It's October, and you know what that means? Horror. This is the month of Halloween, and for this time of terror, I'm gonna look at a GI Joe figure connected to Stephen King. That's right, it's Sneak Peak. Yeah, Sneak Peak. Timmer has Monster Month covered up, so I guess I'll review something that isn't scary at all. Although, I am a little nervous. This studio space has been haunted by a couple creepy, evil twins. Hello everybody, hooded Cobra Commander 788 here. Did you know there is a supernatural-themed GI Joe figure created by famous horror author Stephen King? Well, we are not looking at that today. I've already reviewed Crystal Ball. Instead, we're looking at a figure named after Stephen King's son Owens. Sneak Peak could be an awesome action figure. He has an exciting and interesting job. He could be outfitted and equipped to stealthily sneak into enemy territory. He could carry compact and high-tech equipment for observing enemy troop movements, but none of that's true. He has bright colors and big honking accessories. Despite wearing bright colors, Sneak Peak still finds a way to be boring. Since this figure can be on the dull side, I anticipate you falling asleep during this review, so I'm including a couple helpful alarms to wake you up and help you get through it. Let's dare to be dull. HCC 788 presents Sneak Peak. This is Sneak Peak, Advanced Recon for GI Joe from 1987. This figure was introduced in 1987. It was also available in 1988. It was discontinued for 1989. Sneak Peak was designed by Mark Pennington for Hasbro. This is the first version. There were only two versions of Sneak Peak in the vintage era. Version 2 of Sneak Peak was from 1988 and was in the night force subset. It used the same mold as version 1, but in night force colors. Those night force colors may be more appropriate for Sneak Peak's job as we will address later. Recon is short for reconnaissance. Most references for advanced recon refers to vehicles. Sneak Peak's job is more special reconnaissance. He has a larger special forces unit like GI Joe. His job is to gather human intelligence ahead of the main unit. This will require him to infiltrate enemy territory. How well equipped is he to do that? We shall see. Sneak Peak is famously named after Stephen King's son, Owen King. Stephen King is a famous horror author. His son, Owen, was a fan of GI Joe. Sneak Peak is not Stephen King's only connection to GI Joe. He also created Crystal Ball, the Cobra hypnotist from 1987. Stephen King is one of the most popular horror novelists in history, but I'm not really a fan of horror novels, so I don't have a personal opinion about his writing. The main thing I know about him is he did not like Stanley Kubrick's movie adaptation of The Shining, which is one of the most memorable horror movies of all time. It's one of my favorite movies. It's number 35 on Empire's list of top 100 movies of all time, so I'm sure he has good taste in something, and his novels are probably super great. Let's take a look at Sneak Peak's accessories. I know what a plethora is, and this is a plethora of accessories. Let's start with this large one, this periscope, which the card contents call a variable range optical field scanning device. This is a very large accessory made of light green plastic. It's actually three pieces. There's the main piece, then this handle, which according to the artwork attaches this way, but when attached this way it doesn't really do much. Then there is this brace piece attached to the side. It has a large lens and an eyepiece down toward the bottom. How this figure is supposed to hold this is a bit of a mystery. There are several different ways to try to get him to hold it, but none of them work very well. This eyepiece toward the bottom implies he should be able to hold the periscope up like this and look through the eyepiece and see what's coming through this large lens. I've seen lots of poses with Sneak Peak holding this thing in various ways, trying to get him to actually grasp this perhaps by this piece toward the bottom or on the brace. Honestly, I don't like any of those poses. It's all valiant attempts to make this work, but I think this accessory really has some serious problems as it's designed. An accessory this large needs a backpack or a grip to fit in the figure's hand, or preferably both. As it's designed it's really large, it's really cool, but it's not very functional. There are ways to get the figure to pose with this thing, but it's very cumbersome and frankly I've just kind of given up on it. The next accessory is the binoculars. The binoculars are in black plastic. They are reasonably detailed. They're very similar to other binoculars you've seen with other GI Joe figures. It does have a strap, so you can drape this around the figure's neck, but it doesn't have a bend in that strap, so it doesn't rest around the neck very well. It's a long strap though. That's a very wide loop, so you could actually put it over the figure's head and sling it under the arm, and that may actually be a better way to hold it. So I mean that's also a little bit cumbersome with all the other accessories that he's carrying, but it's a bit more secure that way. And I don't know, I think it might actually look a little better that way. The next accessory, which I also have strapped across Sneak Peaks' chest, is his weapon. This, the card contents call an M16A rifle. This rifle is made of black plastic. It's kind of an undersized M16. It does have a strap. It's a good looking weapon, and if it looks familiar, that's because it is an exact reissue of the M16 rifle that came with 1985 footloose. Because the strap is so close to the grip, it doesn't leave a lot of space to fit the weapon in the figure's hand. In fact, this doesn't fit very well in my Sneak Peaks hand, but it does fit with this footloose figure, mainly because the thumb on this figure is stretched out. Otherwise, it would have the same problem for footloose. Next, we get to an accessory that pegs onto the figure itself. This device connects to this hook that's on the waist piece for Sneak Peaks. It fits in this loop on the device, and that can be removed. This accessory is made of black plastic. It has some buttons and knobs on it. It has a handle and an antenna. This accessory has caused some confusion. There are two entries on the card contents. One for a multi-band radio transponder unit, and another for a walkie-talkie, and I think both refer to this accessory. First of all, this is the only accessory that could be the multi-band transponder device. The microphone that attached to the figure is not it, and I can definitively say this is also the walkie-talkie. Dan Kling and Smith's book Creating G.I. Joe Volume 8 has a diagram of these accessories, and this says it is the walkie-talkie. The final accessory is this removable microphone. It is in black plastic. It is very small. It pegs into a very small hole on the figure's helmet. This microphone, as with all of the removable microphones on G.I. Joe figures, is the most frequently missing part, and the most difficult part to find on the aftermarket. I truly would have preferred if they had just sculpted these microphones on the figures. I will say something positive about sneak peek and these accessories. If you can get the figure to hold this ridiculously oversized periscope, which I cannot, then he can hold all of his accessories at the same time, despite coming with a lot of them. It is one of my pet peeves when a figure cannot hold all of his accessories. If they had just put a back peg on that periscope, then it would be perfect. He could hold everything without any problem. Let's take a look at sneak peek's articulation. He had the articulation that was standard for G.I. Joe figures before 1987, so he could turn his head from left to right and look up and down. He could swing his arm up at the shoulder and swivel at the shoulder all the way around. He had a hinge at the elbow that allowed him to bend his arm at the elbow about 90 degrees. He had a swivel at the bicep so he could swivel his arm all the way around. This was an o-ring figure, meaning the figure was held together with a rubber o-ring that looped around the inside that allowed him to move at the torso a bit. He could move his legs apart about so far. He could bend his leg at the hip about 90 degrees and bend at the knee about 90 degrees. Let's take a look at the sculpt design and color of sneak peek starting with his head.  There are dark gray goggles on the helmet. There's a dark gray strap that goes around the helmet. There's a dark gray device on the right side where the microphone attaches. His face is exposed. He has a Caucasian skin tone, brown eyes and eyebrows, and he has a light gray strap that goes under his chin. GI Joe figures with non-removable helmets made a comeback in 1987 with fast draw and crazy legs. I'm not a fan of this. I would prefer these helmets to be removable. And with the size they could be removable and still have the attachments. On his chest he has a light gray uniform. He has a wide red collar that goes around his neck that is a very wide red collar. He has red padding on the chest with some vertical lines and that's about it. It's a pretty plain uniform. His arms feature long light gray sleeves rolled up to mid forearm exposing some of his Caucasian skin tone on his forearms. He has red padding around the upper arms with those vertical lines. He has a black watch on his right wrist and what looks like another black watch on his left wrist.  And he has light gray gloves. The waist piece features that light gray uniform color, a couple of pockets sculpted on the back and some lines down the sides that continue to the upper legs. It looks like zippers on his pockets. He has a light green belt that's the same color as the periscope. It's nice to have the color coordination between the figure and the accessory. There are what look like maybe small pouches along the front of the belt and the hook on the right hip for that walkie talkie. There is red padding on the front. The legs feature that light gray uniform color. This may be a jumpsuit. He has unpainted pockets on the upper outside legs. He has tall boots that go all the way up to his knees and they kind of make knee pads at his knees. There are some pouches on the outside of those boots and otherwise they don't have a lot of detail. They're fairly plain tall black boots. The whole figure is short on details and the details it has are puzzling. It doesn't look like he's equipped for his reconnaissance job at all. Hasbro designers must have really liked this gray, red and green color scheme because they used it a lot. It was on Psycout in 1987 and they used it twice in 1986 on Roadblock and Cross Country. With the padding and the helmet he looks like an updated tripwire from 1983. If the figure had been green and gray it could have been a new version of tripwire. There are some jobs where gray and red and light green would be fine but advanced recon is not one of them. Sneakpeak version 2 from Night Force had more reasonable colors for his job as version 1 should have. Hello, this is your courtesy wake-up alarm. Please wake up so you can enjoy the rest of the review. Let's take a look at Sneakpeak's file card. This file card has his factions G.I. Joe. It has a portrait of Sneakpeak here. His codename is Sneakpeak. He is advanced recon. His filename is Owen King. He is named after the son of Stephen King. Maybe it is extreme privilege to have a famous father get your name on a G.I. Joe character but I wouldn't pass on the opportunity to have a G.I. Joe character named after me. His primary military specialty is infantry. Secondary military specialty is radio telecommunications. His birthplace is Bangor Main which is a residence of the King family and his grade is E5. This top paragraph says Sneakpeak is a legend in the Ranger recon battalions. They tell of one mission where his control unit got overrun. In the ensuing confusion, Sneakpeak was never recalled. He stayed put observing enemy activity, taking notes and sketching maps for two weeks until somebody remembered he was out there and sent him the signal to return. He is of course Ranger-qualified and proficient in all NATO night vision devices. This bottom paragraph has a quote. It says, patience, endurance and guts is what Sneakpeak has plenty of. He's got the patience to creep inch by inch into enemy territory, carefully bending back every branch and twig in his way and just carefully replacing them. He's got the endurance to sit motionless in cramped cover for days on end waiting for the bad guys to show up and when they do he's got the guts to stick around and watch. This file card makes Sneakpeak sound like a badass. Larry Hama, the writer of the GI Joe comic book series also wrote these file cards and I think he did a good job with this one. I just wish the figure was as good as the file card. Looking at how Sneakpeak was used in GI Joe media the figure was released after the cancellation of the animated series produced by Sunbow and before the animated series produced by Deak so he was only animated for commercials. Looking at the GI Joe comic book series published by Marvel Comics Sneakpeak first appeared in issue number 73. He was included in the GI Joe recon team on Cobra Island at the beginning of the Cobra Civil War. This was the perfect use of Sneakpeak. It is exactly in line with his specialty. He didn't have many appearances. He was mostly a background character except for his last few appearances. He was in issue number 111 during the Benzene War story arc as part of a recon team. In issue number 113 it was revealed that Sneakpeak and Dusty were close friends. They spent the holidays together with Sneakpeak's family. Unfortunately, that was the end of the road for Sneakpeak. Cobra used a child as bait to draw out the Joe's and Sneakpeak went for it. He was gunned down by a range viper. Looking at Sneakpeak overall for a figure that includes a lot of accessories including one very large and unique periscope accessory is still really dull. Accessories are mostly pretty good. The M16A is a reissue of Footloose's weapon but it's a good one so I can't really complain about that. The walkie-talkie attaches to the figure which is nice. The binoculars are good and appropriate and with the straps on the weapon and the binoculars as long as you can get him to hold that periscope he can carry all of his accessories at the same time. The microphone is tiny and very easy to lose. The periscope would really benefit from a backpack and a grip so the figure could more easily carry it. The thing is so large it really needs some way to attach to the figure. That's a very large piece of equipment to tote out into the field so it better be worth it. He better be able to see through time with that thing. How can a figure with red and bright green be dull? The dominant color is light gray. There's lots of light gray. The details are very plain. There are some vertical lines on the chest. There are some unpainted pockets on the legs but otherwise no detail. The boots are very tall with small pockets but no laces, no padding on the knees. Nothing else that would make them stand out. Sneak Peak was designed by Mark Pennington. His figure designs are often creative and quirky and fun which is why I don't understand this one. This is a figure dedicated to the son of Stephen King. Having a boring figure is probably worse than having a bad one in this case. Sneak Peak is a missed opportunity for greatness. That was my review of Sneak Peak. I hope you enjoyed it. If this video goes up when I expect it to, I will be off the following week. Also, I will be attending assembly required in Des Moines, Iowa on November 3rd and 4th. So please join me if you can. As always, please give this video a thumbs up and subscribe to the channel so you don't miss any future videos. You can find me on social media and on my website, hcc788.com. Patreon is a great way to support the channel. You can get some special perks including your name in videos like the names you see scrolling on the screen right now. Thank you for watching and happy Halloween everyone. I will see you soon with more vintage G.I. Joe. Until then, remember, only G.I. Joe is G.I. Joe. Black cat, it's Halloween, it's Halloween cat. Are you terrified? I'm terrified. Look at those, look at that face. Look at that vicious face. Look at that mean guy.


At Audiology Associates of Prestonsburg, you can live your life the way you want and find the freedom of better hearing. With 40 years of being in the hearing care industry, you'll experience patient care that is specific to you with exceptional follow-up care that ensures your hearing and balance needs are being met. Audiology Associates at 1428 Northlake Drive in Prestonsburg. The Allen Baptist Church will be hosting their first drive-through nativity scene on December 8th through the 10th. The show will tell the story of Jesus' birth and the major events that followed his life after. For Pastor Dwayne Reigns, spreading the message of Christmas to the community is what's most important. Well, there's an old Christmas song we used to sing, Go Tell It on the Mountain, that Jesus Christ is born. And that's exactly what we're going to do in our upper parking lot up here on the mountain. We want to let the community experience the birth of Christ. So we are going to re-enact that with different scenes and where people can come and drive through and experience the miraculous birth that happened over 2000 years ago. And we want to tell everyone about the story of salvation that all started on that Christmas morning. Members of the church have dedicated themselves to putting on a good show for this year. The church is also using live animals for the show and will have handouts for those who join. We have several people that has been dedicated to working on this for a couple months now. I'd say we probably have somewhere around the 40 to 50 range of people that's been working. We have live animals that'll be here. We've had men who've been committed to building sets and they've been working on sets now since September. We also have several people who are who's been getting the advertisement together and been getting tracks to handouts and it's been organized in the event. It's been months of planning through prayer and meeting with with one another and it's been a real good experience for our church and we can't wait to share with the community what the Lord's doing here at Allen Baptist. Reporting from out in Top News, I'm Nick Colum.


I didn't like Rosberg I don't think he's better than Lewis Hamilton and I'm not going to be that sad to see him go In fact, I'm actually quite excited because it's going to be really cool to see who is going to be racing alongside Lewis Hamilton in 2017 now some fun facts the Mercedes car has been an absolute beast I think out of the last 59 races. It's a 151 of those Look, there are going to be some rule changes for 2017 So I don't know if that domination is going to continue But they definitely taking in that winning momentum and there's going to be a lot of drivers Who are going to be willing to drive for this amazing car? So what I've done is I've put my statistician hat on and I have Estimated some probabilities of various drivers becoming the new driver for Mercedes in 2017 And what I've done is I've given 5% to Sebastian Vettel. Now, I love Sebastian Vettel He's probably the best driver on the grid. He's four times world champion He's only I think 29 years of age But very important is that he is German and the Mercedes team is German There's some good alignment there, and I think he would be the best replacement for Nico Rosberg However, he is under contract with Ferrari, and I think that's going to be dampening his chances quite considerably Next up is a guy called Valtteri Bottas. I Don't really like Valtteri Bottas. You know He hasn't really done anything that exciting What he has got going for it for him is that he is finished Nico Rosbergs. I think father was finished But you know Bottas has never finished first. Sorry that that's a terrible joke Getting back to the stats Bottas is age 27. He's basically erased with Williams his whole life and The only reason why I've given him 15% is that Mekasalo who was an old Formula One driver and a lot of people who know Formula One Have said that he's most likely to go to Mercedes and so what I'm doing is I am taking their opinion into account and I'm assigning him 15% chance of becoming the driver for 2017 Now the next guy is a bit of a media favorite the media think that Alonso is going to become the next driver They're like oh Alonso in pole position to become the new Mercedes driver and I mean it makes sense He's two times world champion He's you know, he's very very quick. He's one of the best drivers out there The problems though is that he's 35 years old. So that's quite old for a Formula One driver He has quite a complicated history with Hamilton especially when they were racing together in McLaren and also he is signed up with McLaren Honda and they're saying like a 25 million pound clause if they want to buy him out So for those reasons, I've only given him a 25% chance Just because I think it would be absolute madness to spend 25 million pounds to get him out of a contract Which then leads me to who I think is the most likely person to become the next Mercedes driver And that is a guy called Pascal Verlain Now the reason I'm saying he's the most likely person to become the next driver is because he's already employed by Mercedes as you can see he's got the little Mercedes overalls on he is their test driver and He almost replaced Hamilton in Monaco when there was all that drama going on and he's proven this year that he's very fast Plus he's German as well, which has got, you know, the good connections with Mercedes Now some people might say oh, he's unexperienced or he's too young. He's only 22 years old But if anything Max Verstappen has shown us this season that age is nothing but a number Now for those of you who have been doing your calculations you would have seen that I have left out 5% you add up all my numbers we get to 95 So what is this other 5% this is the the unknown 5% and I mean this could be Because listen that anyone can actually be the next Mercedes driver But I think the most likely out of the you know the wildcods would maybe be Jensen Button He doesn't have a drive for next year. However, he is 36 years old and he has announced that he's going to retire So very small possibility for him Then there's this guy called Ocon who is incredibly quick as you can see he also has alignment with Mercedes However, he has signed a contract to force India and then there could be Niko Rosberg I mean Niko Hulkenberg. I love Hulkenberg. I think Hulkenberg is incredible I really thought he should have moved to Ferrari because he's brilliant. However, he has moved up to Renault and I don't know the Formula one don't seem to appreciate the talent and skill that this guy has I really think he's great and it would be really awesome to see him in a top team But I mean it could be anyone and this is where I want to ask you guys Who do you think is going to be the next Mercedes driver for all we know? It could even be a brand new face some kid coming out of say GP2 or some other series and You know giving all the current Formula one drivers a run for their money Anyway, that's all I have time for what I do want to do is just tell you guys about my brother's YouTube channel So my brother also loves Formula one. He's actually got the he's taken the a1gp cars And he's upgraded them. They basically the Ferrari car from F from yeah from 2004 the one that Schumacher was dominating in and He's got a YouTube channel where he's showing off the cars. They're racing around the track. It looks pretty cool There's a picture of two of us. The cars are absolutely stunning So I'll put a link in the disc description below. So go check out his channel But otherwise, thanks so much for watching and you know, let me know who you think is gonna be the new Mercedes driver. Cheers guys


CHAPTER XVI And after all I've done for her," said Mr. Reginald Cracknell, his voice tremulous with self-pity, and his eyes moist with the combined effects of anguish and overindulgence in his celebrated private stock. After all I've done for her she throws me down." Sally did not reply. The orchestra of the Flower Garden was of a calibre that discouraged vocal competition, and she was having, more over, too much difficulty in adjusting her feet to Mr. Cracknell's erratic dance steps to employ her attention elsewhere. They maneuvered jerkily past the table where Miss Mabel Hobson, the Flower Garden's newest hostess, sat watching the revels with a distant auteur. Miss Hobson was looking her most regal in old gold and black, and a sorrowful gulp escaped the stricken Mr. Cracknell as he shambled beneath her eye. "'If I told you,' he moaned in Sally's ear, "'What? Was that your ankle? Sorry. Don't know what I'm doing to-night. If I told you what I had spent on that woman you wouldn't believe it. And then she throws me down, and all because I said I didn't like her in that hat. She hasn't spoken to me for a week and won't answer when I call up on the phone. And I was right, too. It was a rotten hat. Didn't suit her a bit. But that,' said Mr. Cracknell morosely, "'is a woman all over.'" Sally uttered a stifled exclamation as his wandering foot descended on hers before she could get it out of the way. Mr. Cracknell interpreted the ejaculation as a protest against the sweeping harshness of his last remark, and gallantly tried to make amends. "'I don't mean you're like that,' he said. "'You're different. I could see that directly I saw you. You have a sympathetic nature. That's why I'm telling you all this.  I've done everything for that woman. I got her this job as hostess here. You wouldn't believe what they pay her. I starred her in a show once. Did you see those pearls she was wearing? I gave her those. And she won't speak to me. Just because I didn't like her hat. I wish you could have seen that hat.  I don't know what to do. I come here every night.'" Sally was aware of this. She had seen him often, but this was the first time that Lee Schoenstein, the gentlemanly master of ceremonies, had inflicted him on her. "'I come here every night, and dance past her table. But she won't look at me. What?' asked Mr. Cracknell, tears welling in his pale eyes. "'Would you do about it?' "'I don't know,' said Sally, frankly. "'Nor do I.  I'm having one last try tonight. If you can keep a secret, you won't tell anyone will you?' pleaded Mr. Cracknell urgently.  Having brought it here to-night, little present, get out to soften her, don't you think? A big one would do it better!' Mr. Cracknell kicked her on the shin in a dismayed sort of way. "'I never thought of that. Perhaps you're right, but it's too late now—still it might. Or wouldn't it? Which do you think?' "'Yes,' said Sally. "'I thought as much,' said Mr. Cracknell. The orchestra stopped, with a thump and a bang, leaving Mr. Cracknell clapping feebly in the middle of the floor. Sally slipped back to her table. Her late partner, after an uncertain glance about him, as if he had mislaid something but could not remember what, zigzagged off in search of his own seat. The noise of many conversations, drowned by the music, broke out with renewed vigor. The hot, close air was full of voices, and Sally, pressing her hands on her closed eyes, was reminded once more that she had a headache. Nearly a month had passed since her return to Mr. Abraham's employment. It had been a dull, leaden month, a monotonous succession of lifeless days during which life had become a bad dream. In some strange nightmare fashion she seemed nowadays to be cut off from her kind. It was weeks since she had seen a familiar face. One of the companions of her old boarding-house days had crossed her path. Fillmore, no doubt from uneasiness of conscience, had not sought her out, and Ginger was working out his destiny on the south shore of Long Island. She lowered her hands and opened her eyes and looked at the room. It was crowded, as always. The flower garden was one of the many establishments of the same kind which had swum to popularity on the rising flood of New York's dancing craze. And doubtless because, as its proprietor had claimed, it was a nice place and run nice. It had continued, unlike many of its rivals, to enjoy unvarying prosperity. In its advertisement it described itself as a supper club for after theatre dining and dancing, adding that, large and spacious and sumptuously appointed, it was one of the town's wonder-places with its incomparable dance floor, enchanting music, cuisine, and service deluxe. From which it may be gathered, even without his personal statements to that effect, that Isidore Abraham's thought well of the place. There had been a time when Sally had liked it too. In her first period of employment there she had found it diverting, stimulating, and full of entertainment. But in those days she had never had headaches or, what was worse, this dreadful listless depression which weighed her down and made her nightly work a burden. Miss Nicholas. The orchestra, never silent for long at the flower garden, had started again, and Lee Schoenstein, the master of ceremonies, was presenting a new partner. She got up mechanically. "'This is the first time I have been in this place,' said the man, as they bumped over the crowded floor. He was big and clumsy, of course. Tonight it seemed to Sally that the whole world was big and clumsy. It's a swell place. I come from upstate myself. We got nothing like this where I come from.' He cleared a space before him, using Sally as a battering-ram, and Sally, though she had not enjoyed her recent excursion with Mr. Crecknell, now began to look back to it almost with wistfulness. This man was undoubtedly the worst dancer in America. "'Give me a little old New York,' said the man from upstate, unpatriotically. It's good enough for me. I've been to some swell shows since I got to town. You seen this year's follies?' "'No.' "'You go,' said the man earnestly. You go. Take it from me. It's a swell show. You seen. Myrtle takes a Turkish bath?' "'I don't go to many theaters.' "'You go. It's a scream. I've been to a show every night since I got here. Every night regular. Swell shows all of them, except this last one. I certainly picked a lemon tonight, all right. I was taking a chance, you see, because it wasn't opening. Thought it would be something to say when I got home that I'd been to a New York opening. Set me back to seventy-five, including tax, and I wish I'd got it in my kick right now.' The wild rose, they called it, he said satirically, as if exposing a low subterfuge on the part of the management. So wild rose! It sure made me wild, all right. Two dollars, seventy-five, tossed away, just like that. Something stirred in Sally's memory. Why did that title seem so familiar? Then with a shock she remembered. It was Gerald's new play. For some time after her return to New York she had been haunted by the fearless coming out of her apartment. She might meet him coming out of his, and then she had seen a paragraph in her morning paper which had relieved her of this apprehension. Gerald was out on the road with a new play, and the wild rose, she was almost sure, was the name of it. "'Is that Gerald Foster's play?' she asked quickly. "'I don't know who wrote it,' said her partner, but let me tell you he's one lucky guy to get away alive. There's fellows breaking stones on the awesomening road that's done a lot less to deserve a sentence. Wild rose! I'll tell the world it made me go good and wild,' said the man from Upstate, an economical soul who disliked waste, and was accustomed to spread out his humorous efforts so as to give them every chance. Why, before the second act was over the people were beating it for the exits, and if it hadn't been for someone shouting, women and children first, there'd have been a panic.' Sally found herself back at her table without knowing clearly how she had got there. Miss Nicholas? She started to rise and was aware suddenly that this was not the voice of duty calling her once more through the gold teeth of Mr. Schoenstein. The man who had spoken her name had seated himself beside her and was talking in precise, clipped accents, oddly familiar. The mist cleared from her eyes, and she recognized Bruce Carmile. II. I called at your place, Mr. Carmile was saying, and the Hall Porter told me that you were here, so I ventured to follow you. I hope you do not mind. May I smoke? He lit a cigarette with something of an air. His fingers trembled as he raised the match, but he flattered himself that there was nothing else in his demeanor to indicate that he was violently excited. Bruce Carmile's ideal was the strong man who can rise superior to his emotions. He was alive to the fact that this was an embarrassing moment, but he was determined not to show that he appreciated it. He cast a sideways glance at Sally and thought that never, not even in the garden at Monks Crofton, on a certain momentous occasion, had he seen her looking prettier, her face was flushed, and her eyes aflame. The stout wraith of Uncle Donald, which had accompanied Mr. Carmile on this expedition of his, faded into nothingness as he gazed. There was a pause. Mr. Carmile, having lighted his cigarette, puffed vigorously. When did you land? asked Sally, feeling the need of saying something. Her mind was confused. She could not have said whether she was glad or sorry that he was there. Glad, she thought, on the hall. There was something in his dark, cool, stiff English aspect that gave her a curious feeling of relief. He was so unlike Mr. Crecknell and the man from Upstate, and so calmly remote from the feverish atmosphere in which she lived her nights, that it was restful to look at him. I landed to-night, said Bruce Carmile, turning and facing her squarely. To-night? We docked at ten. He turned away again. He had made his effect and was content to leave her to think it over. Sally was silent. The significance of his words had not escaped her. She realized that his presence there was a challenge which she must answer. And yet it hardly stirred her. She had been fighting so long and she felt utterly inert. She was like a swimmer who can battle no longer and prepares to yield to the numbness of exhaustion. The heat of the room pressed down on her like a smothering blanket. Her tired nerves cried out under the blaire of music and the clatter of voices. Shall we dance this? he asked. The orchestra had started to play again a sensuous, creamy melody which was making the most of its brief reign as Broadway's leading song hit, over familiar to her from a hundred repetitions. If you like. Efficiency was Bruce Carmile's gospel. He was one of these men who do not attempt anything which they cannot accomplish to perfection. Dancing, he had decided early in his life, was a part of a gentleman's education, and he had seen to it that he was educated thoroughly. Sally, who, as they swept out onto the floor, had braced herself automatically for a repetition of the usual bumping struggle which dancing at the flower garden had come to mean for her, found herself in the arms of a masterful expert, a man who danced better than she did, and suddenly there came to her a feeling that was almost gratitude, a miraculous slackening of her taut nerves, a delicious peace. Soothed and contented, she yielded herself with eyes half closed to the rhythm of the melody, finding it now robbed in some mysterious manner of all its stale cheapness, and in that moment her whole attitude towards Bruce Carmile underwent a complete change. She had never troubled to examine with any minuteness her feelings towards him, but one thing she had known clearly since their first meeting, that he was physically distasteful to her. For all his good looks, and in his rather sinister way he was a handsome man, she had shrunk from him. Now, spirited away by the magic of the dance, that repugnance had left her. It was as if some barrier had been broken down between them. Sally! She felt his arm tighten about her, the muscles quivering.  His dark eyes suddenly blazed into hers, and she stumbled with an odd feeling of helplessness. Realizing with a shock that brought her with a jerk out of the half-dream into which she had been lulled, that this dance had not postponed the moment of decision as she had looked to it to do. In a hot whisper the words swept away on the flood of the music which had suddenly become raucous and blaring once more. He was repeating what he had said under the trees at Monks' Crofton on that far-off morning in the English springtime. Dizzily she knew that she was resenting the unfairness of the attack at such a moment, but her mind seemed numbed. The music stopped abruptly. Insistent clapping started it again, but Sally moved away to her table, and he followed her like a shadow. Neither spoke. Bruce Carmile had said his say, and Sally was sitting staring before her, trying to think. She was tired, tired. Her eyes were burning. She tried to force herself to face the situation squarely. Was it worth struggling? Was anything in the world worth a struggle? She only knew that she was tired, desperately tired, to the very depths of her soul. The music stopped. There was more clapping, but this time the orchestra did not respond. Gradually the floor emptied, the shuffling of feet ceased, the flower garden was as quiet as it was ever able to be. Even the voices of the babblers seemed strangely hushed. Sally closed her eyes, and as she did so, from somewhere up near the roof there came the song of a bird. Isidor Abraham's was a man of his word. He advertised a flower garden, and he had tried to give the public something as closely resembling a flower garden as it was possible for an overcrowded, overheated, overnoisy, Broadway dancing resort to achieve. Paper roses festooned the walls, genuine tulips bloomed in tubs by every pillar, and from the roof hung cages with birds in them. One of these, stirred by the sudden cessation of the tumult below, had begun to sing. Sally had often pitied these birds, and more than once had pleaded in vain with Abraham's, for a remission of their sentence, but somehow at this moment it did not occur to her that this one was merely praying in its own language as she often had prayed in her thoughts to be taken out of this place. To her, sitting there wrestling with fate, the song seemed cheerful. It soothed her. It healed her to listen to it, and suddenly before her eyes there rose a vision of Monkscrofton, cool, green, and peaceful under the mild English sun, luring her as an oasis seen in the distance lures the desert traveller. She became aware that the master of Monkscrofton had placed his hand on hers and was holding it in a tightening grip. She looked down and gave a little shiver. She had always disliked Bruce Carmile's hands. They were strong and bony and black hair grew on the back of them. One of the earliest feelings regarding him had been that she would hate to have those hands touching her, but she did not move. Again that vision of the old's garden had flickered across her mind, a haven where she could rest. He was leaning towards her, whispering in her ear. The room was hotter than it had ever been, noisier than it had ever been, fuller than it had ever been. The bird on the roof was singing again, and now she understood what it said. Take me out of this. Did anything matter except that? What did it matter how one was taken or where or by whom so that one was taken? Monkscrofton was looking cool and green and peaceful. Very well, said Sally. Three. Bruce Carmile, in the capacity of accepted suitor, found himself at something of a loss. He had a dissatisfied feeling. It was not the manner of Sally's acceptance that caused this. It would, of course, have pleased him better if she had shown more warmth, but he was prepared to wait for warmth. What did trouble him was the fact that his correct mind perceived now for the first time that he had chosen an unsuitable moment and place for his outburst of emotion. He belonged to the Orthodox School of Thought which looks on moonlight and solitude as the proper setting for a proposal of marriage, and the surroundings of the flower garden for all its niceness and the nice manner in which it was conducted, jarred upon him profoundly. Music had begun again, but it was not the soft music such as a lover demands if he is to give of his best. It was a brassy, clashy rendering of a ribald one step, enough to choke the eloquence of the most ardent. Couples were dipping and swaying and bumping into one another as far as the eye could reach, while just behind him two waiters had halted in order to thrash out one of those voluble arguments in which waiters loved to indulge. To continue the scene at the proper emotional level was impossible, and Bruce Carmile began his career as an engaged man by dropping into small talk. "'Deuce of a lot of noise,' he said quarrelously. "'Yes,' agreed Sally. "'Is it always like this?' "'Oh, yes.' "'Infernal racket.' "'Yes. The romantic side of Mr. Carmile's nature could have cried aloud at the hideous unworthiness of these banalities. In the visions which he had had of himself as a successful war it had always been in the moments immediately succeeding the all important question and its whispered reply that he had come out particularly strong. He had been accustomed to picture himself bending with a proud tenderness over his partner in the scene and murmuring some notably good things to her bowed head. How could any man murmur in a pandemonium like this? From tenderness Bruce Carmile descended with a sharp swoop to irritability. "'Do you often come here?' "'Yes.' "'What for?' "'To dance.' Mr. Carmile chafed helplessly. The scene, which should be so romantic, had suddenly reminded him of the occasion when, at the age of twenty, he had attended his first ball and had sat in a corner behind a potted palm, perspiring shyly and endeavouring to make conversation to a formidable nymph in pink. It was one of the few occasions in his life at which he had ever been at a complete disadvantage. He could still remember the clammy discomfort of his too high collar as it melted on him. Most certainly it was not a scene which he enjoyed recalling and that he should be forced to recall it now, at what ought to have been the supreme moment of his life annoyed him intensely.  "'Darling,' he murmured, for by moving his chair two feet to the right and bending sideways he found that he was in a position to murmur. "'You have made me so.' "'Bathe, bathe, ypres de ravioli hollandes!' cried one of the disputing waiters at his back, or to Bruce Carmile's prejudiced hearing it sounded like that. "'La Dona Immobile Spaghetti Napoli Tetrazina!' rejoined the second waiter with spirit. "'You have made me so.' "'Infanta Isabella Lope de Vegas Moligetani Toranto!' said the first waiter, weak but coming back pluckily. "'So happy. "'Funiculi, funicula Vicente Iblasco Ibanez Vermicelli sul campo della gloria risotto!' said the second waiter clenchingly, and scored a technical knock-out. Bruce Carmile gave it up, and lit a moody cigarette. He was oppressed by that feeling which so many of us have felt in our time, that it was all wrong.' The music stopped. The two leading citizens of little Italy vanished and went their way, probably to start a vendetta. There followed a comparative calm, but Bruce Carmile's emotions, like sweet bells jangled, were out of tune, and he could not recapture the first fine careless rapture. He found nothing within him but small talk. "'What has become of your party?' he asked. "'My party?' "'The people you are with!' said Mr. Carmile. Even in the stress of his emotion this problem had been exercising him. In his correctly ordered world girls did not go to restaurants alone. I'm not with anybody.  "'I am employed,' said Sally. Mr. Carmile started violently. "'Employed here?' "'As a dancer, you know, I.' Sally broke off, her attention abruptly diverted to something which had just caught her eye at a table on the other side of the room. That something was a red-headed young man of sturdy build, who had just appeared beside the chair in which Mr. Reginald Cracknell was sitting in huddled gloom. In one hand he carried a basket, and from this basket, rising above the din of conversation, there came a sudden sharp yapping. Mr. Cracknell roused himself from his stupor, took the basket, raised the lid. The yapping increased in volume. Mr. Cracknell rose, the basket in his arms, with uncertain steps and a look on his face like that of those who lead for Lorne hopes, he crossed the floor to where Miss Mabel Hobson sat, proud and aloof. The next moment that haughty lady, the centre of an admiring and curious crowd, was hugging to her bosom a protesting pecanese puppy, and Mr. Cracknell, seizing his opportunity like a good general, had deposited himself in a chair at her side. The course of true love was running smooth again. The red-headed young man was gazing fixedly at Sally. "'As a dancer,' ejaculated Mr. Carmile, of all those within sight of the moving drama which had just taken place, he alone had paid no attention to it. Replete as it was with human interest, sex appeal, the punch, and all the other qualities which a drama should possess, it had failed to grip him. His thoughts had been elsewhere. The accusing figure of Uncle Donald refused to vanish from his mental eye. The stern voice of Uncle Donald seemed still to ring in his ear. "'A dancer?' "'A professional dancer at a Broadway restaurant?' Hidious doubts began to creep like snakes into Bruce Carmile's mind. "'What?' he asked himself. Did he really know of this girl on whom he had bestowed the priceless boon of his society for life? How did he know that she was?' He could not find the exact adjective to express his meaning, but he knew what he meant. Was she worthy of the boon?' That was what it amounted to. All his life he had had a prim shrinking from the section of the feminine world which is connected with the light life of large cities. Club acquaintances of his in London had from time to time married into the Gayety Chorus. And Mr. Carmile, though he had no objection to the Gayety Chorus in its proper place, on the other side of the footlights, had always looked on these young men after as social outcasts. The fine dashing frenzy which had brought him all the way from South Audley Street to win Sally was ebbing fast. Sally, hearing him speak, had turned, and there was a candid honesty in her gaze which, for a moment, sent all those creeping doubts scuttling away into the darkness once they had come. He had not made a fool of himself. He protested to the lowering phantom of Uncle Donald. Who, he demanded, could look at Sally and think for an instant that she was not all that was perfect and lovable. A warm revulsion of feeling swept over Bruce Carmile like a returning tide. You see, I lost my money, and had to do something, said Sally. I see, I see, murmured Mr. Carmile, and if only fate had left him alone, who knows to what heights of tenderness he might not have soared. But at this moment fate, being no respecter of persons, sent into his life the disturbing personality of George Washington Williams. George Washington Williams was the talented, colored gentleman who had been extracted from small-time vaudeville by Mr. Abraham's to do a nightly speciality at the flower garden. He was, in fact, a trap-drummer, and it was his amiable practice, after he had done a few minutes trap-drumming, to rise from his seat and make a circular tour of the tables on the edge of the dancing floor, whimsically pretending to clip the locks of the male patrons with a pair of drumsticks held scissor-wise. And so it came about that, just as Mr. Carmile was bending toward Sally in an excess of manly sentiment, and was on the very verge of pouring out his soul in a series of well-phrased remarks. He was surprised and annoyed to find an Ethiopian, to whom he had never been introduced, leaning over him and taking quite unpardonable liberties with his back hair. One says that Mr. Carmile was annoyed. The word is weak. The interruption coming at such a moment jarred every ganglion in his body. The clicking noise of the drumsticks maddened him, and the gleaming whiteness of Mr. Williams' friendly and benign smile was the last straw. His dignity writhed beneath this abominable inflection. People at other tables were laughing, at him! A loathing for the flower-garden flowed over Bruce Carmile, and with it a feeling of suspicion and disapproval of everyone connected with the establishment. He sprang to his feet. I think I will be going, he said. Sally did not reply. She was watching Ginger, who still stood beside the table recently vacated by Reginald Cracknell. Good night! said Mr. Carmile between his teeth. Oh! are you going? said Sally with a start. She felt embarrassed. Try as she would. She was unable to find words of any intimacy.  It came to her with a sensation of the incredible that she had done this thing, taken this irrevocable step. The sudden sight of Ginger had shaken her. It was as though in the last half-hour she had forgotten him and only now realized what marriage with Bruce Carmile would mean to their comradeship. From now on he was dead to her. If anything in this world was certain, that was. Sally Nicholas was Ginger's pal, but Mrs. Carmile, she realized, would never be allowed to see him again. A devastating feeling of loss smote her like a blow. Yes, I've had enough of this place, Bruce Carmile was saying. Good night, said Sally. She hesitated. When shall I see you? she asked awkwardly. It occurred to Bruce Carmile that he was not showing himself at his best. He had, he perceived, allowed his nerves to run away with him. You don't mind if I go, he said more amably. The fact is I can't stand this place any longer. I'll tell you one thing. I'm going to take you out of here quick. I'm afraid I can't leave at a moment's notice, said Sally, loyal to her obligations. We'll talk that over to-morrow. I'll call for you in the morning and take you for a drive somewhere in a car. You want some fresh air after this. Mr. Carmile looked about him in stiff disgust and expressed his unalterable sentiments concerning the flower garden, that apple of Isidore Abraham's eye in a snort of loathing. My God, what a place! He walked quickly away and disappeared, and Ginger, beaming happily, swooped on Sally's table like a homing pigeon. Good Lord, I say, what ho! cried Ginger. Fancy meeting you here. What a bit of luck! He glanced over his shoulder warily. Has that blighter pipped? Pipped? Popped! explained Ginger. I mean to say he isn't coming back, or any rot like that, is he? Mr. Carmile? No, he has gone. Sound egg, said Ginger, with satisfaction. For a moment, when I saw you yarning away together, I thought he might be with you at a party. What on earth is he doing over here at all, confound him? He's got all Europe to play about in. Why should he come infesting New York? I say. It really is ripping, seeing you again. It seems he hears. Of course one gets a certain amount of satisfaction writing letters, but it's not the same. Besides I write such rotten letters. I say this really is rather priceless. Can't I get you something? A cup of coffee, I mean, or an egg or something? By Jove, this really is top whole. His homely, honest face glowed with pleasure, and it seemed to Sally as though she had come out of a winter's night into a warm, friendly room. Her mercurial spirits soared. Oh, Ginger, if you knew what it's like seeing you. No, really.  I should say I am braced. Well, isn't that fine? I was afraid you might have forgotten me. Forgotten you? With something of the effect of a revelation it suddenly struck Sally how far she had been from forgetting him, how large was the place he had occupied in her thoughts. I've missed you dreadfully, she said, and felt the words inadequate as she uttered them. What ho! said Ginger, also internally condemning the poverty of speech as a vehicle for conveying thought. There was a brief silence. The first acceleration of the reunion over, Sally deep down in her heart was aware of a troubled feeling as though the world were out of joint. She forced herself to ignore it, but it would not be ignored. It grew. Timmy, she was beginning to realize what Ginger meant to her, and she fought to keep herself from realizing it. Strange things were happening to her tonight, strange emotions stirring her. Ginger seemed somehow different as if she were really seeing him for the first time. You're looking wonderfully well, she said, trying to keep the conversation on a pedestrian level. I am well, said Ginger, never felt fitter in my life, been out in the open all day long, simple life and all that, working like blazes. I say business is booming. Did you see me just now handing over Percy the pup to what's his name? Five hundred dollars on that one deal. Got the check in my pocket. But what an extraordinarily rummy thing that I should have come to this place to deliver the goods just when you happened to be here. I couldn't believe my eyes at first. I say, I hope the people you're with won't think I'm budding in. You'll have to explain that we're old pals, and that you started me in business and all that sort of thing. Look here, he said, lowering his voice. I know how you hate being thanked, but I simply must say how terrifically decent. Miss Nicholas. Lee Schoenstein was standing at the table, and by his side an expectant youth with a small moustache and pence-nay. Lee got up, and the next moment Ginger was alone, gaping perplexedly after her as she vanished, and reappeared in the jogging throng on the dancing floor. It was the nearest thing Ginger had seen to a conjuring trick, and at that moment he was ill-attuned to conjuring tricks. He brooded, fuming at what seemed to him the supremist exhibition of pure cheek, of monumental nerve, and of undiluted crust that had ever come within his notice. Ginger come and charge into a private conversation like that and whisk her away without a word. Who was that blighter, he demanded, with heat, when the music ceased, and Sally limped back. That was Mr. Schoenstein. And who was the other? The one I danced with? I don't know. You don't know? Sally perceived that the conversation had arrived at an embarrassing point. There was nothing for it but candor. Ginger, she said, you remember my telling you when we first met, that I used to dance in a Broadway place? This is the place. I'm working again. Complete unintelligence showed itself on Ginger's every feature. I don't understand, he said, unnecessarily, for his face revealed the fact. I've got my old job back. But why? Well, I had to do something. She went on rapidly. Already a light dimly resembling the light of understanding was beginning to appear in Ginger's eyes. Fillmore went smash, you know. It wasn't his fault, poor dear.  She broke off confused by the look in his eyes, conscious of an absurd feeling of guilt. There was amazement in that look and a sort of incredulous horror. Do you mean to say? Ginger gulped and started again.  Do you mean to say? Sally stole a glance at his crimson face and looked away again quickly. There was an electric silence. Look here, exploded Ginger with sudden violence. You've got to marry me. You jolly well got to marry me. I don't mean that, he added quickly. I mean to say, I know you're going to marry whoever you please, but won't you marry me? Sally, for God's sake, have a dash at it. I've been keeping it in all this time because it seemed rather rotten to bother you about it, but now—oh, damn it, I wish I could put it into words. I always was rotten at talking. But, well, look here, what I mean is, I know I'm not much of a chap, but it seems to me you must care for me a bit to do a thing like that for a fellow, and I've loved you like the Dickens ever since I met you. I do wish you'd have a stab at it, Sally. At least I could look after you, you know, and all that. I mean to say, work like the deuce and try to give you a good time.  Ginger, dear, she said, I do love you. I ought to have known it all along, but I seem to be understanding myself tonight for the first time. She got up and bent over him for a swift moment, whispering in his ear. I shall never love anyone but you, Ginger. Will you try to remember that? She was moving away, but he caught at her arm and stopped her. Sally! She pulled her arm away, her face working as she fought against the tears that would not keep back. I've made a fool of myself, she said. Ginger, your cousin, Mr. Carmile. Just now he asked me to marry him, and I said I would. She was gone, flitting among the tables like some wild creature running to its home, and Ginger, motionless, watched her go. Five. The telephone bell in Sally's little sitting-room was ringing jerkily as she let herself in at the front door. She guessed who it was on the other end of the wire, and the noise of the bell sounded to her like the voice of a friend in distress crying for help. Without stopping to close the door she ran to the table and unhooked the receiver. Muffled, plaintive sounds were coming over the wire. Hello! Hello! I say, hello! Hello, Ginger, said Sally quietly. An ejaculation that was half a shout and half Gurgle answered her. Sally, is that you? Yes, here I am, Ginger. I've been trying to get you for ages. I've only just come in. I walked home. There was a pause. Hello! Yes. Well, I mean. Ginger seemed to be finding his usual difficulty in expressing himself. About that, you know, what you said. Yes, said Sally, trying to keep her voice from shaking. You said, again, Ginger's vocabulary failed him. You said, you loved me. Yes, said Sally, simply. Another odd sound floated over the wire, and there was a moment of silence before Ginger found himself able to resume. I—I—well, we can talk about that when we meet. I mean, it's no good trying to say what I think over the phone. I'm sort of knocked out. I never dreamed. But I say, what did you mean about Bruce?  Sally's face was twisted, and the receiver shook in her hand. I've made a fool of myself. I never realized—and now it's too late. Good God! Ginger's voice rose in a sharp wail. You can't mean you really. You don't seriously intend to marry the man. I must, I've promised. But good heavens! It's no good, I must. But the man's a blighter. I can't break my word. I never heard such rot, said Ginger vehemently. Of course you can. A girl isn't expected. I can't, Ginger, dear. I really can't. But look here. It's really no good talking about it any more, really. It isn't. What are you staying to-night? Staying? Me? At the plaza. But look here. Sally found herself laughing weakly. At the plaza? Oh, Ginger, you really do want somebody to look after you. Squandering your pennies like that. Well, don't talk any more now. It's so late, and I'm so tired. I'll come and see you to-morrow. Good night. She hung up the receiver quickly, to cut short a fresh outburst of protest. And as she turned away, a voice spoke behind her. Sally Gerald Foster was standing in the doorway. End of Chapter 16, read by Kara Schallenberg, www.kray.org, on March 7, 2009, in San Diego, California. Chapter 17 of The Adventures of Sally. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Adventures of Sally by P. G. Woodhouse, Chapter 17. Sally Lays a Ghost. One. The blood flowed slowly back into Sally's face, and her heart, which had leaped madly for an instant at the sound of his voice, resumed its normal beat. The suddenness of the shock over, she was surprised to find herself perfectly calm. Always when she had imagined this meeting, knowing that it would have to take place sooner or later, she had felt something akin to panic. But now that it had actually occurred, it hardly seemed to stir her. The events of the night had left her incapable of any violent emotion. "'Hello, Sally,' said Gerald. He spoke thickly, and there was a foolish smile on his face as he stood swaying with one hand on the door. He was in his shirt sleeves, colorless, and it was plain that he had been drinking heavily. His face was white and puffy, and about him there hung like a nimbus, a sudden disreputableness. Sally did not speak. Wade down before by a numbing exhaustion, she seemed now to have passed into that second phase in which overtired nerves enter upon a sort of Indian summer of abnormal alertness. She looked at him quietly, coolly, and altogether dispassionately, as if he had been a stranger. "'Hello,' said Gerald again. "'What do you want?' said Sally. Heard your voice, saw the door open, thought I'd come in. What do you want?' The weak smile which had seemed pinned on Gerald's face vanished. A tear rolled down his cheek. His intoxication had reached the maudlin stage. "'Sally, Sally, I'm very miserable.' He slurred awkwardly over the difficult syllables. Heard your voice, saw the door open, thought I'd come in.' Something flicked at the back of Sally's mind. She seemed to have been through all this before. Then she remembered, this was simply Mr. Reginald Cracknell over again. "'I think you had better go to bed, Gerald,' she said steadily. Nothing about him seemed to touch her now, neither the sight of him nor his shameless misery. "'What's the use? Can't sleep? No good. Couldn't sleep. Sally, you don't know how worried I am. I see what a fool I've been.' Sally made a quick gesture to check what she supposed was about to develop into a belated expression of regret for his treatment of herself. She did not want to stand there listening to Gerald apologizing with tears for having done his best to wreck her life. But it seemed that it was not this that was weighing upon his soul. "'I was a fool ever to try writing plays,' he went on. "'Got a winner first time, but can't repeat. It's no good. Aught to have stuck to newspaper work. I'm good at that. She'll have to go back to it. Had another frost to-night. No good trying any more. She'll have to go back to the old grind, dammit.' He wept softly, full of pity for his hard case. "'Very miserable,' he murmured. He came forward a step into the room, lurched, and retreated to the safe support of the door. For an instant Sally's artificial calm was shot through by a swift stab of contempt. It passed, and she was back again in her armour of indifference. "'Go to bed, Gerald,' she said. "'You'll feel better in the morning.' Perhaps some inkling of how he was going to feel in the morning worked through to Gerald's muddled intelligence, for he winced, and his manner took on a deeper melancholy. "'May not be alive in the morning,' he said solemnly. "'Good mind to end it all. End it all,' he repeated, with the beginning of a sweeping gesture which was cut off abruptly, as he clutched at the friendly door. Sally was not in the mood for melodrama. "'Oh, go to bed,' she said impatiently. The strange, frozen indifference which had gripped her was beginning to pass, leaving in its place a growing feeling of resentment, resentment against Gerald for degrading himself like this, against herself for ever having found glamour in the man. That humiliated her to remember how utterly she had once allowed his personality to master hers. And under the sting of this humiliation she felt hard and pitiless. Dimly she was aware that a curious change had come over her to-night. Normally the sight of any living thing in distress was enough to stir her quick sympathy, but Gerald, mourning over the prospect of having to go back to regular work, made no appeal to her, a fact which the sufferer noted and commented upon. "'You're very unsympathetic,' he complained. "'I'm sorry,' said Sally. She walked briskly to the door and gave it a push. Gerald, still clinging to his chosen support, moved out into the passage, attached to the handle, with the air of a man the foundations of whose world have suddenly lost their stability. He released the handle and moved uncertainly across the passage. Finding his own door open before him, he staggered over the threshold, and Sally, having watched him safely to his journey's end, went into her bedroom with the intention of terminating this disturbing night by going to sleep. Almost immediately she changed her mind. Sleep was out of the question. A fever of restlessness had come upon her. She put on a kimono and went into the kitchen to ascertain whether her commissariat arrangements would permit a glass of hot milk. She had just remembered that she had that morning presented the last of the milk to a sandy cat with a purposeful eye, which had dropped in through the window to take breakfast with her, when her regrets for this thriftless hospitality were interrupted by a muffled crash. She listened intently. The sound had seemed to come from across the passage. She hurried to the door and opened it. As she did so, from behind the door of the apartment opposite there came a perfect fuselage of crashes, each seeming to her strained hearing louder and more appalling than the last. There is something about sudden, loud noises in the stillness of the night which shatters the most rigid detachment. A short while before, Gerald, toying with the idea of ending his sorrows by violence, had left Sally unmoved, but now her mind leapt back to what he had said and apprehensions succeeded in difference. There was no disputing the fact that Gerald was in an irresponsible mood, under the influence of which he was capable of doing almost anything. Sally, listening in the doorway, felt a momentary panic. A brief silence had succeeded the fuselage, but as she stood there hesitating the noise broke out again, and this time it was so loud and compelling that Sally hesitated no longer. She ran across the passage and beat on the door, too. Whatever devastating happenings had been going on in his home, it was plain a moment later that Gerald had managed to survive them, for there came the sound of a dragging footstep and the door opened. Gerald stood on the threshold, the weak smile back on his face. Hello, Sally. At the sight of him, disreputable and obviously unscathed, Sally's brief alarm died away, leaving in its place the old feeling of impatient resentment. In addition to her other grievances against him, he had apparently frightened her unnecessarily. Whatever was all that noise, she demanded. Noise, said Gerald, considering the point, open mouthed. Yes, noise, snapped Sally. I've been cleaning house, said Gerald, with the owl-like gravity of a man just conscious that he is not wholly himself. Sally pushed her way past him. The apartment in which she found herself was almost an exact replica of her own, and it was evident that Elsa Dolan had taken pains to make it pretty and comfortable in a niggly, feminine way. Amateur interior decoration had always been a hobby of hers. Even in the unpromising surroundings of her bedroom at Mrs. Meacher's boarding-house, she had contrived to create a certain daintiness which Sally, who had no ability in that direction herself, had always rather envied. Elsa decorator Elsa's mind ran in the direction of small, fragile ornaments, and she was not afraid of over-furnishing. Pictures jostled one another on the walls. China of all descriptions stood about on little tables. There was a profusion of lamps with shades of party-coloured glass, and plates were ranged along a series of shelves. One says that the plates were ranged, and the pictures jostled one another, but it would be more correct to put it that they had jostled and had been ranged, for it was only by guesswork that Sally was able to reconstruct the scene, as it must have appeared before Gerald had started, as he put it, to clean house. She had walked into the flat briskly enough, but she pulled up short as she crossed the threshold, appalled by the majestic ruin that met her gaze. A shell bursting in the little sitting-room could hardly have created more havoc. The psychology of a man of weak character under the influence of alcohol and disappointed ambition is not easy to plumb, for his moods follow one another with a rapidity which baffles the observer. Ten minutes before Gerald Foster had been in the grip of a clammy self-pity, and it seemed from his aspect at the present moment that this phase had returned. But in the interval there had manifestly occurred a brief but adequate spasm of what would appear to have been an almost berserk fury. What had caused it, and why it should have expended itself so abruptly, Sally was not psychologist enough to explain, but that it had existed there was ocular evidence of the most convincing kind. A heavy nibblic, flung petulantly, or remorsefully, into a corner, showed by what medium the destruction had been accomplished. Seek chaos appeared on every side. The floor was littered with every imaginable shape and size of broken glass and china. Fragments of pictures, looking as if they had been chewed by some prehistoric animal, lay amid heaps of shattered statuettes and vases. As Sally moved slowly into the room after her involuntary pause, china crackled beneath her feet. She surveyed the stripped walls with a wondering eye, and turned to Gerald for an explanation. Gerald had subsided on to an occasional table, and was weeping softly again. It had come over him once more that he had been very, very badly treated. Well, said Sally with a gasp, you've certainly made a good job of it. There was a sharp crack as the occasional table, never designed by its maker to bear heavy weights, gave way in a splintering flurry of broken legs under the pressure of the master of the house, and Sally's mood underwent an abrupt change. There are few situations in life which do not hold equal potentialities for both tragedy and farce, and it was the ludicrous side of this drama that chanced to appeal to Sally at this moment. Her sense of humour was tickled. It was, if she could have analysed her feelings, at herself that she was mocking, at the feeble sentimental Sally who had once conceived the absurd idea of taking this preposterous man seriously. She felt light-hearted and light-headed, and she sank into a chair with a gurgling laugh. The shock of his fall appeared to have had the desirable effect of restoring Gerald to something approaching intelligence. He picked himself up from the remains of a set of watercolours, gazing at Sally with growing disapproval. "'No sympathy,' he said austerely. "'I can't help it,' cried Sally. "'It's too funny.' "'Not funny,' corrected Gerald, his brain beginning to cloud once more. "'What did you do it for?' Gerald returned for a moment to that mood of honest indignation which had so strengthened his arm when wielding the niblick. He bethought him once again of his grievance. "'Wasn't going to stand for it any longer,' he said heatedly. "'A fellow's wife goes and lets him down, ruins his show by going off and playing in another show. Why shouldn't I smash her things? Why should I stand for that sort of treatment? Why should I?' "'Well, you haven't,' said Sally. "'So there's no need to discuss it. You seem to have acted in a thoroughly manly and independent way.' "'That's it. Manly independent.' He waggled his finger impressively.  "'Don't care if she never comes back. That woman!' Sally was not prepared to embark with him upon a discussion of the absent Elsa. Already the amusing aspect of the affair had begun to fade, and her hilarity was giving way to a tired distaste for the sordidness of the whole business. She had become aware that she could not endure the society of Gerald Foster much longer. She got up and spoke decidedly. "'And now,' she said, "'I'm going to tidy up.'" Gerald had other views. "'No,' he said, with sudden solemnity, "'no, nothing of the kind. Leave it for her to find. Leave it as it is.' "'Don't be silly. All this has got to be cleaned up. I'll do it.  I'll come and tell you when you can come back.' "'No,' said Gerald, wagging his head.' Sally stamped her foot among the crackling ruins. Quite suddenly the sight of him had become intolerable. "'Do as I tell you,' she cried.' Gerald wavered for a moment, but his brief, militant mood was ebbing fast. After faint protest he shuffled off, and Sally heard him go into her room. She breathed a deep breath of relief and turned to her task. A visit to the kitchen revealed a long-handled broom, and armed with this Sally was soon busy.  Nothing short of complete redecoration would ever make the place look habitable again, but at the end of half an hour she had cleared the floor, and the fragments of vases, plates, lampshades, pictures, and glasses were stacked in tiny heaps against the walls. She returned the broom to the kitchen, and, going back into the sitting-room, flung open the window and stood looking out. With a sense of unreality she perceived that the night had gone. Over the quiet street below there brooded that strange metallic light which ushers in the dawn of a fine day. A cold breeze whispered to and fro. Above the housetops the sky was a faint, level blue. She left the window and started to cross the room, and suddenly there came over her a feeling of utter weakness. She stumbled to a chair, conscious only of being tired beyond the possibility of a further effort. Her eyes closed, and almost before her head had touched the cushions she was asleep. Sally woke. Sunshine was streaming through the open window, and with it the myriad noises of a city awake and about its business. Footsteps clattered on the sidewalk, automobile horns were sounding, and she could hear the clank of streetcars as they passed over the points. She could only guess at the hour, but it was evident that the morning was well advanced. She got up stiffly. Her head was aching. She went into the bathroom, bathed her face, and felt better. The dull oppression which comes of a bad night was leaving her. She leaned out of the window, reveling in the fresh air, then crossed the passage and entered her own apartment. Sturterous breathing greeted her, and she perceived that Gerald Foster had also passed the night in a chair. He was sprawling by the window with his legs stretched out, and his head resting on one of the arms, an unlovely spectacle. Sally stood regarding him for a moment with a return of the distaste which she had felt on the previous night, and yet mingled with the distaste there was a certain elation. A black chapter of her life was closed for ever. Whatever the years to come might bring to her they would be free from any wistful yearnings for the man who had once been woven so inextricably into the fabric of her life. She had thought that his personality had gripped her too strongly ever to be dislodged, but now she could look at him calmly and feel only a faint half-pity, half-contempt. The glamour had departed. She shook him gently, and he sat up with a start, blinking in the strong light. His mouth was still open. He stared at Sally foolishly, then scrambled awkwardly out of the chair. Oh, my God, said Gerald, pressing both his hands to his forehead and sitting down again. He licked his lips with a dry tongue, and moaned, Oh, I've got a headache. Sally might have pointed out to him that he had certainly earned one, but she refrained. You'd better go and have a wash, she suggested. Yes, said Gerald, heaving himself up again. Would you like some breakfast? Don't, said Gerald faintly, and tottered off to the bathroom. Sally sat down in the chair he had vacated.  Everything seemed dreamlike. The splashing of water in the bathroom came faintly to her, and she realised that she had been on the point of falling asleep again. She got up and opened the window, and once more the air acted as a restorative. She watched the activities of the street with a distant interest. They too seemed dreamlike and unreal. People were hurrying up and down on mysterious errands, and inscrutable cat picked its way daintily across the road. At the door of the apartment house an open car perded sleepily. She was roused by a ring at the bell. She went to the door and opened it, and found Bruce Carmile standing on the threshold. He wore a light motorcoat, and he was plainly endeavouring to soften the severity of his saturnine face with a smile of beaming kindliness. Well, here I am, said Bruce Carmile cheerily. Are you ready? With the coming of daylight a certain penitence had descended on Mr. Carmile. Thinking things over while shaving and subsequently in his bath, he had come to the conclusion that his behaviour overnight had not been all that could have been desired. He had not actually been brutal, perhaps, but he had undoubtedly not been winning. There had been an abruptness in the manner of his leaving Sally at the flower-garden which a perfect lover ought not to have shown. He had allowed his nerves to get the better of him, and now he desired to make amends. Hence a cheerfulness which he did not usually exhibit so early in the morning. Sally was staring at him blankly. She had completely forgotten that he had said that he would come and take her for a drive this morning. She searched in her mind for words, and found none. And as Mr. Carmile was debating within himself whether to kiss her now or wait for a more suitable moment, embarrassment came upon them both like a fog, and the genial smile faded from his face, as if the motive power behind it had suddenly failed. I've er... got the car outside, and... At this point speech failed Mr. Carmile, for, even as he began the sentence, the door that led to the bathroom opened, and Gerald Foster came out. Mr. Carmile gaped at Gerald. Gerald gaped at Mr. Carmile. The application of cold water to the face and head is an excellent thing on the morning after an imprudent night, but as a tonic it only goes part of the way. In the case of Gerald Foster, which was an extremely serious and aggravated case, it had gone hardly any way at all. The person unknown who had been driving red-hot rivets into the base of Gerald Foster's skull ever since the moment of his awakening was still busily engaged on that task. He gazed at Mr. Carmile wanly. Bruce Carmile drew in his breath with a sharp hiss, and stood rigid. His eyes, burning now with a grim light, flickered over Gerald's person and found nothing in it to entertain them. He saw a slouching figure in shirt sleeves and the foundations of evening dress, a disgusting, degraded figure with pink eyes and a white face that needed a shave, and all the doubts that had ever come to vex Mr. Carmile's mind since his first meeting with Sally became, on the instant, certainties. So Uncle Donald had been right after all. This was the sort of girl she was. At his elbow the stout phantom of Uncle Donald puffed with satisfaction. I told you so, it said. Sally had not moved. The situation was beyond her. Just as if this had really been the dream it seemed, she felt incapable of speech or action. So, said Mr. Carmile, becoming articulate, and allowed an impressive aposio pieces to take the place of the rest of the speech. A cold fury had gripped him. He pointed at Gerald, began to speak, found that he was stuttering and gulped back the words. In this supreme moment he was not going to have his dignity impaired by a stutter. He gulped and found a sentence which, while brief enough to ensure against this disaster, was sufficiently long to express his meaning. Get out, he said. Gerald Foster had his dignity too, and it seemed to him that the time had come to assert it. But he also had a most excruciating headache, and when he drew himself up hotly to ask Mr. Carmile what the devil he meant by it, a severe access of pain sent him huddling back immediately to a safer attitude. He clasped his forehead, and groaned.  For a moment Gerald hesitated. Then another shooting spasm convinced him that no profit or pleasure was to be derived from a continuance of the argument, and he began to shamble slowly across to the door. Mr. Carmile watched him go with twitching hands. There was a moment when the human man in him, somewhat atrophied from long disuse, stirred him almost to the point of assault. Then dignity whispered more prudent counsel in his ear, and Gerald was past the danger zone and out in the passage. Mr. Carmile turned to face Sally, as King Arthur on a similar but less impressive occasion must have turned to deal with Guinevere. So, he said again. Sally was eyeing him steadily, considering the circumstances Mr. Carmile thought with not a little indignation much too steadily. This, he said ponderously, is very amusing. He waited for her to speak, but she said nothing. I might have expected it, said Mr. Carmile with a bitter laugh. Sally forced herself from the lethargy which was gripping her. Would you like me to explain, she said? There can be no explanation, said Mr. Carmile coldly. Very well, said Sally. There was a pause. Goodbye, said Bruce Carmile. Goodbye, said Sally. Mr. Carmile walked to the door. There he stopped for an instant and glanced back at her. Sally had walked to the window and was looking out. For one swift instant something about her trim little figure and the gleam of her hair where the sunlight shone on it seemed to catch at Bruce Carmile's heart and he wavered. But the next moment he was strong again, and the door had closed behind him with a resolute bang. Out in the street, climbing into his car, he looked up involuntarily to see if she was still there, but she had gone. As the car, gathering speed, hummed down the street, Sally was at the telephone listening to the sleepy voice of Ginger Kemp, which, as he became aware who it was that had woken him from his rest and what she had to say to him, magically lost its sleepiness and took on a note of riotous ecstasy. Five minutes later, Ginger was splashing in his bath, singing discordantly, and of Chapter 17, read on March 8, 2009, in San Diego, California. THE ADVENTURES OF Sally, CHAPTER 18. THE ADVENTURES OF Sally by P. G. Woodhouse. CHAPTER 18. JOURNEYS END. Darkness was beginning to gather slowly and with almost anapologetic air, as if it regretted the painful duty of putting an end to the perfect summer day. Over to the west, beyond the trees, there still lingered a faint afterglow, and a new moon shone like a silver sickle above the big barn. Sally came out of the house and bowed gravely three times for luck. She stood on the gravel, outside the porch, drinking in the sweet evening scents, and found life good. The darkness, having shown a certain reluctance at the start, was now buckling down to make a quick and thorough job of it. The sky turned to a uniform dark blue, picked out with quiet stars. The cement of the State Road, which led to Pachigwe, Babylon, and other important centres, ceased to be a pale blur, and became invisible. Lights appeared in the windows of the houses across the meadows. From the direction of the kennels there came a single sleepy bark, and the small white woolly dog which had scampered out at Sally's heels stopped short, and uttered a challenging squeak. The evening was so still that Ginger's footsteps, as he pounded along the road on his way back from the village, whither he had gone to buy provisions, evening papers, and wool for the sweater which Sally was knitting, were audible long before he turned in at the gate. Sally could not see him, but she looked in the direction of the sound, and once again felt that pleasant, cosy thrill of happiness, which had come to her every evening for the last year. Ginger, she called. What-ho! The woolly dog, with another important squeak, scuttled down the drive to look into the matter, and was coldly greeted. Ginger, for all his love of dogs, had never been able to bring himself to regard Toto with affection. He had protested when Sally, a month before, finding Mrs. Meacher distraught on account of a dreadful lethargy which had seized her pet, had begged him to offer hospitality and country air to the Invalid. It's wonderful what you've done for Toto, Angel, said Sally, as he came up, frigidly eluding that curious animal's leaps of welcome. He's a different dog. Bit of luck for him, said Ginger. In all the years I was at Mrs. Meacher's, I never knew him to move at anything more rapid than a stately walk. Now he runs about all the time. The blighter has been overeating from birth, said Ginger. That was all that was wrong with him. A little judicious dieting put him right. We'll be able, said Ginger, brightening, to ship him back next week. I shall quite miss him. I nearly missed him, this morning, with a shoe, said Ginger. He was up on the kitchen table, wolfing the bacon, and I took steps. My caveman, murmured Sally, I always said you had a frightfully brutal streak in you. Ginger what an evening! Good Lord! said Ginger suddenly, as they walked into the light of the open kitchen door. Now what? He stopped, and eyed her intently. Do you know you're looking prettier than you were when I started down to the village? Sally gave his arm a little hug. Beloved, she said, did you get the chops? Ginger froze in his tracks, horrified. Oh, my aunt, I clean forgot them.  Well, you'll have to go in for a little judicious dieting, like Toto. I say I'm most awfully sorry. I got the wool.  Isn't there anything in the house? Vegetables and fruit. Fine, but of course, if you want chops. Not at all, I'm spiritual. Besides, people say that vegetables are good for the blood pressure or something. Of course, you forgot to get the mail, too. Absolutely not. I was on to it like a knife. Two letters from fellow's wanting-air dale puppies. No, Ginger, we are getting on. Pretty bloated, agreed Ginger complacently. Pretty bloated, we'll be able to get that two-seater if things go buzzing on like this. There was a letter for you. Here it is. It's from Fillmore, said Sally, examining the envelope as they went into the kitchen, and about time, too, I haven't had a word from him for months. She sat down and opened the letter. Ginger, heaving himself on to the table, wriggled into a position of comfort, and started to read his evening paper. But after he had skimmed over the sporting-page he lowered it and allowed his gaze to rest on Sally's bent head with a feeling of utter contentment. Although a married man of nearly a year's standing, Ginger was still moving about a magic world in a state of dazed incredulity, unable fully to realize that such bliss could be. Ginger in his time had seen many things that looked good from a distance, but not one that had borne the test of a closer sense, except this business of marriage. Marriage with Sally for a partner seemed to be one of the very few things in the world in which there was no catch. His honest eyes glowed as he watched her. Sally broke into a little splutter of laughter. Ginger, look at this! He reached down and took the slip of paper which she held out to him. The following legend met his eye, printed in bold letters. Outstanding, succulent, appetizing, nutritious. Just say, Pop, a child can do it. Ginger regarded this cipher with a puzzled frown. What is it, he asked? It's Fillmore. How do you mean? Sally gurgled. Fillmore and Gladys have started a little restaurant in Pittsburgh. A restaurant? It was a shocked note in Ginger's voice. Although he knew that the managerial career of that modern Napoleon, his brother-in-law, had terminated in something of a smash, he had never quite lost his reverence for one whom he considered a bit of a mastermind. That Fillmore Nicholas, the man of destiny, should have descended to conducting a restaurant, and a little restaurant at that struck him as almost indecent. Sally on the other hand, for sisters always seemed to fail in proper reverence for the greatness of their brothers, was delighted. It's the most splendid idea, she said with enthusiasm. It really does look as if Fillmore was going to amount to something at last. Apparently they started on quite a small scale, just making pork pies. Why Pop interrupted Ginger, ventilating a question which was perplexing him deeply. Just a trade name, Sally. Gladys is a wonderful cook, you know, and she made the pies and Fillmore toddled round selling them. And they did so well that now they've started a regular restaurant, and that's a success too. Listen to this. Sally gurgled again and turned over the letter. Where is it? Oh yes. Sound financial footing. In fact our success has been so instantaneous that I have decided to launch out on a really big scale. It is big ideas that lead to big business. I am contemplating a vast extension of this venture of ours, and in a very short time I shall organize branches in New York, Chicago, Detroit, and all the big cities, each in charge of a manager, and each offering as a special feature, in addition to the usual restaurant cuisine, these pops outstanding pork pies of ours. That done, and having established all these branches as going concerns, I shall sail for England and introduce pops pork pies there. Isn't he a little wonder? I must say I was rather uneasy when I read that. I've seen so many of Fillmore's big ideas. That's always the way with him. He gets something good, and then goes, and overdoes it, and bursts. However, it's all right now that he's got glad us to look after him. She has added a post-script. Just four words, but oh! How comforting to a sister's heart. Yes, I don't think, is what she says, and I don't know when I've read anything more cheering. Thank heaven she's got poor dear Fillmore well in hand. Pork pies, said Ginger musingly, as the pangs of a healthy hunger began to assail his interior. I wish he'd sent us one of the outstanding little chaps. I could do with it. Sally got up and ruffled his red hair. Poor old Ginger, I knew you'd never be able to stick it. Come on, it's a lovely night. Let's walk to the village and revel at the inn. We're going to be millionaires before we know where we are, so we can afford it. The End. End of Chapter 18 and the End of The Adventures of Sally by P. G. Woodhouse, read by Kara Schallenberg, www.kray.org, in San Diego, California.


Hi everyone, so this is an overview of a paper with Barmanic named type-reimage resistance of the sponge construction. So we focus on the sponge used for rashing purposes based on the permutation. The sponge operates on a state of size B bits and it is split into two parts. The first one is called the outer part. It comprises orbit and it determines the rate at which message blocks are absorbed and the digest is extracted. Then we have the inner part. It comprises C bits, C is called the capacity and this is a security parameter of the sponge. We will restrict ourselves to the case where the digest size is fixed to N bits and we denote by L the number of required squeeze call in order to extract the digest. There are several tweaks to this construction and here we focus on two of them which were introduced in the context of photoskin. The first one allows to have a first message block which is larger with a size denoted by r prime prime and in the second tweak the digest is extracted with a rate r prime which is larger than r. Now we are interested by the probable security guarantees of the sponge. To do that we place ourselves in the ideal primitive model meaning that the permutation is assumed to be simple uniformly at random. Now in order to argue that we have a good hash function there are three classical security requirements mainly pre-image, second pre-image and collision resistance. Unfortunately these security requirements are not strong enough for some applications. Consider for example the Merkle dam guard construction based on an ideal compression function. Even if it is pre-image, second pre-image and collision resistance it is exposed to length extension attacks which can be a problem in some concrete schemes. In fact there exists the stronger security properties which is called indifferentiability. In short it is a distinguishing game where the adversary must differentiate between a random Merkle and the construction based on the public primitive. It has been shown among other that indifferentiability implies security of pre-image, second pre-image and collision. Now going back to the sponge construction it has been shown to be indifferentiable with a bound of form q over 2 to the c over 2. Concretely it tells us that in order to be able to differentiate the sponge from a random Merkle one needs at least two to the c over two queries and below this number of queries any attack on the sponge cannot be easier than the same attack on the random Merkle. This is what we can see on this table where for the classical security properties the security bound is the sum of two terms. The first one comes from indifferentiability while the second one is the success probability of a generic attack on the random Merkle. Now we can compare the security bound against the best known attack. So for indifferentiability, collision and second pre-image this is clear that the security bound matches the best known attack and the non-generic parts of the attack exploit in the collision of the sponge and this is the key idea. Now for pre-image the best known attack is essentially the same one as second pre-image but varies an extra step of cost two to the n minus r prime. This step was not required in the case of second pre-image because the knowledge of one first pre-image gave us access to intermediate state within the sponge and it saved some work in the attack cost. On the other side the security bound of second pre-image and pre-image are the same. Therefore when the cost of this extra step is larger than the cost of finding in a collision there is therefore a gap between the security bound and the best known attack. And in this work we proved a tighter security bound for pre-image resistance which shows in particular optimality of the best known attack. In fact this bound was already believed to be true but there was no proof for that. Our bond can improve the state of your pre-image security resistance of scheme that output the digest in multiple rounds and this is the case for some lightweight crypto scheme where we have small primitives and small rates. So on this table we have several lightweight schemes and the comparison between the old security bond and the new security bond. A large part of these schemes are candidates of the niche lightweight crypto competition and in particular there are two finalists Asconhash and Photon Beetle Ash. For the case of Asconhash the security bond shows an improvement of 50% in the exponent. So that's it for this presentation. I hope that you enjoyed it and thank you for your attention.


Photocatalytic membrane reactors, PMRs, have emerged as a promising technology for treating water and wastewater. These systems combine the advantages of membrane filtration and photocatalysis to reduce organic and inorganic contaminants from water sources. The photocatalytic reaction occurs on the surface of the membrane, which allows for efficient removal of contaminants without the need for additional chemicals or energy inputs. Additionally, these systems are easy to maintain and operate, making them a cost-effective option for water purification. This review provides an overview of the working and fouling mechanisms of PMRs, as well as the development of fouling prevention strategies. It also examines the role of photocatalysis in membrane fouling processes such as pore plugging and cake layering. This article was authored by Moshtaba by Nasada, Jamal Rizuli, Samad Sabagi and others.