupert, nodding. Major Brown turned brick red. `I beg your pardon,' he said, `I think not.'
Rupert raised his eyebrows and looked at him for a moment, but said nothing. When next he spoke he asked:
`Was there anything in the pockets of the coat?'
`There was sevenpence halfpenny in coppers and a threepenny-bit,' said the Major carefully; `there was a cigarette-holder, a piece of string, and this letter,' and he laid it on the table. It ran as follows:
Dear Mr Plover,
I am annoyed to hear that some delay has occurred in the arrangements re Major Brown. Please see that he is attacked as per arrangement tomorrow The coal-cellar, of course.
P. G. Northover.
Rupert Grant was leaning forward listening with hawk-like eyes. He cut in:
`Is it dated from anywhere?'
`No---oh, yes!' replied Brown, glancing upon the paper; `14 Tanner's Court, North---'
Rupert sprang up and struck his hands together.
`Then why are we hanging here? Let's get along. Basil, lend me your revolver.'
Basil was staring into the embers like a man in a trance; and it was some time before he answered:
`I don't think you'll need it.'
`Perhaps not,' said Rupert, getting into his fur coat. `One never knows. But going down a dark court to see criminals---'
`Do you think they are criminals?' asked his brother.
Rupert laughed stoutly. `Giving orders to a subordinate to strangle a harmless stranger in a coal-cellar may strike you as a very blameless experiment, but---'
`Do you think they wanted to strangle the Major?' asked Basil, in the same distant and monotonous voice.
`My dear fellow, you've been asleep. Look at the letter.'
`I am looking at the letter,' said the mad judge calmly; though, as a matter of fact, he was looking at the fire. 'I don`t think it's the sort of letter one criminal would write to another.'
`My dear boy, you are glorious,' cried Rupert, turning round, with laughter in his blue bright eyes. `Your methods amaze me. Why, there is the letter. It is written, and it does give orders for a crime. You might as well say that the Nelson Column was not at all the sort of thing that was likely to be set up in Trafalgar Square.'
Basil Grant shook all over with a sort of silent laughter, but did not otherwise move.
`That's rather good,' he said; `but, of course, logic like that's not what is really wanted. It's a question of spiritual atmosphere. It's not a criminal letter.'
`It is. It's a matter of fact,' cried the other in an agony of reasonableness.
`Facts,' murmured Basil, like one mentioning some strange, far-off animals, `how facts obscure the truth. I may be silly---in fact, I'm off my head---but I never could believe in that man---what's his name, in those capital stories?---Sherlock Holmes. Every detail points to something, certainly; but generally to the wrong thing. Facts point in all directions, it seems to me, like the thousands of twigs on a tree. It's only the life of the tree that has unity and goes up---only the green blood that springs, like a fountain, at the stars.'
`But what the deuce else can the letter be but criminal?'
`We have eternity to stretch our legs in,' replied the mystic. `It can be an infinity of things. I haven't seen any of them---I've only seen the letter. I look at that, and say it's not criminal.'
`Then what's the origin of it?'
`I haven't the vaguest idea.'
`Then why don't you accept the ordinary explanation?'
Basil continued for a little to glare at the coals, and seemed collecting his thoughts in a humble and even painful way. Then he said:
`Suppose you went out into the moonlight. Suppose you passed through silent, silvery streets and squares until you came into an open and deserted space, set with a few monuments, and you beheld one dressed as a ballet girl dancing in the argent glimmer. And suppose you looked, and saw it was a man disguised. And suppose you looked again, and saw it was Lord Kitchener. What would you think?'
He paused a moment, and went on:
`You could not adopt the ordinary explanation. The ordinary explanation of putting on singular clothes is that you look nice in them; you would not think that Lord Kitchener dressed up like a ballet girl out of ordinary personal vanity. You would think it much more likely that he inherited a dancing madness from a great grandmother; or had been hypnotised at a s�ance; or threatened by a secret society with death if he refused the ordeal. With Baden-Powell, say, it might be a bet---but not with Kitchener. I should know all that, because in my public days I knew him quite well. So I know that letter quite well, and criminals quite well. It's not a criminal's letter. It's all atmospheres.' And he closed his eyes and passed his hand over his forehead.
Rupert and the Major were regarding him with a mixture of respect and pity. The former said
`Well, I'm going, anyhow, and shall continue to think---until your spiritual mystery turns up---that a man who sends a note recommending a crime, that is, actually a crime that is actually carried out, at least tentatively, is, in all probability, a little casual in his moral tastes. Can I have that revolver?'
`Certainly,' said Basil, getting up. `But I am coming with you.' And he flung an old cape or cloak round him, and took a sword-stick from the corner.
`You!' said Rupert, with some surprise, `you scarcely ever leave your hole to look at anything on the face of the earth.'
Basil fitted on a formidable old white hat.
`I scarcely ever,' he said, with an unconscious and colossal arrogance, `hear of anything on the face of the earth that I do not understand at once, without going to see it.'
And he led the way out into the purple night.
We four swung along the flaring Lambeth streets, across Westminster Bridge, and along the Embankment in the direction of that part of Fleet Street which contained Tanner's Court. The erect, black figure of Major Brown, seen from behind, was a quaint contrast to the hound-like stoop and flapping mantle of young Rupert Grant, who adopted, with childlike delight, all the dramatic poses of the detective of fiction. The finest among his many fine qualities was his boyish appetite for the colour and poetry of London. Basil, who walked behind, with his face turned blindly to the stars, had the look of a somnambulist.
Rupert paused at the corner of Tanner's Court, with a quiver of delight at danger, and gripped Basil's revolver in his great-coat pocket.
`Shall we go in now?' he asked.
`Not get police?' asked Major Brown, glancing sharply up and down the street.
`I am not sure,' answered Rupert, knitting his brows. `Of course, it's quite clear, the thing's all crooked. But there are three of us, and---'
`I shouldn't get the police,' said Basil in a queer voice. Rupert glanced at him and stared hard.
`Basil,' he cried, `you're trembling. What's the matter---are you afraid?'
`Cold, perhaps,' said the Major, eyeing him. There was no doubt that he was shaking.
At last, after a few moments' scrutiny, Rupert broke into a curse.
`You're laughing,' he cried. `I know that confounded, silent, shaky laugh of yours. What the deuce is the amusement, Basil? Here we are, all three of us, within a yard of a den of ruffians---'
`But I shouldn't call the police,' said Basil. `We four heroes are quite equal to a host,' and he continued to quake with his mysterious mirth.
Rupert turned with impatience and strode swiftly down the court, the rest of us following. When he reached the door of No. 14 he turned abruptly, the revolver glittering in his hand.
`Stand close,' he said in the voice of a commander. `The scoundrel may be attempting an escape at this moment. We must fling open the door and rush in.'
The four of us cowered instantly under the archway, rigid, except for the old judge and his convulsion of merriment.
`Now,' hissed Rupert Grant, turning his pale face and burning eyes suddenly over his shoulder, `when I say ``Four'', follow me with a rush. If I say ``Hold him'', pin the fellows down, whoever they are. If I say ``Stop'', stop. I shall say that if there are more than three. If they attack us I shall empty my revolver on them. Basil, have your sword-stick ready. Now---one, two three, four!'
With the sound of the word the door burst open, and we fell into the room like an invasion, only to stop dead.
The room, which was an ordinary and neatly appointed office, appeared, at the first glance, to be empty. But on a second and more careful glance, we saw seated behind a very large desk with pigeonholes and drawers of bewildering multiplicity, a small man with a black waxed moustache, and the air of a very average clerk, writing hard. He looked up as we came to a standstill.
`Did you knock?' he asked pleasantly. `I am sorry if I did not hear. What can I do for you?'
There was a doubtful pause, and then, by general consent, the Major himself, the victim of the outrage, stepped forward.
The letter was in his hand, and he looked unusually grim.
`Is your name P. G. Northover?' he asked.
`That is my name,' replied the other, smiling.
`I think,' said Major Brown, with an increase in the dark glow of his face, `that this letter was written by you.' And with a loud clap he struck open the letter on the desk with his clenched fist. The man called Northover looked at it with unaffected interest and merely nodded.
`Well, sir,' said the Major, breathing hard, `what about that?'
`What about it, precisely,' said the man with the moustache.
`I am Major Brown,' said that gentleman sternly.
Northover bowed. `Pleased to meet you, sir. What have you to say to me?'
`Say!' cried the Major, loosing a sudden tempest; `why, I want this confounded thing settled. I want---'
`Certainly, sir,' said Northover, jumping up with a slight elevation of the eyebrows. `Will you take a chair for a moment.' And he pressed an electric bell just above him, which thrilled and tinkled in a room beyond. The Major put his hand on the back of the chair offered him, but stood chafing and beating the floor with his polished boot.
The next moment an inner glass door was opened, and a fair, weedy, young man, in a frock-coat, entered from within.
`Mr Hopson,' said Northover, `this is Major Brown. Will you please finish that thing for him I gave you this morning and bring it in?'
`Yes, sir,' said Mr Hopson, and vanished like lightning.
`You will excuse me, gentlemen,' said the egregious Northover, with his radiant smile, `if I continue to work until Mr Hopson is ready. I have some books that must be cleared up before I get away on my holiday tomorrow. And we all like a whiff of the country, don't we? Ha! ha!'
The criminal took up his pen with a childlike laugh, and a silence ensued; a placid and busy silence on the part of Mr P. G. Northover; a raging silence on the part of everybody else.
At length the scratching of Northover's pen in the stillness was mingled with a knock at the door, almost simultaneous with the turning of the handle, and Mr Hopson came in again with the same silent rapidity, placed a paper before his principal, and disappeared again.
The man at the desk pulled and twisted his spiky moustache for a few moments as he ran his eye up and down the paper presented to him. He took up his pen, with a slight, instantaneous frown, and altered something, muttering---`Careless.' Then he read it again with the same impenetrable reflectiveness, and finally handed it to the frantic Brown, whose hand was beating the devil's tattoo on the back of the chair.
`I think you will find that all right, Major,' he said briefly.
The Major looked at it; whether he found it all right or not will appear later, but he found it like this:
Major Brown to P. G. Northover.
� s. d.
January 1, to account rendered 5 6 0
May 9, to potting and embedding of zoo pansies 2 0 0
To cost of trolley with flowers 0 15 0
To hiring of man with trolley 0 5 0
To hire of house and garden for one day 1 0 0
To furnishing of room in peacock curtains, copper ornaments, etc. 3 0 0
To salary of Miss Jameson 1 0 0
To salary of Mr Plover 1 0 0
Total �14 6 0
A Remittance will oblige.
`What,' said Brown, after a dead pause, and with eyes that seemed slowly rising out of his head, `What in heaven's name is this?'
`What is it?' repeated Northover, cocking his eyebrow with amusement. `It's your account, of course.'
`My account!' The Major's ideas appeared to be in a vague stampede. `My account! And what have I got to do with it?'
`Well,' said Northover, laughing outright, `naturally I prefer you to pay it.'
The Major's hand was still resting on the back of the chair as the words came. He scarcely stirred otherwise, but he lifted the chair bodily into the air with one hand and hurled it at Northover's head.
The legs crashed against the desk, so that Northover only got a blow on the elbow as he sprang up with clenched fists, only to be seized by the united rush of the rest of us. The chair had fallen clattering on the empty floor.
`Let me go, you scamps,' he shouted. `Let me---'
`Stand still,' cried Rupert authoritatively. `Major Brown's action is excusable. The abominable crime you have attempted---'
`A customer has a perfect right,' said Northover hotly, `to question an alleged overcharge, but, confound it all, not to throw furniture.'
`What, in God's name, do you mean by your customers and overcharges?' shrieked Major Brown, whose keen feminine nature, steady in pain or danger, became almost hysterical in the presence of a long and exasperating mystery. `Who are you? I've never seen you or your insolent tomfool bills. I know one of your cursed brutes tried to choke me---'
`Mad,' said Northover, gazing blankly round; `all of them mad. I didn't know they travelled in quartettes.'
`Enough of this prevarication,' said Rupert; `your crimes are discovered. A policeman is stationed at the corner of the court. Though only a private detective myself, I will take the responsibility of telling you that anything you say---'
`Mad,' repeated Northover, with a weary air.
And at this moment, for the first time, there struck in among them the strange, sleepy voice of Basil Grant.
`Major Brown,' he said, `may I ask you a question?'
The Major turned his head with an increased bewilderment.
`You?' he cried; `certainly, Mr Grant.'
`Can you tell me,' said the mystic, with sunken head and lowering brow, as he traced a pattern in the dust with his sword-stick, `can you tell me what was the name of the man who lived in your house before you?'
The unhappy Major was only faintly more disturbed by this last and futile irrelevancy, and he answered vaguely:
`Yes, I think so; a man named Gurney something---a name with a hyphen---Gurney-Brown; that was it.'
`And when did the house change hands?' said Basil, looking up sharply. His strange eyes were burning brilliantly.
`I came in last month,' said the Major.
And at the mere word the criminal Northover suddenly fell into his great office chair and shouted with a volleying laughter.
`Oh! it's too perfect---it's too exquisite,' he gasped, beating the arms with his fists. He was laughing deafeningly; Basil Grant was laughing voicelessly; and the rest of us only felt that our heads were like weathercocks in a whirlwind.
`Confound it, Basil,' said Rupert, stamping. `If you don't want me to go mad and blow your metaphysical brains out, tell me what all this means.'
Northover rose.
`Permit me, sir, to explain,' he said. `And, first of all, permit me to apologize to you, Major Brown, for a most abominable and unpardonable blunder, which has caused you menace and inconvenience, in which, if you will allow me to say so, you have behaved with astonishing courage and dignity. Of course you need not trouble about the bill. We will stand the loss.' And, tearing the paper across, he flung the halves into the waste-paper basket and bowed.
Poor Brown's face was still a picture of distraction. `But I don't even begin to understand,' he cried. `What bill? what blunder? what loss?'
Mr P. G. Northover advanced in the centre of the room, thoughtfully, and with a great deal of unconscious dignity. On closer consideration, there were apparent about him other things beside a screwed moustache, especially a lean, sallow face, hawk-like, and not without a careworn intelligence. Then he looked up abruptly.
`Do you know where you are, Major?' he said.
`God knows I don't,' said the warrior, with fervour.
`You are standing,' replied Northover, `in the office of the Adventure and Romance Agency, Limited.'
`And what's that?' blankly inquired Brown.
The man of business leaned over the back of the chair, and fixed his dark eyes on the other's face.
`Major,' said he, 'did you ever, as you walked along the empty street upon some idle afternoon, feel the utter hunger for something to happen---something, in the splendid words of Walt Whitman: ``Something pernicious and dread; something far removed from a puny and pious life; something unproved; something in a trance; something loosed from its anchorage, and driving free.'' Did you ever feel that?'
`Certainly not,' said the Major shortly.
`Then I must explain with more elaboration,' said Mr Northover, with a sigh. `The Adventure and Romance Agency has been started to meet a great modern desire. On every side, in conversation and in literature, we hear of the desire for a larger theatre of events for something to waylay us and lead us splendidly astray. Now the man who feels this desire for a varied life pays a yearly or a quarterly sum to the Adventure and Romance Agency; in return, the Adventure and Romance Agency undertakes to surround him with startling and weird events. As a man is leaving his front door, an excited sweep approaches him and assures him of a plot against his life; he gets into a cab, and is driven to an opium den; he receives a mysterious telegram or a dramatic visit, and is immediately in a vortex of incidents. A very picturesque and moving story is first written by one of the staff of distinguished novelists who are at present hard at work in the adjoining room. Yours, Major Brown (designed by our Mr Grigsby), I consider peculiarly forcible and pointed; it is almost a pity you did not see the end of it. I need scarcely explain further the monstrous mistake. Your predecessor in your present house, Mr Gurney-Brown, was a subscriber to our agency, and our foolish clerks, ignoring alike the dignity of the hyphen and the glory of military rank, positively imagined that Major Brown and Mr Gurney-Brown were the same person. Thus you were suddenly hurled into the middle of another man's story.'
`How on earth does the thing work?' asked Rupert Grant, with bright and fascinated eyes.
`We believe that we are doing a noble work,' said Northover warmly. `It has continually struck us that there is no element in modern life that is more lamentable than the fact that the modern man has to seek all artistic existence in a sedentary state. If he wishes to float into fairyland, he reads a book; if he wishes to dash into the thick of battle, he reads a book; if he wishes to soar into heaven, he reads a book; if he wishes to slide down the banisters, he reads a book. We give him these visions, but we give him exercise at the same time, the necessity of leaping from wall to wall, of fighting strange gentlemen, of running down long streets from pursuers---all healthy and pleasant exercises. We give him a glimpse of that great morning world of Robin Hood or the Knights Errant, when one great game was played under the splendid sky. We give him back his childhood, that godlike time when we can act stories, be our own heroes, and at the same instant dance and dream.'
Basil gazed at him curiously. The most singular psychological discovery had been reserved to the end, for as the little business man ceased speaking he had the blazing eyes of a fanatic.
Major Brown received the explanation with complete simplicity and good humour.
`Of course; awfully dense, sir,' he said. `No doubt at all, the scheme excellent. But I don't think---' He paused a moment, and looked dreamily out of the window. `I don't think you will find me in it. Somehow, when one's seen--- seen the thing itself, you know---blood and men screaming, one feels about having a little house and a little hobby; in the Bible, you know, ``There remaineth a rest''.'
Northover bowed. Then after a pause he said:
`Gentlemen, may I offer you my card. If any of the rest of you desire, at any time, to communicate with me, despite Major Brown's view of the matter---'
`I should be obliged for your card, sir,' said the Major, in his abrupt but courteous voice. `Pay for chair.'
The agent of Romance and Adventure handed his card, laughing.
It ran, `P. G. Northover, B.A., C.Q.T., Adventure and Romance Agency, 14 Tanner's Court, Fleet Street.'
`What on earth is "C.QT."?' asked Rupert Grant, looking over the Major's shoulder.
`Don't you know?' returned Northover. `Haven't you ever heard of the Club of Queer Trades?'
`There seems to be a confounded lot of funny things we haven't heard of,' said the little Major reflectively. `What's this one?'
`The Club of Queer Trades is a society consisting exclusively of people who have invented some new and curious way of making money. I was one of the earliest members.'
`You deserve to be,' said Basil, taking up his great white hat, with a smile, and speaking for the last time that evening.
When they had passed out the Adventure and Romance agent wore a queer smile, as he trod down the fire and locked up his desk. `A fine chap, that Major; when one hasn't a touch of the poet one stands some chance of being a poem. But to think of such a clockwork little creature of all people getting into the nets of one of Grigsby's tales,' and he laughed out aloud in the silence.
Just as the laugh echoed away, there came a sharp knock at the door. An owlish head, with dark moustaches, was thrust in, with deprecating and somewhat absurd inquiry.
`What! back again, Major?' cried Northover in surprise. `What can I do for you?'
The Major shuffled feverishly into the room.
`It's horribly absurd,' he said. `Something must have got started in me that I never knew before. But upon my soul I feel the most desperate desire to know the end of it all.'
`The end of it all?'
`Yes,' said the Major. ` ``Jackals'', and the title-deeds, and ``Death to Major Brown''.'
The agent's face grew grave, but his eyes were amused.
`I am terribly sorry, Major,' said he, `but what you ask is impossible. I don't know any one I would sooner oblige than you; but the rules of the agency are strict. The Adventures are confidential; you are an outsider; I am not allowed to let you know an inch more than I can help. I do hope you understand---'
`There is no one,' said Brown, `who understands discipline better than I do. Thank you very much. Good night.'
And the little man withdrew for the last time.
He married Miss Jameson, the lady with the red hair and the green garments. She was an actress, employed (with many others) by the Romance Agency; and her marriage with the prim old veteran caused some stir in her languid and intellectualized set. She always replied very quietly that she had met scores of men who acted splendidly in the charades provided for them by Northover, but that she had only met one man who went down into a coal-cellar when he really thought it contained a murderer.
The Major and she are living as happily as birds, in an absurd villa, and the former has taken to smoking. Otherwise he is unchanged---except, perhaps, there are moments when, alert and full of feminine unselfishness as the Major is by nature, he falls into a trance of abstraction. Then his wife recognizes with a concealed smile, by the blind look in his blue eyes, that he is wondering what were the title-deeds, and why he was not allowed to mention jackals. But, like so many old soldiers, Brown is religious, and believes that he will realize the rest of those purple adventures in a better world.


text:
Products expand/collapse
Interactive Schroders Global Cities Index
Busting the millennial myth
Strategy Literature expand/collapse
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Author landing page
Robin Parbrook
Co-Head of Asian Equity Alternative Investments
Outlook 2019: Asian ex Japan equities
A tumultuous 2018 has left Asian equities significantly cheaper and presenting selective opportunities, but investors need to tread carefully. Four of our Asian equity managers explain why.
"Malaysia Boleh?" (Can Malaysia do it?)
China's Communist party congress: what investors should expect
"Sell in May and go away": does it work for Asian stockmarkets?
We take a look at the hard data to see how they stack up against the popular market saying and find one market where it might be helpful.
India's domestic story stands out amid mixed Asian picture
Some readers will be aware of our thoughts on China and its credit-fuelled investment bubble. But it's not all doom-and-gloom in Asia, with India a case in point.
Outlook 2017: Asia ex Japan equities
Select long-term opportunities are still present in the region as we prepare to "expect the unexpected" in 2017.
Postcard from... the Philippines: assessing the Duterte effect
We visited the Philippines to meet with companies and look at how the darling of the Asian growth story is holding up after the election of its president dubbed "Duterte Harry".
Is Australia's luck running out?
Is The Lucky Country's extraordinary run of economic growth about to end?
China woes create Asian buying opportunity
Despite recent market events, not that much has actually changed in China. It's more a case of the "chickens coming home to roost" as policy mistakes and major policy contradictions come to a head. Elsewhere in Asia, it could be an opportunity to pick up equity bargains.
Schroder Investment Management North America Inc. ("SIMNA") is an indirect wholly owned subsidiary of Schroders plc, a UK public company with shares listed on the London Stock Exchange, and is an SEC registered investment adviser providing asset management products and services to clients in the US and Canada. Schroder Fund Advisors LLC ("SFA") is a wholly-owned subsidiary of SIMNA Inc. and is registered as a limited purpose broker-dealer with FINRA and markets certain investment vehicles for which SIMNA Inc. is an investment adviser. The Schroder mutual funds (the "Funds") are distributed by SEI Investments Distribution Co ("SIDCO"), a member of FINRA. SFA previously served as the distributor of the Funds. Although SFA has been replaced by SIDCO as the distributor of the Funds, SFA continues to be involved in the distribution of shares of the Funds through an agreement with SIDCO, and SFA, SIMNA and their affiliates continue to provide shareholder services to the Funds. SIDCO is not an affiliate of Schroders plc.

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


text:
Krupa: Athanasiou stuck in no-man's land
Gregg Krupa
Detroit – One has to wonder what is driving Andreas Athanasiou to Europe, to pursue his hockey dreams.
Thinking the contact dispute with the Red Wings is about a $500,000 gap between the player's desire and management's position seemed naïve a while ago.
Believing the salary cap prevented the additional financial consideration ignored how readily salary cap issues are resolved in the NHL.
It is surely brutal and drastic. With a phone call or email, a man's life is dramatically altered.
But that is professional hockey.
2017-18 RED WINGS SCHEDULE
So, when we learned the Red Wings told Athanasiou $1.9 million per year, for two years, and no more, we knew they had said, in effect, "Young man, this is what you are worth."
Athanasiou's disappointment is both understandable and common. It happens to a lot of restricted free agents at precisely this point in their careers.
The distance between their promise and their performance, measured in dollars by "hockey men" who manage NHL franchises, is never greater, even for a guy like Athanasiou who is playing well.
The player wants more. Management wants to wait.
Meanwhile, management has almost all the cards. The player has almost no leverage.
Arbitration rights normally come with the next contract, the one Athanasiou has yet to sign. Unrestricted free agency is farther around the bend.
Continuing the fight with so little leverage suggests Athanasiou is serious about diverting his career, playing in Europe and waiting for management to make a move.
An odd thought.
Just reading the paragraph describing it feels peculiar. It makes no sense.
Except as a bargaining ploy.
It is a tactic that Darren Ferris has used before.
Inconsistent play mars Red Wings' quick starts
Ferris is Athanasiou's agent. After leaving, in short order, the Newport Sports Management group of longtime agent Don Meehan and then Bobby Orr's Orr Hockey Group, Ferris launched his own Definitive Hockey Group.
He likes the Swiss gambit.
"We are heading there next week in the absence of a contract," Ferris said of Switzerland in an email during the third week of September.
He was talking about Josh Anderson, the restricted free agent of the Blue Jackets, then.
Anderson, 23, who scored 17 goals and assisted on 12, signed Oct. 3 for three years at $1.85 million each.
Athanasiou figures to be a better player than Anderson, but time will tell.
And that, loud and clear, is the Red Wings message to him: Time will tell.
Athanasiou likely thinks of himself as better than that.
But going to Europe is an over-the-top ploy. Anderson did not do it. Neither player should.
Limited playing time
Perhaps Athanasiou's limited playing time (13:28 on average as opposed to 16:09 for Dylan Larkin and 15:54 for ANthony Mantha) concerns him so much that he doubts his future with the franchise. Maybe he believes the additional $500,000 per year the Wings are unwilling to pay him is just another sign.
It may have led to thinking an aggressive bargaining stance and a hold-out would force a trade.
The flaw in the "trade me" strategy always has been that it discounts the player's value and what teams will offer, making the trade all the more difficult.
Far from avoiding a bad deal for a prized prospect, the Red Wings do not want to trade Athanasiou, at all. They want to play him.
Unless they get an improbable offer, they will likely let the speedy guy with good hands and apparently keen offensive instincts play in Europe, and revisit the issue next summer.
But the Red Wings must also take stock of the dispute.
Wings' Tatar wary of fights but not afraid to drop gloves
Regardless of Athanasiou's feelings towards the franchise, it is possible the Wings could have done more to keep him in the fold.
The franchise should revisit those issues.
Prized free agents are not exactly flocking to the club, these days. Pavel Datsyuk left for Russia complaining that the joy he sought in hockey in the NHL had become a burden. Last season, they waived Marin Frk, who begins this one ablaze.
Young stars to re-sign
Two other young, prospective stars Larkin and Mantha, must be re-signed at the end of this season.
While saving some cap space for them is important, they must be confident in their future with the Red Wings.
After all, they are playing this season as one of the oldest teams in hockey, arguably six seasons into rebuilding.
It is true that denying ice time, especially in the case of young players, is a training device. Larkin and Mantha both have felt that lash. And those before them are legion, including members of the Hockey Hall of Fame.
If concern about his future with the team is what is driving Athanasiou out, it seems overblown.
Unfortunate reaction
Perhaps an unfortunate reaction will cost him a career paralleling the resurrection of a fabled franchise, a reconstruction for which he might someday claim a considerable role.
But it is up to the Red Wings, in no small part, to establish an understanding with a player and his family of how his career will be nurtured.
Perhaps they have tried, and Athanasiou will not understand.
But Switzerland is no alternative for a player of his promise. The Wings should not trade him, in part, because he has so much of it.
And if the relationship is, in fact, fractured, everyone involved has a lot of explaining to do.
gregg.krupa@detroitnews.com
twitter.com/greggkrupa


No one should have to live with pain, but which treatment is right for you? Often times, people suffering from pain take medication to dull the pain. It may be helpful to dull the symptoms for a short period of time, but it will not get at the root of the problem and correct it. It is like hitting the snooze button on an alarm. Unless the cause of the pain is treated, your body will keep sounding the alarm and reminding you that something is wrong. Eventually the pain may get worse or become chronic. It is also possible for the medications to cause unwanted side effects and further compromise your health.
A blockage in the flow of Qi anywhere in the body will inhibit the amount of nourishment that reaches our cells, tissues, muscles, organs and glands. Under normal circumstances, your body can easily return to good health and vitality. If the disruption of Qi is prolonged or excessive, or if your body is in a weakened state, the flow of Qi becomes restricted and a variety of symptoms, including pain, may arise.
Not only can acupuncture treat signs and symptoms of pain and discomfort, it can also get to the root of the problem. When the initial cause of the pain is corrected, your body can begin to heal on deeper levels. Your acupuncturist may also suggest adjunct therapies tonhance treatment and speed healing, such as: massage, stretching, yoga, herbal supplements and dietary changes.


A selection of images from my editorias and fashion projects.
Features on Elle Slovenia, The Fashionisto, Kalbult, Vulkan, Fantastics, ShuString, Huf, Heaven Has Heels, Athleisure, Art Bodega, etc.
E-commerce is the new store front. I can tailor an e commerce photoshoot that fits your needs and budget.
You can hire me solely as a photographer or I can help you with the whole production; wardrobe stylists, make up artists, hair stylists, studio managers, model agencies, etc.
Among my clients are Nümph, Pepa Loves, Spenglish, Unsimply Stitched, and many more.
Lifestyle, business or creative. On location or in studio production I can adapt to your needs. I collaborate on a regular basis with Friends Of The High Line and various business and lifestyle magazines like Business Insider, Marketing Age, Irish Director, Art Bodega, Athleisure, and many more.


text:
Q: Sending reCaptcha token to PHP using Ajax I want to add reCaptcha V3 to a form.
Here is the form:
<form action="mail.php" method="POST">
    <!-- This hidden input will contain the token -->
    <input type="hidden" name="token" id="token" />
    <input type="text" name="name" />
    <input type="text" name="email" />
    <textarea name="message"></textarea>
    <input type="submit" name="submit" value="Send" />
</form>

Now I'm trying to send the token value to mail.php, So there is a plugin called jquery.form I use it to send the Ajax request.
Here is the Javascript/Jquery code:
$('form').ajaxForm({

    beforeSubmit: function() {

        //Captcha part
        grecaptcha.ready(function() {

                grecaptcha.execute('My_website_key', {action: 'form'}).then(function(token) {

                    //Set token value to the hidden element
                    $('#token').val(token);

                });

        });//reCaptcha ready

    },//Before submit function
    success: function(msg) {

        if(msg == 'Message has been sent.'){
            console.log('success!');
        }else{
            console.log(msg);
        }

    },//success function
    complete: function(xhr) {

        console.log(xhr.responseText);

    }//complete function

});//End Ajax

When I submit the form, Then I look at the console, I see that the token was empty and it seems that the success function is executed, Before the token hidden element gets the token.
I can't add the token when the page loads or any other action, Because it expires after 2 minutes, So I need to get a a token and send it to the PHP file.

A: You need to move your ajax request in the recaptcha handler because beforeAjax will not wait for the its contents to be resolved, change your code as follows:

// Fake grecaptcha method !!! you should delete this
// Form URL was changed as well to satisfy the example
let grecaptcha = {
  ready: function(cb) {
    cb();
  },
  execute: function(key, options) {
    return Promise.resolve('recaptchatoken');
  }
};

let formElem = $('form');

formElem.submit(function(e) {
  e.preventDefault();

  let thisForm = $(this);

  grecaptcha.ready(function() {
    grecaptcha.execute('My_website_key', {
      action: 'form'
    }).then(function(token) {

      $('#token').val(token);

      thisForm.ajaxSubmit({
        success: function(msg) {

          if (msg == 'Message has been sent.') {
            console.log('success!');
          } else {
            console.log(msg);
          }

        },
        complete: function(xhr) {

          console.log(xhr.responseText);

        }

      });

    });

  });

  return false; // false = prevent submit
});
<script src="https://cdnjs.cloudflare.com/ajax/libs/jquery/1.7.1/jquery.min.js"></script>
<script src="http://malsup.github.io/min/jquery.form.min.js"></script>
<form action="//reqres.in/api/users" method="POST">
  <!-- This hidden input will contain the token -->
  <input type="hidden" name="token" id="token" />
  <input type="text" name="name" />
  <input type="text" name="email" />
  <textarea name="message"></textarea>
  <input type="submit" name="submit" value="Send" />
</form>

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaStackExchange


The Atomos Spyder Color Calibration Unit is a portable one-touch calibration device designed specifically for use with the Ninja Blade or Samurai Blade Monitor and Recorders. Featuring a precise seven-sensor design, the Spyder is capable of calibrating to the SMPTE Rec. 709 color space with a D65 white point with 100% gamut, as well as C-Log profiles. Once initially calibrated, the ability to customize gamma, lift, and gain per channel enables further control of the color settings of the monitor to match personal settings.
A USB to LANC serial cable is included for connecting the Ninja or Samurai Blade to a computer, and the Spyder is then connected via USB as well. Once connected, calibration occurs for precise, accurate, and consistent color representation to benefit a more streamlined workflow from capture to editing. The Spyder can also be used as a conventional calibration unit on other monitors when used with optional Datacolor software.


Home » Buying Your Home » What are some ways to make lots of money fast?
What are some ways to make lots of money fast?
were having a garage sale tomorrow and saturday but i only get the money from my stuff in the garage sale that gets sold, and i only have a cheap little dresser and a ton of little toys and a radio. so that wont get much money. But i need like 75 dollars by sunday. PLEASE HELP!!! And if its possible i would like to have extra money for shopping.
What can the bank do to my other loans if I can't pay my credit card debt?
Can a private financial institution report to the credit bureau if they havent reported the loan to begin with?
1 Thought on What are some ways to make lots of money fast?
Make babysitting flyers using the computer and put them in the library, people's mailboxes, and grocery stores.
Drum up more business and keep a notebook to schedule when you do get a customer.
Culver's minimum hiring age is 14 with a workers permit.
I called many stores because I am 14 looking for a job. This was the response they gave which makes me happy after looking for so long.
Find a local one go online and apply and go in store to apply or call and ask if they are hiring.
What I did was Google a bunch of business near my home and found their numbers using Google maps or their sites and I called and directly asked if they are hiring and what age do they hire at.
Try local grocery stores, pizza parlors, retail stores, fast food restaurants.
Check out my blog. it has tons of money making ideas, saving tips, ways to score freebies , and discounts. the link is under my profile.
You can create a blog too. You can generate money just ranting about your interests.
Capital One 5 day hold on payments.
good ways to help build your credit score?
Anyone here heard or worked for Quicken Loans?
I am thinking about getting a loan through Quicken Loans. Anyone here heard of or worked for Quicken Loans?
What happens if I do not activate a new credit card?
What happens if your home doesn't sell in a short sale?
How does a high credit card limit affect your credit score?
Help!!! Real Estates Agents, Mortgage Lenders or Insurance Agents?


text:
The Cape: NBC Cancellation Confirmed by DVD Release
by Trevor Kimball, April 22, 2011
Unfortunately for fans of NBC's The Cape, the superhero TV series just never caught on. It started out okay with a 2.6 rating and 8.45 million total viewers for the two hour premiere but it didn't stay at that level. The second airing dropped nearly 31% in the demo and the ratings kept falling until they evened out at a horrible 1.2 demo rating and just over four million viewers per week.
The show was still in production so the peacock cut their losses and the episode order — from 13 to 10 episodes. Then, rather than airing the season finale, they simply released it online as an "exclusive episode."
With ratings like these, we all knew there was no chance that The Cape would be back for season two. Now, we have confirmation. NBC-Universal has announced the upcoming release of The Cape – The Complete Series on DVD.
The two disc set will be released on July 5th and hopefully they'll also include a few extras that will give some indication about where the storyline might have gone if the series hadn't met an untimely demise.
Interestingly, the run time for the set is reportedly 371 minutes and that seems a bit short for 10 episodes. Each installment should be about 43 minutes long. If you do the math, it would seem that they're only including nine episodes. I'm sure they'll end up including all 10 episodes but thought that was worth a mention.
What do you think? Will you be picking up The Cape on DVD? What would you reasonably like to see for extras on The Cape DVD set?
More about: The Cape, The Cape: canceled or renewed?, The Cape: ratings
The Cape: Watch the Season (Series?) Finale Online
The Cape: NBC Finale to Be Released Online
TV Show Ratings for Monday, 02/21/11 [finals]
The Cape & Human Target: Execs Sign with New Shows
NBC TV Show Ratings for January 31- February 6, 2011 [release]
NBC TV Show Rankings for 2010-11 Season [as of 2/3/11]
NBC TV Show Ratings for January 24-30, 2011 [release]
The Event: NBC Series Return Delayed Until March 7th
The Cape: NBC Cuts Episode Order; Cancellation Next?
The Cape: New NBC Action Series; Cancel or Keep It?
The Cape: Petition and Ways to Help Save the NBC Series
NBC TV Show Ratings for January 3-9, 2011 [release]
The Real Kape
I am really sad that this ended. It needs to be brought back. They should've ended with Chess getting caught and a bigger villain coming up out of the shadows.
Ok now this sucks!! I got the dvd of the cape and I love the show. I dont really like any superhero tv show. They are dum or they try to get funny and, no that just dont cut it. But this is great. Alil dark,not to crazy superhero stuff but just anuff. All the people on it I like on almost everything there on. Just a great show and now im left at the med and hell,no end!! U guys suck big time. Would of got all the dvds if it was still goin. Someone should bring it back… Read more »
I am so tired of starting a series and then not getting to see the end product. they should have to finish the shows and not be able to cancel before it done.
i am going to miss it. cause me and my brother look at it every monday night can you put it on sicfi?
I loved the show and looked forward to it each week. I little hero fiction in our lives was refreshing compared to the harsh reality of real life.
Tha Critic
Not a huge loss.
What I did not like about the "The Cape" was "The Cape" himself. His acting was terrible and the intertwining of "Orville" being some hot chick who could not act, was unfortunately overshadowing the good acting of the villian, Chess, and many of the supporting characters. This show could have gone in a good direction quicker and I probably would have watched. I do like "Harry's Law" and hope to that back next season.


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Climate/
Could cleaning the climate save money?
Written by Katie Burton
In contrast to established wisdom, one group of scientists believe that by factoring in global health benefits, it is possible to decrease carbon emissions and still save money
Can we tackle climate change without losing money? And, if so, how aggressive can those policies be while still remaining economically sound? Those are the questions posed by a group of researchers from the University of Vermont, and their answer is encouraging.
By creating a new climate change model (which builds on the famous RICE climate model, developed by Yale Economist William Nordhaus), the researchers demonstrate that dramatic cuts in carbon emissions – aggressive enough to meet the Paris Climate Agreement target of limiting global temperature rise to well below two degrees Celsius – could be economically sound if human health benefits are factored in. These health benefits derive from the fact that certain CO2 reduction polices also lead to reduced air pollutant emissions as the gas and the aerosol pollutants share many sources. The researchers claim that these health benefits could reach trillions of dollars in value annually, though this does depend on the air quality policies that nations adopt independently of climate change. 'These health "co-benefits" of climate change policy are widely believed to be important,' says Mark Budolfson, co-lead author from the University of Vermont, 'but until now have not been fully incorporated in global economic analyses of how much the world should invest in climate action.'
The model differs from others because it takes into account a factor often over-looked – namely that some of the particles that make up air pollution have a cooling effect on the Earth's atmosphere. Reducing air pollution could therefore lead to a detrimental increase in global heating. The model demonstrates that even taking into account these co-benefits and co-harms, an aggressive climate policy can still result in immediate health and economic net benefits globally.
India and China, which face among the highest death rates from air pollution, will achieve the greatest health benefits in the near-term
Predictably, the report demonstrates that these benefits will not be felt equally across the world. The researchers predict that India and China, which face among the highest death rates from air pollution, will acheive the greatest health benefits in the near-term. This is partly due to their large populations and high capacity for reduction in air pollutants. It then shows that China's health benefits will decline by mid-century, while those in India will persist. Towards the end of the century, sub-Saharan Africa replaces China as the second-largest beneficiary. Nevertheless, despite these differences Budolfsen does not want countries to see this as an opportunity to work alone. 'Ideally, we would still want a burden sharing, equity focused global system where the rich countries would help shoulder some of the financial cost of making the reductions. Then countries such as India would still get the benefits to its people of cleaner air, but they would also not suffer retarded development from the economic cost.'
He explains that further work carried out on the model demonstrates that if India were to only factor in the health benefits to their own citizens the amount of climate change mitigation they could do without losing out economically would be substantial, but would not still not be enough to adequately address climate change globally. 'So, we still need global cooperation to really get an adequate outcome for the climate,' he concludes.
The key thing, adds Budolfsen, is to recognise that climate change mitigation polices can benefit human health right now and to foster collaboration to achieve these results. 'If everyone alive now turns out to be a loser if we do aggressive climate mitigation, which was the economist's storyline prior to this sort of work, then there's not as much incentive to push for aggressive cooperation. Hopefully this sort of report reveals that globally, our generation can really benefit from this now.'
It's this immediacy that could prove particularly important for developing countries, some of which have been understandably reluctant to contribute scarce resources to climate change policies. Budolfsen notes that India has historically been unwilling to introduce policies without a global equity sharing agreement in place, 'but this report shows that even in the absence of an ideal burden sharing agreement they still have reasons to be in favour of doing some climate change action.'
These charts demonstrate the health benefits of carbon mitigation. Charts (a) and (b) show life-years gained (a) overall and (b) per 100,000 population by region from the air quality improvements associated with the optimal decarbonisation proposed in the study. Charts (c) and (d) show the resulting monetized benefits in total, and as a percent of GDP, respectively
It is worth noting that in coming to this conclusion the researchers had to apply a number of assumptions to their model which influence the results one way or the other. Summing up these various assumptions, the report reads: 'The global health benefits from climate policy could reach trillions of dollars annually, but their magnitude will importantly depend on the air quality policies that nations adopt independently of climate change. Depending on how society values better health, we show that economically optimal levels of mitigation may be consistent with a target of 2°C or lower.'
For air quality policies, the results assume that air quality control occurring independently of climate policy will proceed approximately as projected in the coming decades, based on current and planned policies. When it comes to placing a value on better health the researchers had to determine how many 'life years' are saved by reduced air pollution and then prescribe a financial value to those years. The former task is the simpler of the two and the researchers used well-established World Health Organisation statistics. The later task is more controversial. To establish an economically optimal climate policy in line with the Paris Agreement, Budolfsen admits that 'the value of life that you need to use to get these results is at the high end of the range in the literature.' This value is dubbed the 'value of a statistical life' and attributes a figure of roughly 8–16 years of per capita consumption to each year of life gained. While other methodologies for valuing years of life result in only two years of per capital consumption being attributed to each year of life, Budolfsen says that the higher value is widely used in the scholarly literature. He therefore remains confident that the conclusions drawn in the report are well-founded and should be a cause for optimism.
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Anthistarcha geniatella is a moth in the family Gelechiidae. It was described by August Busck in 1914. It is found in Panama.

The wingspan is 11–12 mm. The forewings are white overlaid with dark grey and ochreous scales. There are two large tufts of dark erect scales on the middle of the cell, one above the other and together reaching nearly across the wing. The bases of these tufts are yellow. There are four dark brown spots on the costa, edged below with yellow and there is a ring of dark brown scales at the tornus, with a few yellow scales within. The apical part of the wing is heavily overlaid with dark brown which obscures a row of dark terminal dots. The hindwings are semitransparent on the basal half and dark fuscous on the apical half. Males have a strong costal tuft, which is ochreous at the base and blackish brown at the tips.

References

Moths described in 1914
Chelariini
Moths of Central America

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaWikipedia


Tonight we celebrated 63 years since Israeli Independence and I, at least in part, celebrated the first night of mine.
Tonight was the first night I realized that that while I have 2 beautiful little girls, it is the one who is here and spunky and precocious and full of life that needs my attention. As much as I miss my Gabbi, and there are times and I am sure there will continue to be times where the pain of missing her will be unbearable, the living have to come before the dead.
Tonight for the first time, for most of the night I was able to put my grief aside to make sure that my Channah had the best night she could have. We read tehillim, we sang, we even danced- and I ENJOYED it and I DON'T FEEL GUILTY. We watched the concert and we snuggled and I watched her play with her friends and I ENJOYED watching her play with her friends. Would I have enjoyed it more with my Gabriella? I am 100% certain that I would have. But that is not how things played out.
In taking my first step in starting to find my independence from my grief I have taken then the first step away from constant guilt and sadness and towards the light at the end of my tunnel. I have admitted to myself that although I wish things had worked out differently they didn't, and that no matter how much I hate that fact, and no matter how much I hate the final outcome, things are the way that they are. I have a sweet little light in my life that I can't let my grief extinguish.
Last night, Remembrance Day, was for my Gabbriella Galit. Today, Independence Day is for me. All the rest of my tomorrows are for Channah.
This blog is a spot for me to be honest. I am not going to lie here and say that my Gabbi never entered my mind tonight. As I saw strollers with new babies in them I felt sad, but kept repeating to myself "tonight is for Channah. Tonight is for Channah". At one point I told myself I was going to count backwards from 10 to 1 and when I got to 1 I would again be relaxed and happy. Lord only knows why but it seems to have worked.
The only time I was overcome with melancholy was when the fireworks started and as I held Channah and listened to her squeal with delight, and heard a baby cry in terror, I wondered what Gabbi would have done, and if, wherever she is now, she could see them.
I hope she could because they really were beautiful, but if she couldn't I am sure she is looking at something much more spectacular.
So in conclusion. Am I "cured"? No way in hell. Have I taken the first teeny tiny itsy bitsy step towards reclaiming my independence from this seemingly unending nightmare? I think I just might have.
I am very proud of you!!!
I am so happy to read this!!!


This pristine 2013 modified Regent makes a grand statement. Great mountain views, high volume ceilings, a large open Kitchen & Family Room w/breakfast area, spacious Living & Dining Rooms & many upgrades. 2 casitas, one large, one small, each with their own bathroom, & 3 interior en-suite bedrooms. The backyard is an entertainer's delight with an over-sized swimmer's pool & spa, fabulous mountain views, a large grass side yard & a lovely gazebo. All on an oversized lot of approx. 1/2 acre. The chef's kitchen showcases an island, Bosch Energy Star Appliances, an SMEG 48 Opera Series Professional Chef's Range & Hood. Massive spaces & tile floors throughout (except in master bedroom closet). Cherry Thermafoil cabinets, upgraded baseboards, upgraded granite, built-ins, custom window coverings, 2 fireplaces, a covered courtyard entry w/6 skylights and a large covered patio. Within the more reasonable IID utility district. Gated with low HOA dues. Backup offers encouraged at this time.


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Fred Randolph: Tales from a busy bassist
by Andrew Gilbert Nov. 19, 2015, 3:00 p.m. October 4, 2022
A bassist for all occasions: Fred Randolph plays Berkeley Friday. Photo: Ruby Ray
A consummate musician who can be found playing jazz, salsa, samba, rock, fusion and any number of other styles, Fred Randolph is one of the busiest bassists in the Bay Area. The story of how he attained that enviable status is full of unlikely twists, with several instrumental detours along the way.
Though usually employed as a sideman, he's released several engaging albums under his own name, most recently Song Without Singing (Creative Spirit Records), a project that showcases his rhythmic range and melodically charged compositional vision. Featuring Berkeley-raised trumpeter Erik Jekabson, pianist Matt Clark, saxophonist Sheldon Brown, and drummer Greg Wyser-Pratte, the Fred Randolph Band celebrates the album's release 8 p.m. Friday Nov. 20 at the Berkeley Fellowship of Unitarian Universalists as part of Jazz in the Neighborhood program (pianist Ian McArdle, a former student of Randolph's, opens the show). He's joined by the same exceptional cast at the California Jazz Conservatory on January 15.
"His music is fun and challenging and he writes in a lot of different styles," says Jekabson, who also performs with the sumptuous jazz vocalist Jackie Ryan at Yoshi's on Sunday, Nov. 22 . "There are all these cool interlocking melodies and rhythms, with a lot of drama, odd time signatures and technical virtuosity, and Fred is very specific about what he wants, to the point of writing out piano voicings and grooves. You don't see that very often."
Now living in San Francisco, Randolph traces his affinity for strings to his upbringing in Honolulu, where he started playing ukulele as a young teen in the early 1970s. In a move that at first sounds nonsensical, he moved to Berkeley in 1976 when he found San Diego too cold for his comfort. He'd enrolled at UCSD looking for a good surfing situation but was disappointed to discover that Southern California's stretch of the Pacific Ocean couldn't compete with Hawaii's.
"I didn't want to have to wear a wetsuit, and I decided I was done with surfing," he says. "I'd always been into music, and I'd heard that Berkeley was more happening culturally, so I transferred up here."
San Diego may have lacked in culture, but it did stoke his interest in jazz. He arrived at UCSD smitten with the guitar, and he fell in with a teacher who turned him onto modern jazz masters like John Coltrane and Sonny Rollins. He played guitar all through his first undergrad stint at Cal when he majored in political science, but by the time he went back to get a second BA in music he had switched to saxophone.
"It all makes sense now because I teach high school band," says Randolph, the band director at Bishop O'Dowd High School. "I was trying to find something that worked. I wasn't getting to jazz with a guitar, so I eventually went and got a saxophone from a pawn shop. That seemed like the best way into jazz, but I was playing a lot of lousy wedding gigs. I'd put on a tux and play a lot of Michael Jackson and 'The Wind Beneath my Wings.' I learned a lot, but it was a dead end."
Looking to expand his musical resources, Randolph decided to pursue a masters in composition at Cal State Hayward (now Cal State East Bay), where he added clarinet and trumpet to his arsenal. But as he was finishing up the program with a writing project for string quartet and bass he experienced his most consequent musical epiphany as he found himself "fascinated by the sound of the bass." He took lessons with the school's bass guru Carl Stanley and started sitting in North Beach's Gathering Café with Bishop Norman Williams, the great Kansas City bebop saxophonist who mentored several generations of Bay Area jazz musicians.
"Before I knew it I was working three nights a week as a bass player," Randolph says. "And right away I'm going out to Jazz at Pearl's hearing guys like John Wiitala and Peter Barshay, thinking I better get it together."
Randolph, whose now studying with Tim Spears, continued his bass mission with Frank Tusa and Kai Eckhardt. And like so many Bay Area musicians he credits the Brazilian piano maestro Marcos Silva with refining his rhythmic skills and preparing him to play in Brazilian music settings. "He's one of the most talent people I've ever met," he says. "He taught me that you have to be precise about time. The first day playing for him he said you're really rushing. No, I'm not. He went out and got a metronome and showed me. I went out after that and got myself a metronome."
A snapshot of his present commitments include a semi-regular gig playing Latin jazz with the Mario Flores Group (the next hit is Nov. 27 at San Francisco's Pier 23 Café), and a longtime collaboration with Berkeley pianist Michael Smolens, who presents his annual house concert on Dec. 6 focusing on his New American Songbook project,
"He's radically reimagining standards," Randolph says. "He's got the Spanish jazz singer Rocio Guitard and Kris Strom on reeds, some great musicians. It's real challenging stuff, and I'm playing stand up, electric and fretless."
He also performs Dec. 13 with guitarist Larry Stefl's Brazilian jazz combo at Avanova, a superb house concert series in Oakland, and Jan. 2 at the California Jazz Conservatory with the quartet of Berkeley saxophonist Bob Kenmotsu, a well-traveled player who has recorded with jazz giants such as guitarist Pat Martino, drummer Billy Hart, and Hammond B-3 organist Brother Jack McDuff.
Given his busy schedule, it's no wonder that he makes the most of the opportunities to present his own music. His band features top shelf improvisers who are almost as overcommitted. "Erik is on everybody's gig," Randolph says. "Things come alive when he's around. When he improvisers I always feel he plays like a composer. Lots of people play great, but he takes an idea and develops it."
Rob Roth has held down the band's saxophone chair, but he had another gig and Randolph hired Sheldon Brown, a universally admired player with whom he plays in trumpeter Ian Carey's band. He and pianist Matt Clark often end up hired for recordings together, and Wyser-Pratte is a sensitive and hard swinging drummer who made his reputation on the Chicago scene.
Not quite the band that plays Friday at the Berkeley Fellowship. L to r: Brian Rice, Erik Jekabson, Greg Wyser-Pratte, FR, Matt Clark and Rob Roth. Photo: Lincoln Adler
Randolph consistently attracts and retains top-shelf talent because his music challenges musicians, starting with the fundamentals. He wants the players to make his arrangements their own, while engaging deeply with arrangements that build upon "melodic integrity," he says.
"That's what lingers in your head about a great pop song or a symphony. The final piece is how can we take this situation and come out with it not exactly the way we started. Miles Davis was the master of this. Get the right guys, set up a situation and give them enough material to create something. And then they're owners."
Andrew Gilbert writes a weekly music column for Berkeleyside. He also reports for the San Jose Mercury News, San Francisco Chronicle, and KQED's California Report. Read his previous Berkeleyside reviews.
Want to know what else is going on in Berkeley and nearby? Visit Berkeleyside's new-look Events Calendar. Submit your own events for free if they aren't there already — and give them featured status for just a few dollars a day.
Tagged: California Jazz Conservatory, Jazz in the Neighborhood, Music


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IT Leadership // IT Strategy
Antone Gonsalves
Cisco Outlines Its Strategy For China, Names Leaders
The plan includes further commitment to providing assistance to Chinese businesses in the development of IT and business-process outsourcing within the country.
Cisco Systems on Wednesday appointed Jim Sherriff, senior VP of global operations, to the newly created position of chairman of Cisco China, and launched new public-private collaborative programs in the fast-growing nation.
In his new role, Sherriff is responsible for implementing the company's China strategy, which includes research and development, education, procurement, investment, and training. Sheriff and Randy Pond, executive VP of global operations, will co-chair the Cisco China Strategy Board. Other board members include Owen Chan, president of Cisco Asia Pacific, and Thomas Lam, president of Cisco China.
Cisco chairman and chief executive John Chambers announced Sheriff's appointment at a Beijing news conference, where the CEO also announced an expansion of agreements with the Chinese government. Those included a memorandum of understanding with China's National Development and Reform Commission. The agreement is for collaboration on Internet and environmental research and development, leadership training, best practice sharing, and business development investments, Cisco said.
In addition, Cisco has signed a memorandum of understanding with the communist nation's Ministry of Commerce. The pact furthers Cisco's commitment to providing assistance to Chinese businesses in the development of IT and business-process outsourcing within the country.
Cisco also has agreed to work with Peking University to create the Guanghua Cisco Leadership Institute for leadership training. Cisco plans to invest $20 million over the next three to five years in the institute.
Chambers said the latest agreements represent the "next phase" within its multi-year corporate strategy for China.
"The next stage of our strategy for China reflects the country's importance to Cisco's global growth strategy and to our long-term business model," Chambers said in a statement. "Cisco's public-private collaboration within China not only helps accelerate these business efforts, but also helps the 1.3 billion people and growing number of entrepreneurs within the country gain access to social and economic opportunities afforded by the Internet."
Email Security Threat Report 2020


One in three large firms paid no tax in the last financial year, the Australian Tax Office has revealed, prompting Labor to go on the attack.
Of the 1904 entities examined, a total of 679 (or 35.6 per cent) had no tax payable, despite passing a multi-million dollar income threshold, the ATO reported on Friday.
The summary looked at public and foreign-owned entities (including trusts) with at least $100 million income, as well as all Australian-owned private entities with at least $200 million income.
The ATO warned that owing no tax was not evidence of wrongdoing.
For example, companies with large revenues but no tax (such as Qantas) may not have been profitable over the period, or may have reduced their tax bills to zero by claiming prior year losses or tax offsets.
"No tax paid does not necessarily mean tax avoidance, and assumptions about an entity's compliance with their tax obligations, or those of their associated groups, cannot be made solely on the basis of this data," the tax office said in a statement.
Qantas was the largest company to pay nothing. It declared total income of $15.4 billion, taxable income of $211.7 million and no tax payable.
Labor's shadow assistant treasurer Andrew Leigh used the report to attack the government's proposal to cut corporate tax from 30 to 25 per cent over the next 10 years.
"Instead of making sure multinationals pay their fair share, the Turnbull government wants to punish working and middle class families by implementing a massive corporate tax cut that will hammer the budget when it is most vulnerable," Mr Leigh said.
The report revealed that slightly fewer companies paid no tax in 2014-15 compared to the year before (35.6pc vs 36.9pc), but that slightly less tax was paid overall ($41.86 billion vs $42.02 billion).
The big four banks were some of the nation's biggest tax payers. Collectively, the Commonwealth Bank, Westpac, NAB and ANZ coughed up $10.7 billion.
Overall, financial firms, retailers and other entities involved in services were more likely to have contributed to the government's coffers, with more than 70 per cent of the sector having tax payable.
Entities in the manufacturing sector (about 60 per cent paying tax) and in resources and energy (about 40 per cent) were the worst performers.
The ATO said it was likely the energy and natural resources sectors would continue to pay less tax in 2015-16 because of a dip in profitability.
The Corporate Tax Association, a business lobby group, criticised claims of widespread tax avoidance as "misinformed commentary" symptomatic of "post truth politics".
A spokeswoman for The Business Council of Australia also cautioned that the report could be misinterpreted.
But Labor's Wayne Swan, a former treasurer, said the fact that the share of large firms paying tax had remained relatively unchanged was proof the Coalition government had failed to crack down on avoidance.
"While there are legitimate reasons why some companies paid no tax in 2014-15 this data shines a light on the ethically bankrupt behaviour of some large corporates, both public and private," Mr Swan said in a statement.
Friday's tax report was the second released by the ATO since Labor pushed through a law in 2013 requiring it to be produced annually.
After the first report, US academic Jeffrey Hoopes at the University of North Carolina, who specialises in how taxpayers respond to tax laws and enforcement, conducted a study of the Australian reaction.
The professor and his team found that investors reacted negatively to public companies that paid no tax, and that the reputation of 'shamed' private companies was wounded a little.
Some firms, particularly smaller ones, appeared to have taken action to fall under the income threshold to escape disclosure, while others reported paying more tax, the study found.


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Why Andy Garcia is literally in only one shot of 'Passengers'
Jason Guerrasio
"Passengers."
Warning: Spoilers below if you haven't seen the movie.
It can get really annoying when a trailer is nothing like the actual movie. And though the big issue with "Passengers" is the story-altering decision one of its main characters makes that is completely ignored in the trailer ( learn more about that), there's also another question after comparing trailer to movie:
What the heck happened to Andy Garcia?
"Passengers" is set on luxury star ship that's blazing a path from Earth to a colony planet 120 years away. Jim (Chris Pratt) and Aurora (Jennifer Lawrence) wake up too early from their hibernation chambers (for very different reasons) and are alone on the ship with 90 years left in the voyage. With everyone still asleep, including the crew, Jim and Aurora enjoy each other's company until they are interrupted by a malfunction on the ship that they have to fix on their own or everyone on board will die.
The movie ends with Jim and Aurora fixing the ship and living out their days on it together. The captain, played by Garcia, wakes to find what the two had been doing with their time on it, creating a home for themselves full of gardens, plants, and other reminders of Earth that were locked away in the ship's storage.
Garcia's surprised expression of what he finds on the ship, which is shown in the film's trailers and TV spots, is literally the only shot of him in the entire movie.
Andy Garcia's only screen time in "Passengers."
YouTube/Sony
So how does an Oscar-nominated actor only get one shot in a big budget movie? Turns out there were numerous endings filmed.
"The ending of the film is the thing that we adjusted most not just during this production but all the years leading up to it," Jon Spaihts, the "Passengers" screenwriter who had been working on the film for close to 10 years, told Business Insider. "Sticking this ending was one of the trickiest parts of the film. There was a version where we wondered around the aftermath of their lives a little bit longer and the viewpoint character who took us on that walk was the captain of the ship. So there's a version of that ending where you actually spend a few minutes with that guy silently looking at all the signs of how their lives played out. That's not what ended up on screen, what we have now is an extraordinary highbrow cameo."
Guess what we learned here is regardless of the amount of screen time, if you have a recognizable actor in your movie, you place them in the trailer.
We just hope Garcia didn't grow that long beard specifically for this role.
"Passengers" is currently playing in theaters nationwide.
More: Movies Prime Andy Garcia passengers
Dairy Queen employee who made viral 'marijuana' cake said she was fired on her birthday for the mix-up