I DEFEND MY PROPERTY
For ten minutes I stood there staring up at her, completely bewildered
and not a little shaken. My first thought had been of ghosts, but it
was almost instantly dispelled by a significant action on the part of
the suspected wraith. She turned to whistle over her shoulder, and to
snap her fingers peremptorily, and then she stooped and picked up a
rather lusty chow dog which promptly barked at me across the intervening
space, having discovered me almost at once although I was many rods
away and quite snugly ensconced among the shadows. The lady in white
muzzled him with her hand and I could almost imagine I heard her
reproving whispers. After a few minutes, she apparently forgot the dog
and lifted her hand to adjust something in her hair. He again barked
at me, quite ferociously for a chow. This time it was quite plain to
her that he was not barking at the now shadowy moon. She peered over
the stone balustrade and an instant later disappeared from view through
the high, narrow window.
Vastly exercised, I set out in quest of Herr Schmick, martialing
Poopendyke as I went along, realising that I would have to depend on
his German, which was less halting than mine and therefore, more likely
to dovetail with that of the Schmicks, neither of whom spoke German
because they loved it but because they had to,--being Austrians. We
found the four Schmicks in the vast kitchen, watching Britton while
he pressed my trousers on an oak table so large that the castle must
have been built around it.
Herr Schmick was weighted down with the keys of the castle, which never
left his possession day or night.
"Herr Schmick," said I, "will you be so good as to inform me who the
dickens that woman is over in the east wing of the castle?"
"Woman, mein herr?" He almost dropped his keys. His big sons said
something to each other that I couldn't quite catch, but it sounded
very much like "der duyvil."
"A woman in a white dress,--with a dog."
"A dog?" he cried. "But, mein herr, dogs are not permitted to be in
the castle."
"Who is she? How did she get there?"
"Heaven defend us, sir! It must have been the ghost of--"
"Ghost, your granny!" I cried, relapsing into English. "Please don't
beat about the bush, Mr. Schmick. She's over there in the unused wing,
which I haven't been allowed to penetrate in spite of the fact that
it belongs to me. You say you can't find the keys to that side of the
castle. Will you explain how it is that it is open to strange women
and--and dogs?"
"You must be mistaken, mein herr," he whined abjectly. "She cannot be
there. She--Ah, I have it! It may have been my wife. Gretel! Have you
been in the east--"
"Nonsense!" I cried sharply. "This won't do, Mr. Schmick. Give me that
bunch of keys. We'll investigate. I can't have strange women
gallivanting about the place as if they owned it. This is no trysting
place for Juliets, Herr Schmick. We'll get to the bottom of this at
once. Here, you Rudolph, fetch a couple of lanterns. Max, get a sledge
or two from the forge. There _is_ a forge. I saw it yesterday out there
back of the stables. So don't try to tell me there isn't one. If we
can't unlock the doors, we'll smash 'em in. They're mine, and I'll knock
'em to smithereens if I feel like it."
The four Schmicks wrung their hands and shook their heads and, then,
repairing to the scullery, growled and grumbled for fully ten minutes
before deciding to obey my commands. In the meantime, I related my
experience to Poopendyke and Britton.
"That reminds me, sir," said Britton, "that I found a rag-doll in the
courtyard yesterday, on that side of the building, sir--I should say
castle, sir."
"I am quite sure I heard a baby crying the second night we were here,
Mr. Smart," said my secretary nervously.
"And there was smoke coming from one of the back chimney pots this
morning," added Britton.
I was thoughtful for a moment. "What became of the rag-doll, Britton?"
I enquired shrewdly.
"I turned it over to old Schmick, sir," said he. He grinned. "I thought
as maybe it belonged to one of his boys."
On the aged caretaker's reappearance, I bluntly inquired what had
become of the doll-baby. He was terribly confused.
"I know nothing, I know nothing," he mumbled, and I could see that he
was miserably upset. His sons towered and glowered and his wife wrapped
and unwrapped her hands in her apron, all the time supplicating heaven
to be good to the true and the faithful.
From what I could gather, they all seemed to be more disturbed over
the fact that my hallucination included a dog than by the claim that
I had seen a woman.
"But, confound you, Schmick," I cried in some heat, "it barked at me."
"Gott in himmel!" they all cried, and, to my surprise, the old woman
burst into tears.
"It is bad to dream of a dog," she wailed. "It means evil to all of
us. Evil to--"
"Come!" said I, grabbing the keys from the old man's unresisting hand.
"And, Schmick, if that dog bites me, I'll hold you personally
responsible. Do you understand?"
Two abreast we filed through the long, vaulted halls, Rudolph carrying
a gigantic lantern and Max a sledge. We traversed extensive corridors,
mounted tortuous stairs and came at length to the sturdy oak door that
separated the east wing from the west: a huge, formidable thing
strengthened by many cross-pieces and studded with rusty bolt-heads.
Padlocks as large as horse-shoes, corroded by rust and rendered
absolutely impracticable by age, confronted us.
"I have not the keys," said old Conrad Schmick sourly. "This door has
not been opened in my time. It is no use."
"It is no use," repeated his grizzly sons, leaning against the mouldy
walls with weary tolerance.
"Then how did the woman and her dog get into that part of the castle?"
I demanded. "Tell me that!"
They shook their heads, almost compassionately, as much as to say, "It
is always best to humour a mad man."
"And the baby," added Poopendyke, turning up his coat collar to protect
his thin neck from the draft that smote us from the halls.
"Smash those padlocks, Max," I commanded resolutely.
Max looked stupidly at his father and the old man looked at his wife,
and then all four of them looked at me, almost imploringly.
"Why destroy a perfectly good padlock, mein herr?" began Max, twirling
the sledge in his hand as if it were a bamboo cane.
"Hi! Look out there!" gasped Britton, in some alarm. "Don't let that
thing slip!"
"Doesn't this castle belong to me?" I demanded, considerably impressed
by the ease with which he swung the sledge. A very dangerous person,
I began to perceive.
"It does, mein herr," shouted all of them gladly, and touched their
forelocks.
"Everything is yours," added old Conrad, with a comprehensive sweep
of his hand that might have put the whole universe in my name.
"Smash that padlock, Max," I said after a second's hesitation.
"I'll bet he can't do it," said Britton, ingeniously.
Very reluctantly Max bared his great arms, spit upon his hands, and,
with a pitiful look at his parents, prepared to deal the first blow
upon the ancient padlock. The old couple turned their heads away, and
put their fingers to their ears, cringing like things about to be
whipped.
"Now, one--two--three!" cried I, affecting an enthusiasm I didn't feel.
The sledge fell upon the padlock and rebounded with almost equal force.
The sound of the crash must have disturbed every bird and bat in the
towers of the grim old pile. But the padlock merely shed a few scabs
of rust and rattled back into its customary repose.
"See!" cried Max, triumphantly. "It cannot be broken." Rudolph, his
broad face beaming, held the lantern close to the padlock and showed
me that it hadn't been dented by the blow.
"It is a very fine lock," cried old Conrad, with a note of pride in
his voice.
I began to feel some pride in the thing myself. "It is, indeed," I
said. "Try once more, Max."
It seemed to me that he struck with a great deal more confidence than
before, and again they all uttered ejaculations of pleasure. I caught
Dame Schmick in the act of thanking God with her fingers.
"See here," I exclaimed, facing them angrily, "what does all this mean?
You are deceiving me, all of you. Now, let's have the truth--every
word of it--or out you go to-morrow, the whole lot of you. I insist
on knowing who that woman is, why she is here in my hou--my castle,
and--everything, do you understand?"
Apparently they didn't understand, for they looked at me with all the
stupidity they could command.
"You try, Mr. Poopendyke," I said, giving it up in despair. He sought
to improve on my German, but I think he made it worse. They positively
refused to be intelligent.
"Give me the hammer," I said at last in desperation. Max surrendered
the clumsy, old-fashioned instrument with a grin and I motioned for
them all to stand back. Three successive blows with all the might I
had in my body failed to shatter the lock, whereupon my choler rose
to heights hitherto unknown, I being a very mild-mannered, placid
person and averse to anything savouring of the tempestuous. I delivered
a savage and resounding thwack upon the broad oak panel of the door,
regardless of the destructiveness that might attend the effort. If any
one had told me that I couldn't splinter an oak board with a
sledge-hammer at a single blow I should have laughed in his face. But
as it turned out in this case I not only failed to split the panel but
broke off the sledge handle near the head, putting it wholly out of
commission for the time being as well as stinging my hands so severely
that I doubled up with pain and shouted words that Dame Schmick could
not put into her prayers.
The Schmicks fairly glowed with joy! Afterwards Max informed me that
the door was nearly six inches thick and often had withstood the
assaults of huge battering rams, back in the dim past when occasion
induced the primal baron to seek safety in the east wing, which, after
all, appears to have been the real, simon pure fortress. The west wing
was merely a setting for festal amenities and was by no means feudal
in its aspect or appeal. Here, as I came to know, the old barons
received their friends and feasted them and made merry with the flagon
and the horn of plenty; here the humble tithe payer came to settle his
dues with gold and silver instead of with blood; here the little barons
and baronesses romped and rioted with childish glee; and here the
barons grew fat and gross and soggy with laziness and prosperity, and
here they died in stupid quiescence. On the other side of that grim,
staunch old door they simply went to the other extreme in every
particular. There they killed their captives, butchered their enemies,
and sometimes died with the daggers of traitors in their shivering
backs.
As we trudged back to the lower halls, defeated but none the less
impressed by our failure to devastate our stronghold, I was struck by
the awful barrenness of the surroundings. There suddenly came over me
the shocking realisation: the "contents" of the castle, as set forth
rather vaguely in the bill of sale, were not what I had been led to
consider them. It had not occurred to me at the time of the transaction
to insist upon an inventory, and I had been too busy since the beginning
of my tenancy to take more than a passing account of my belongings.
In excusing myself for this rather careless oversight, I can only say
that during daylight hours the castle was so completely stuffed with
workmen and their queer utensils that I couldn't do much in the way
of elimination, and by night it was so horribly black and lonesome
about the place and the halls were so littered with tools and mops and
timber that it was extremely hazardous to go prowling about, so I
preferred to remain in my own quarters, which were quite comfortable
and cosy in spite of the distance between points of convenience.
Still I was vaguely certain that many articles I had seen about the
halls on my first and second visits were no longer in evidence. Two
or three antique rugs, for instance, were missing from the main hall,
and there was a lamentable suggestion of emptiness at the lower end
where we had stacked a quantity of rare old furniture in order to make
room for the workmen.
"Herr Schmick," said I, abruptly halting my party in the centre of the
hall, "what has become of the rugs that were here last week, and where
is that pile of furniture we had back yonder?"
Rudolph allowed the lantern to swing behind his huge legs, intentionally
I believe, and I was compelled to relieve him of it in order that we
might extract ourselves from his shadow. I have never seen such a
colossal shadow as the one he cast.
Old Conrad was not slow in answering.
"The gentlemen called day before yesterday, mein herr, and took much
away. They will return to-morrow for the remainder."
"Gentlemen?" I gasped. "Remainder?"
"The gentlemen to whom the Herr Count sold the rugs and chairs and
chests and--"
"What!" I roared. Even Poopendyke jumped at this sudden exhibition of
wrath. "Do you mean to tell me that these things have been sold and
carried away without my knowledge or consent? I'll have the law--"
Herr Poopendyke intervened. "They had bills of sale and orders for
removal of property dated several weeks prior to your purchase, Mr.
Smart. We had to let the articles go. You surely remember my speaking
to you about it."
"I don't remember anything," I snapped, which was the truth. "Why--why,
I bought everything that the castle contained. This is robbery! What
the dickens do you mean by--"
Old Conrad held up his hands as if expecting to pacify me. I sputtered
out the rest of the sentence, which really amounted to nothing.
"The Count has been selling off the lovely old pieces for the past six
months, sir. Ach, what a sin! They have come here day after day, these
furniture buyers, to take away the most priceless of our treasures,
to sell them to the poor rich at twenty prices. I could weep over the
sacrifices. I have wept, haven't I, Gretel? Eh, Rudolph? Buckets of
tears have I shed, mein herr. Oceans of them. Time after time have I
implored him to deny these rascally curio hunters, these
blood-sucking--"
"But listen to me," I broke in. "Do you mean to say that articles have
been taken away from the castle since I came into possession?"
"Many of them, sir. Always with proper credentials, believe me. Ach,
what a spendthrift he is! And his poor wife! Ach, Gott, how she must
suffer. Nearly all of the grand paintings, the tapestries that came
from France and Italy hundreds of years ago, the wonderful old bedsteads
and tables that were here when the castle was new--all gone! And for
mere songs, mein herr,--the cheapest of songs! I--I--"
"Please don't weep now, Herr Schmick," I made haste to exclaim, seeing
lachrymose symptoms in his blear old eyes. Then I became firm once
more. This knavery must cease, or I'd know the reason why. "The next
man who comes here to cart away so much as a single piece is to be
kicked out. Do you understand? These things belong to me. Kick him
into the river. Or, better still, notify me and I'll do it. Why, if
this goes on we'll soon be deprived of anything to sit on or sleep in
or eat from! Lock the doors, Conrad, and don't admit any one without
first consulting me. By Jove, I'd like to wring that rascal's neck.
A Count! Umph!"
"Ach, he is of the noblest family in all the land," sighed old Gretel.
"His grandfather was a fine man." I contrived to subdue my rage and
disappointment and somewhat loudly returned to the topic from which
we were drifting.
"As for those beastly padlocks, I shall have them filed off to-morrow.
I give you warning, Conrad, if the keys are not forthcoming before
noon to-morrow, I'll file 'em off, so help me."
"They are yours to destroy, mein herr, God knows," said he dismally.
"It is a pity to destroy fine old padlocks--"
"Well, you wait and see," said I, grimly.
His face beamed once more. "Ach, I forgot to say that there are padlocks
on the _other_ side of the door, just as on this side. It will be of no
use to destroy these. The door still could not be forced. Mein Gott! How
thankful I am to have remembered it in time."
"Confound you, Schmick, I believe you actually want to keep me out of
that part of the castle," I exploded.
The four of them protested manfully, even Gretel.
"I have a plan, sir," said Britton. "Why not place a tall ladder in
the courtyard and crawl in through one of the windows?"
"Splendid! That's what we'll do!" I cried enthusiastically. "And now
let's go to bed! We will breakfast at eight, Mrs. Schmick. The early
bird catches the worm, you know."
"Will you see the American ladies and gentlemen who are coming to-morrow
to pick out the--"
"Yes, I'll see them," said I, compressing my lips. "Don't let me
over-sleep, Britton."
"I shan't, sir," said he.
Sleep evaded me for hours. What with the possible proximity of an
undesirable feminine neighbour, mysterious and elusive though she may
prove to be, and the additional dread of dogs and babies, to say nothing
of the amazing delinquencies to be laid to the late owner of the place,
and the prospect of a visit from coarse and unfeeling bargain-hunters
on the morrow, it is really not surprising that I tossed about in my
baronial bed, counting sheep backwards and forwards over hedges and
fences until the vociferous cocks in the stable yard began to send up
their clarion howdy-dos to the sun. Strangely enough, with the first
peep of day through the decrepit window shutters I fell into a sound
sleep. Britton got nothing but grunts from me until half-past nine.
At that hour he came into my room and delivered news that aroused me
more effectually than all the alarm clocks or alarm cocks in the world
could have done.
"Get up, sir, if you please," he repeated the third time. "The party
of Americans is below, sir, rummaging about the place. They have ordered
the workmen to stop work, sir, complaining of the beastly noise they
make, and the dust and all that, sir. They have already selected half
a dozen pieces and they have brought enough porters and carriers over
in the boats to take the stuff away in--"
"Where is Poopendyke?" I cried, leaping out of bed. "I don't want to
be shaved, Britton, and don't bother about the tub." He had filled my
twentieth century portable tub, recently acquired, and was nervously
creating a lather in my shaving mug,
"You look very rough, sir."
"So much the better."
"Mr. Poopendyke is in despair, sir. He has tried to explain that nothing
is for sale, but the gentlemen say they are onto his game. They go
right on yanking things about and putting their own prices on them and
reserving them. They are perfectly delighted, sir, to have found so
many old things they really want for their new houses."
"I'll--I'll put a stop to all this," I grated, seeing red for an
instant.
"And the ladies, sir! There are three of them, all from New York City,
and they keep on saying they are completely ravished, sir,--with joy,
I take it. Your great sideboard in the dining-room is to go to Mrs.
Riley-Werkheimer, and the hall-seat that the first Baron used to throw
his armour on when he came in from--"
"Great snakes!" I roared. "They haven't moved it, have they? It will
fall to pieces!"
"No, sir. They are piling sconces and candelabra and andirons on it,
regardless of what Mr. Poopendyke says. You'd better hurry, sir. Here
is your collar and necktie--"
"I don't want 'em. Where the dickens are my trousers?"
His face fell. "Being pressed, sir, God forgive me!"
"Get out another pair, confound you, Britton. What are we coming to?"
He began rummaging in the huge clothespress, all the while regaling
me with news from the regions below.
"Mr. Poopendyke has gone up to his room, sir, with his typewriter. The
young lady insisted on having it. She squealed with joy at seeing an
antique typewriter and he--he had to run away with it, 'pon my soul
he did, sir."
I couldn't help laughing.
"And your golf clubs, Mr. Smart. The young gentleman of the party is
perfectly carried away with them. He says they're the real thing, the
genuine sixteenth century article. They _are_ a bit rusted, you'll
remember. I left him out in the courtyard trying your brassie and
mid-iron, sir, endeavouring to loft potatoes over the south wall. I
succeeded in hiding the balls, sir. Just as I started upstairs I heard
one of the new window panes in the banquet hall smash, sir, so I take
it he must have sliced his drive a bit."
"Who let these people in?" I demanded in smothered tones from the
depths of a sweater I was getting into in order to gain time by omitting
a collar.
"They came in with the plumbers, sir, at half-past eight. Old man
Schmick tried to keep them out, but they said they didn't understand
German and walked right by, leaving their donkeys in the roadway
outside."
"Couldn't Rudolph and Max stop them?" I cried, as my head emerged.
"They were still in bed, sir. I think they're at breakfast now."
"Good lord!" I groaned, looking at my watch. "Nine-thirty! What sort
of a rest cure am I conducting here?"
We hurried downstairs so fast that I lost one of my bedroom slippers.
It went clattering on ahead of us, making a shameful racket on the
bare stones, but Britton caught it up in time to save it from the
clutches of the curio-vandals. My workmen were lolling about the place,
smoking vile pipes and talking in guttural whispers. All operations
appeared to have ceased in my establishment at the command of the far
from idle rich. Two portly gentlemen in fedoras were standing in the
middle of the great hall, discussing the merits of a dingy old spinet
that had been carried out of the music room by two lusty porters from
the hotel. From somewhere in the direction of the room where the
porcelains and earthenware were stored came the shrill, excited voices
of women. The aged Schmicks were sitting side by side on a window
ledge, with the rigid reticence of wax figures.
As I came up, I heard one of the strangers say to the other:
"Well, if you don't want it, I'll take it. My wife says it can be made
into a writing desk with a little--"
"I beg your pardon, gentlemen," said I confronting them. "Will you be
good enough to explain this intrusion?"
They stared at me as if I were a servant asking for higher wages. The
speaker, a fat man with a bristly moustache and a red necktie, drew
himself up haughtily.
"Who the devil are you?" he demanded, fixing me with a glare.
I knew at once that he was the kind of an American I have come to hate
with a zest that knows no moderation; the kind that makes one ashamed
of the national melting pot. I glared back at him.
"I happen to be the owner of this place, and you'll oblige me by
clearing out."
"What's that? Here, here, none of that sort of talk, my friend. We're
here to look over your stuff, and we mean business, but you won't get
anywhere by talking like--"
"There is nothing for sale here," I said shortly. "And you've got a
lot of nerve to come bolting into a private house--"
"Say," said the second man, advancing with a most insulting scowl,
"we'll understand each other right off the reel, my friend. All you've
got to do is to answer us when we ask for prices. Now, bear that in
mind, and don't try any of your high-and-mighty tactics on us."
"Just remember that you're a junk-dealer and we'll get along
splendidly," said the other, in a tone meant to crush me. "What do you
ask for this thing?" tapping the dusty spinet with his walking-stick.
It suddenly occurred to me that the situation was humorous.
"You will have to produce your references, gentlemen, before I can
discuss anything with you," I said, after swallowing very hard. (It
must have been my pride.)
They stared. "Good Lord!" gasped the bristly one, blinking his eyes.
"Don't you know who this gentleman is? You--you appear to be an
American. You _must_ know Mr. Riley-Werkheimer of New York."
"I regret to say that I have never heard of Mr. Riley-Werkheimer. I
did not know that Mrs. Riley-Werkheimer's husband was living. And may
I ask who _you_ are?"
"Oh, I am also a nobody," said he, with a wink at his purple-jowled
companion. "I am only poor old Rocksworth, the president of the--"
"Oh, don't say anything more, Mr. Rocksworth," I cried. "I have heard
of _you_. This fine old spinet? Well, it has been reduced in price. Ten
thousand dollars, Mr. Rocksworth."
"Ten thousand nothing! I'll take it at seventy-five dollars. And now
let's talk about this here hall-seat. My wife thinks it's a fake. What
is its history, and what sort of guarantee can you--"
"A fake!" I cried in dismay. "My dear Mr. Rocksworth, that is the very
hall-seat that Pontius Pilate sat in when waiting for an audience with
the first of the great Teutonic barons. The treaty between the Romans
and the Teutons was signed on that table over there,--the one you have
so judiciously selected, I perceive. Of course, you know that _this_ was
the Saxon seat of government. Charlemagne lived here with all his
court."
They tried not to look impressed, but rather overdid it.
"That's the sort of a story you fellows always put up, you skinflints
from Boston. I'll bet my head you _are_ from Boston," said Mr.
Rocksworth shrewdly.
"I couldn't afford to have you lose your head, Mr. Rocksworth, so I
shan't take you on," said I merrily.
"Don't get fresh now," said he stiffly.
Mr. Riley-Werkheimer walked past me to take a closer look at the seat,
almost treading on my toes rather than to give an inch to me.
"How can you prove that it's the genuine article?" he demanded curtly.
"You have my word for it, sir," I said quietly.
"Pish tush!" said he.
Mr. Rocksworth turned in the direction of the banquet hall.
"Carrie!" he shouted. "Come here a minute, will you?"
"Don't shout like that, Orson," came back from the porcelain closet.
"You almost made me drop this thing."
"Well, drop it, and come on. This is important."
I wiped the moisture from my brow and respectfully put my clenched
fists into my pockets.
A minute later, three females appeared on the scene, all of them dusting
their hands and curling their noses in disgust.
"I never saw such a dirty place," said the foremost, a large lady who
couldn't, by any circumstance of fate, have been anybody's wife but
Rocksworth's. "It's filthy! What do you want?"
"I've bought this thing here for seventy-five. You said I couldn't get
it for a nickle under a thousand. And say, this man tells me the hall
seat here belonged to Pontius Pilate in--"
"Pardon me," I interrupted, "I merely said that he sat in it. I am not
trying to deceive you, sir."
"And the treaty was signed on this table," said Mr. Riley-Werkheimer.
He addressed himself to a plump young lady with a distorted bust and
a twenty-two inch waist. "Maude, what do you know about the
Roman-Teutonic treaty? We'll catch you now, my friend," he went on,
turning to me. "My daughter is up in ancient history. She's an
authority."
Miss Maude appeared to be racking her brain. I undertook to assist her.
"I mean the second treaty, after the fall of Nuremburg," I explained.
"Oh," she said, instantly relieved. "Was it _really_ signed here, right
here in this hall? Oh, Father! We _must_ have that table."
"You are sure there was a treaty, Maude?" demanded her parent
accusingly.
"Certainly," she cried. "The Teutons ceded Alsace-Lorraine to--"
"Pardon me once more," I cried, and this time I plead guilty to a
blush, "you are thinking of the other treaty--the one at Metz, Miss
Riley-Werkheimer. This, as you will recall, ante-dates that one by--oh,
several years."
"Thank you," she said, quite condescendingly. "I was confused for a
moment. Of course, Father, I can't say that it was signed here or on
this table as the young man says. I only know that there was a treaty.
I do wish you'd come and see the fire-screen I've found--"
"Let's get this out of our system first," said her father. "If you can
show me statistics and the proper proof that this is the genuine table,
young man, I'll--"
"Pray rest easy, sir," I said. "We can take it up later on. The facts
are--"
"And this Pontius Pilate seat," interrupted Rocksworth, biting off the
end of a fresh cigar. "What about it? Got a match?"
"Get the gentleman a match, Britton," I said, thereby giving my valet
an opportunity to do his exploding in the pantry. "I can only affirm,
sir, that it is common history that Pontius Pilate spent a portion of
his exile here in the sixth century. It is reasonable to assume that
he sat in this seat, being an old man unused to difficult stairways.
He--"
"Buy it, Orson," said his wife, with authority. "We'll take a chance
on it. If it isn't the right thing, we can sell it to the second-hand
dealers. What's the price?"
"A thousand dollars to you, madam," said I.
They were at once suspicious. While they were busily engaged in looking
the seat over as the porters shifted it about at all angles, I stepped
over and ordered my workmen to resume their operations. I was beginning
to get sour and angry again, having missed my coffee. From the culinary
regions there ascended a most horrific odour of fried onions. If there
is one thing I really resent it is a fried onion. I do not know why
I should have felt the way I did about it on this occasion, but I am
mean enough now to confess that I hailed the triumphal entry of that
pernicious odour with a meanness of spirit that leaves nothing to be
explained.
"Good gracious!" gasped the aristocratic Mrs. Riley-Werkheimer, holding
her nose. "Do you smell _that_"?
"Onions! My Gawd!" sniffed Maude. "How I hate 'em!"
Mr. Rocksworth forgot his dignity. "Hate 'em?" he cried, his eyes
rolling. "I just love 'em!"
"Orson!" said his wife, transfixing him with a glare. "_What_ will
people think of you?"
"I like 'em too," admitted Mr. Riley-Werkheimer, perceiving at once
whom she meant by "people." He puffed out his chest.
At that instant the carpenters, plumbers and stone masons resumed their
infernal racket, while scrubwomen, polishers and painters began to
move intimately among us.
"Here!" roared Mr. Rocksworth. "Stop this beastly noise! What the deuce
do you mean, sir, permitting these scoundrels to raise the dead like
this? Confound 'em, I stopped them once. Here! You! Let up on that,
will you?"
I moved forward apologetically. "I am afraid it is not onions you
smell, ladies and gentlemen." I had taken my cue with surprising
quickness. "They _are_ raising the dead. The place is fairly alive
with dead rats and--"
"Good Lord!" gasped Riley-Werkheimer. "We'll get the bubonic plague
here."
"Oh, I know _onions_," said Rocksworth calmly. "Can't fool me on onions.
They _are_ onions, ain't they, Carrie?"
"They _are_!" said she. "What a pity to have this wonderful old castle
actually devastated by workmen! It is an outrage--a crime. I should
think the owner would turn over in his grave."
"Unhappily, I am the owner, madam," said I, slyly working my foot back
into an elusive slipper.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," she said, eyeing me coldly with
a hitherto unexposed lorgnon.
"I am," said I. "You quite took me by surprise. I should have made
myself more presentable if I had known--"
"Well, let's move on upstairs," said Rocksworth. Addressing the porters
he said: "You fellows get this lot of stuff together and I'll take an
option on it. I'll be over to-morrow to close the deal, Mr.--Mr.--Now,
where is the old Florentine mirror the Count was telling us about?"
"The Count?" said I, frowning.
"Yes, the _real_ owner. You can't stuff me with your talk about being
the proprietor here, my friend. You see, we happen to _know_ the Count."
They all condescended to laugh at me. I don't know what I should have
said or done if Britton had not returned with a box of matches at that
instant--sulphur matches which added subtly to the growing illusion.
Almost simultaneously there appeared in the lower hall a lanky youth
of eighteen. He was a loud-voiced, imperious sort of chap with at least
three rolls to his trousers and a plum-coloured cap.
"Say, these clubs are the real stuff, all right, all right. They're
as brittle as glass. See what I did to 'em. We can hae 'em spliced and
rewound and I'll hang 'em on my wall. All I want is the heads anyhow."
He held up to view a headless mid-iron and brassie, and triumphantly
waved a splendid cleek. My favourite clubs! I could play better from
a hanging lie with that beautiful brassie than with any club I ever
owned and as for the iron, I was deadly with it.
He lit a cigarette and threw the match into a pile of shavings. Old
Conrad returned to life at that instant and stamped out the incipient
blaze.
"I shouldn't consider them very good clubs, Harold, if they break off
like that," said his mother.
"What do you know about clubs?" he snapped, and I at once knew what
class he was in at the preparatory school.
If I was ever like one of these, said I to myself, God rest the sage
soul of my Uncle Rilas!
The situation was no longer humorous. I could put up with anything but
the mishandling of my devoted golf clubs.
Striding up to him, I snatched the remnants from his hands.
"You infernal cub!" I roared. "Haven't you any more sense than to smash
a golf club like that? For two cents I'd break this putter over your
head."
"Father!" he yelled indignantly. "Who is this mucker?"
Mr. Rocksworth bounced toward me, his cane raised. I whirled upon him.
"How dare you!" he shouted. The ladies squealed.
If he expected me to cringe, he was mightily mistaken. My blood was
up. I advanced.
"Paste him, Dad!" roared Harold.
But Mr. Rocksworth suddenly altered his course and put the historic
treaty table between him and me. He didn't like the appearance of my
rather brawny fist.
"You big stiff!" shouted Harold. Afterwards it occurred to me that
this inelegant appellation may have been meant for his father, but at
the time I took it to be aimed at me.
Before Harold quite knew what was happening to him, he was prancing
down the long hall with my bony fingers grasping his collar. Coming
to the door opening into the outer vestibule, I drew back my foot for
a final aid to locomotion. Acutely recalling the fact that slippers
are not designed for kicking purposes, I raised my foot, removed the
slipper and laid it upon a taut section of his trousers with all of
the melancholy force that I usually exert in slicing my drive off the
tee. I shall never forget the exquisite spasm of pleasure his plaintive
"Ouch!" gave me.
Then Harold passed swiftly out of my life.
Mr. Rocksworth, reinforced by four reluctant mercenaries in the shape
of porters, was advancing upon me. Somehow I had a vague, but unerring
instinct that some one had fainted, but I didn't stop to inquire.
Without much ado, I wrested the cane from him and sent it scuttling
after Harold.
"Now, get out!" I roared.
"You shall pay for this!" he sputtered, quite black in the face. "Grab
him, you infernal cowards!"
But the four porters slunk away, and Mr. Rocksworth faced me alone.
Rudolph and Max, thoroughly fed and _most_ prodigious, were bearing
down upon us, accounting for the flight of the mercenaries.
"Get out!" I repeated. "I am the owner of this place, Mr. Rocksworth,
and I am mad through and through. Skip!"
"I'll have the law--"
"Law be hanged!"
"If it costs me a million, I'll get--"
"It _will_ cost you a million if you don't get!" I advised him, seeing
that he paused for want of breath.
I left him standing there, but had the presence of mind to wave my
huge henchmen away. Mr. Riley-Werkheimer approached, but very
pacifically. He was paler than he will ever be again in his life, I
fear.
"This is most distressing, most distressing, Mr.-- Mr.-- ahem! I've
never been so outraged in my life. I--but, wait!" He had caught the
snap in my atavistic eye. "I am not seeking trouble. We will go, sir.
I--I--I think my wife has quite recovered. Are--are you all right, my
dear?"
I stood aside and let them file past me. Mrs. Riley-Werkheimer moved
very nimbly for one who had just been revived by smelling-salts. As
her husband went by, he half halted in front of me. A curious glitter
leaped into his fishy eyes.
"I'd give a thousand dollars to be free to do what you did to that
insufferable puppy, Mr.--Mr.--ahem. A cool thousand, damn him!"
I had my coffee upstairs, far removed from the onions. A racking
headache set in. Never again will I go without my coffee so long. It
always gives me a headache.