Outside, the night was cold and wet, but in the small living room of the White family the blinds were drawn and the fire burned brightly. Old Mr. White and his son Herbert were playing chess, while the mother sat knitting by the warm fire. "Listen to the wind," said Mr. White, who had just made a bad move. "I'm listening," said Herbert, studying the board. "Check." Suddenly there was a loud knock at the door. The old man rose and opened it, and a tall, strong man stepped into the room. "Sergeant-Major Morris," he said, shaking hands with them all. The guest took the offered seat by the fire and watched contentedly while his host got out whisky and glasses. After the third glass his eyes grew bright, and he began to talk of strange lands and brave deeds, of wars and plagues and far-off peoples. "Twenty-one years he has been away," said Mr. White to his wife and son. "You don't look any older," said Mrs. White kindly. "I should like to go to India myself," said the old man, "just to look about a bit." "Better stay where you are," said the sergeant-major, shaking his head. He put down his empty glass and slowly took something from his pocket. "What is it?" asked Mr. White, picking it up and looking closer. On his open hand lay a little paw, dried like a mummy. "It is only a monkey's paw," said the sergeant-major quietly. "An old fakir put a spell on it," he went on. "He was a very holy man. He wanted to show that fate ruled people's lives, and that those who interfered with it would be sorry."