THE RED-HOT DOLLAR
AND OTHER STORIES FROM
THE BLACK CAT
By H. D. UMBSTAETTER
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
JACK LONDON
L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
BOSTON
MDCCCCXI
_Copyright, 1895, 1896, 1900, 1904, 1909_
BY THE SHORTSTORY PUBLISHING COMPANY
_Copyright, 1911_
BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
(INCORPORATED)
_All rights reserved_
First Impression, July, 1911
_Electrotyped and Printed by
THE COLONIAL PRESS
C. H. Simonds & Co., Boston, U.S.A._
TO
[Illustration: ULN]
_Introduction_
It is indeed a pleasure to write an introduction for a collection of
tales by Mr. H. D. Umbstaetter. His stories are "Black Cat" stories,
and by such designation is meant much. The field of the "Black Cat" is
unique, and a "Black Cat" story is a story apart from all other short
stories. While Mr. Umbstaetter may not have originated such a type of
story, he made such a type possible, and made many a writer possible. I
know he made me possible. He saved my literary life, if he did not save
my literal life. And I think he was guilty of this second crime, too.
For months, without the smallest particle of experience, I had been
attempting to write something marketable. Everything I possessed was
in pawn, and I did not have enough to eat. I was sick, mentally and
physically, from lack of nourishment. I had once read in a Sunday
supplement that the minimum rate paid by the magazines was ten dollars
per thousand words. But during all the months devoted to storming the
magazine field, I had received back only manuscripts. Still I believed
implicitly what I had read in the Sunday supplement.
As I say, I was at the end of my tether, beaten out, starved, ready to
go back to coal-shoveling or ahead to suicide. Being very sick in mind
and body, the chance was in favor of my self-destruction. And then, one
morning, I received a short, thin letter from a magazine. This magazine
had a national reputation. It had been founded by Bret Harte. It sold
for twenty-five cents a copy. It held a four-thousand-word story of
mine, "To the Man on Trail." I was modest. As I tore the envelope
across the end, I expected to find a check for no more than forty
dollars. Instead, I was coldly informed (by the Assistant Sub-scissors,
I imagine), that my story was "available" and that on publication I
would be paid for it the sum of five dollars.
The end was in sight. The Sunday supplement had lied. I was
finished--finished as only a very young, very sick, and very hungry
young man could be. I planned--I was too miserable to plan anything
save that I would never write again. And then, that same day, that very
afternoon, the mail brought a short, thin letter from Mr. Umbstaetter
of the "Black Cat." He told me that the four-thousand-word story
submitted to him was more lengthy than strengthy, but that if I would
give permission to cut it in half, he would immediately send me a
check for forty dollars.
Give permission! It was equivalent to twenty dollars per thousand, or
double the minimum rate. Give permission! I told Mr. Umbstaetter he
could cut it down two-halves if he'd only send the money along. He did,
by return mail. And that is just precisely how and why I stayed by the
writing game. Literally, and literarily, I was saved by the "Black Cat"
short story.
To many a writer with a national reputation, the "Black Cat" has been
the stepping stone. The marvelous, unthinkable thing Mr. Umbstaetter
did, was to judge a story on its merits and _to pay for it on its
merits_. Also, and only a hungry writer can appreciate it, he paid
immediately on acceptance.
Of the stories in this volume, let them speak for themselves. They are
true "Black Cat" stories. Personally, I care far more for men than for
the best stories ever hatched. Wherefore, this introduction has been
devoted to Mr. Umbstaetter, the Man.
JACK LONDON.
GLEN ELLEN, CALIFORNIA, _March 25, 1911_
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
THE RED-HOT DOLLAR
THE UNTURNED TRUMP
THE REAL THING
WHEN THE CUCKOO CALLED
ONE CHANCE IN A MILLION
DOODLE'S DISCOVERY
KOOTCHIE
HER EYES, YOUR HONOR
FOR THE SAKE OF TOODLEUMS
IN HELL'S CAÑON
THE MYSTERY OF THE THIRTY MILLIONS
ASLEEP AT LONE MOUNTAIN
THE RED-HOT DOLLAR
It lacked three minutes of five by the big clock in the tower when the
east-bound Chicago express rumbled into the station at Buffalo. The
train had not yet come to a standstill when a hatless man jumped from
the platform of the rear sleeping-car and ran across the tracks into
the depot restaurant. A few minutes later he reappeared, carrying a cup
of coffee in one hand and a small paper bag in the other.
With these he hurriedly made his way back to the car through a
straggling procession of drowsy tourists, who were taking advantage
of the train's five minutes' stop to breathe the crisp morning air.
The last of these had already resumed his seat when the man without a
hat again appeared at the lunch counter, returned the borrowed dishes,
and ordered coffee for himself. He had just picked up the cup and was
raising it to his lips when the conductor's "All aboard" rang through
the station.
Leaving the coffee untouched, he thrust a five-dollar bill at the
attendant, grabbed his change, and started in pursuit of the moving
train. He had almost reached it when an unlucky stumble sent the
coins in his hand rolling in all directions along the floor. Quickly
recovering himself and paying no heed to his loss, he redoubled his
efforts, and, though losing ground at every step, kept up the hopeless
chase to the end of the station. There he stopped, panting for breath.
The slip had proved fatal. He had missed the train!
As he stood staring wildly through the clouds of dust that rose from
the track, a young woman, evidently deeply agitated, suddenly appeared
in the doorway of the vanishing car. Upon seeing him, she made frantic
attempts to leap from the platform, when she was seized by a man
and pulled back into the car. When the door had closed upon the two
the bareheaded man in the station faced about and philosophically
muttered:--
"It's fate!"
Then, after pausing a few moments, as if to collect his thoughts,
he slowly retraced his steps to the scene of his mishap and began
calmly searching for his lost change. Circling closely about, his eyes
scanning the floor, he succeeded in recovering first one and then
another of the missing coins, until finally, after repeated rounds, he
lacked only one dollar of the whole amount. At this point he paused,
clinked the recovered coins in his hand, looked at his watch, and then
started on a final round. As this failed to reveal the missing piece,
he gave up the search, transferred the contents of his hands to his
trousers' pocket, and started in the direction of the telegraph office.
He had proceeded perhaps twenty paces when it occurred to him to turn
about and cast one more look along the floor. As he did so his eye
fell upon a shining object lodged in an opening between the rail and
planked floor, a few feet from where he stood. He stooped to examine
it, and, seeing that it was the missing coin, reached for it, but found
the opening too narrow to admit his fingers. He tried to recover the
piece with his pocket-knife, and, failing in this attempt, took his
lead-pencil, with which, after repeated attempts, he succeeded in
tossing it upon the floor.
With an air of subdued satisfaction, he walked away, and was about to
convey the coin to his pocket when a sudden impulse led him to examine
it. Holding it up before his eyes, he stopped, scrutinized every
detail, and as he turned it over and over the puzzled look on his face
changed to one of rigid astonishment. For fully a minute he stood as if
transfixed; then, rousing himself and looking anxiously about as if to
see if any one had observed him, he hurried to the cashier's desk in
the restaurant, and, producing the bright silver dollar, asked the girl
if she happened to remember from whom she received it.
She didn't remember, but would exchange it for another, she said, if
he wished. Politely declining the offer and apologizing for having
troubled her, he said that, as the coin he held in his hand was
separating a loving wife from her husband, he wished very much to find
some trace of its former owner. The girl looked up, thought for a
moment, then, pulling out the cash drawer, and examining its contents,
said she might have received it from the conductor of the Lake Shore
express which had left for Cleveland at 3.15. She now recalled that
when she came on duty at midnight there was no silver dollar among
the change in the cash drawer, and that the only one she remembered
receiving was from Sleeping-Car Conductor Parkins.
The man thanked her and hastened to the telegraph office, where he sent
this message:--
"Conductor, East Bound Chicago Express,
Utica, N. Y.
"Please ask lady in section seven of sleeping-car Catawba to await her
husband at Delavan House, Albany.
"A. J. Hobart."
After requesting the operator to kindly rush the despatch, he proceeded
to the ticket office, procured a seat in the 5.45 fast mail for
Cleveland, and, with his hand clutching the coin in his pocket and his
eyes fixed upon the floor, meditatively paced up and down the platform,
waiting for the train to arrive.
As he did so he was disconcerted to find himself the object of
wide-spread curiosity; even the newsboys with the morning papers
favored him with an inquiring stare as they passed. Wondering what
was amiss, he suddenly put his hand to his head, which furnished an
instant explanation. He was hatless.
Looking at the big clock, he saw that it lacked ten minutes of train
time, and, hastily crossing over to the farther track, he disappeared
through the west end of the station.
Among the passengers who boarded the 5.45 fast mail for Cleveland when
it thundered into the station, ten minutes later, was the bareheaded
gentleman of a few minutes ago, now wearing a stylish derby. Once in
the train, he settled himself in his seat with a sigh of relief and
satisfaction. Not until then did the really remarkable character of the
situation dawn upon him. On the very day which he had hailed as one of
the happiest of his life he was traveling at the rate of about sixty
miles an hour away from the girl he loved devotedly and to whom he had
been married just seventeen hours. A queer opening of his honeymoon!
In his anxiety to get a cup of coffee for his wife, he had lost his
hat, then lost his change, and, lastly, lost the train.
Why did he not follow his bride at once? What mysterious spell had come
upon this seventeen-hour bridegroom that he should fly from her as
swiftly as the fast express could carry him? His hand held the solution
of the problem--simple, yet unexplainable--a silver dollar! It held
the secret he must unravel before he could return to her; it was not
then that he loved her less, but that this bit of precious metal had
suddenly developed an occult power that had turned their paths, for the
present, in opposite directions.
At the first stopping place he sent another message, which read as
follows:--
"Mrs. A. J. Hobart, Delavan House,
Albany, N. Y.
"Cannot possibly reach Albany before to-morrow morning.
"Ansel."
With his brain filled with excited thoughts, the young man entered
the sleeping-car office at Cleveland four hours later and asked for
Conductor Parkins. He was told that this official would not be on duty
before night, though possibly he might be at his home on St. Clair
Street.
To the address given him the indefatigable young man repaired at once,
and found the genial gentleman for whom he sought breakfasting with his
family. He kindly gave audience at once to his visitor.
"This coin, which you gave the cashier of the restaurant in Buffalo,"
said the latter, revealing it in the palm of his hand; "can you tell
me from whom you received it?"
Parkins remembered receiving cash from but two passengers the night
before, one a traveling man who got off in Cleveland, and the other a
woman whose destination was Erie. The stranger might ascertain their
names by consulting the car diagram at the ticket office. "You seem
interested in the coin," he added, smiling.
"I am, for a good reason," laughed the young man in reply. "It is
separating a man from his wife." And with these enigmatical words he
made his adieu, with thanks, hastened to the ticket office, and an hour
later was scouring the city for one Richard Spears.
The register of the Stillman House contained the freshly written name
of "Richard Spears, Providence, R. I.," but that gentleman, when found
in his room showing samples of hardware to a prospective buyer,
regretted that he could not throw any light on the particular dollar
his visitor held up to his gaze, and remembered distinctly that he had
given the conductor a two-dollar bill in payment for his berth. He came
from a section, he said, where people took no stock in silver dollars.
It was three o'clock in the afternoon when a man got off the train
at Erie and inquired of the cabmen and depot master regarding a lady
who had arrived on the early train from Buffalo. An hour later he was
driving along a country road some miles south of the town inquiring for
the Wickliffe farm.
As he finally drove up to the house which was his destination he was
conscious of a strange excitement. This, he realized, was probably
his only remaining chance to trace the coin by whose mysterious power
he had been drawn into this wild chase with the hope of identifying
its former owner. He took a hasty note of the general features of the
place. It had a comfortable, well-to-do look; a two-story house, white,
with green blinds. Most of these were closed, as is customary with
country houses, but the windows at the right of the big front door,
opening on a small porch, were shaded only by white curtains. There was
a sound of voices within as he stepped up to the door and rapped.
Mrs. Wickliffe, a pleasant-faced little woman, sat surrounded by
three children and a neighbor's wife, to whom she was displaying some
purchases. As one of the children opened the door, admitting the
stranger into this animated scene, she was standing before a mirror
trying on a new bonnet, which was eliciting extravagant praises from
the neighbor.
After listening to his story, Mrs. Wickliffe said that her memory was
so treacherous that she really couldn't say for certain whether or not
she gave the conductor the shining dollar, but that if she did she must
have received it from her son in Germantown, Pa., from a visit to whose
house she had just returned, and who before her departure had exchanged
some money for her. She added that, as she took no interest in coin
collecting, a dollar was simply a dollar to her and that she thought
a woman was very foolish to take up with a fad which might ruin her
happiness.
Her unknown caller thought so, too, admired her taste in millinery,
took the address of her son, and, clutching the fatal coin more firmly
than ever, drove back to Erie, where he boarded the New York night
express.
To the young man who still clutched the silver dollar sleep was
impossible. A multitude of exciting fancies crossed his brain. The
developments he hoped to bring about, the curious solution of the
problem, its effect upon his future, and the future of one so dear to
him,--all this murdered sleep for him as effectually as did the crime
on Lady Macbeth's soul. It drove him into the smoking-car, where he
sank into a seat and planned and conjectured between puffs of Havana
smoke until the train reached Albany. So completely absorbed had he
become in the solution of this knotty problem in which his accident
of the morning had involved him, and so convinced was he that the
information must be for the time kept a secret, that he actually began
to dread what was clearly inevitable,--the explanation he must shortly
make to his wife.
His inclination was to tell her all. His duty to others forbade this.
After pondering over the matter, he decided to explain that he had a
happy surprise in store for her, one that had an important bearing on
their future, and which unfortunately necessitated a change in their
plans for a honeymoon in Europe.
This, on reaching the Delavan House, he expressed to a very pretty and
very anxious little woman who was awaiting him, together with a good
many other things not necessary to this story. And, instead of the
steamer for Europe, the reunited pair took a train for Philadelphia.
Early the next day the young man presented himself at the office of Dr.
James Wickliffe, at Germantown, who smilingly admitted having given
the shining dollar to his mother two days before. He had received the
coin from a patient, a letter-carrier named John Lennon, and remembered
it because of the following strange story, related to him by Lennon
himself.
A few days before, the carrier was engaged in delivering mail from door
to door along Vine Street, Philadelphia, when a zigzag trip across the
street and back again brought him to the narrow stairway of a dingy
brick house, in front of which hung an enormous brass key bearing the
word "Locksmith." Here he paused to draw a little parcel from his
bundle. As he did so he heard something fall with a metallic clink upon
the stone pavement. He looked and saw that it was a silver dollar,
which rolled toward the gutter and came to a stop close by the curb.
Hastening to pick it up, he instantly dropped it with a cry of pain.
_The coin was almost red hot!_
The letter-carrier stood nursing his hand and thinking for two or three
minutes. Silver dollars do not commonly drop out of the sky. But that
this one should thus fall like a meteorite in a condition too heated
for handling was certainly more than surprising--it was astounding! The
man looked up at the dingy brick house and examined it attentively,
noting that the ground floor was occupied as a green grocery and that
all of the windows were shut save one in the third story.
Then he kicked the mysterious coin into a puddle, fished it out again
with his fingers, and put it into his trousers' pocket. He was about to
investigate further, when some small boys called his attention to the
fact that it was the first day of April, whereupon he proceeded on his
way. He gave no further thought to the matter until that night, when
he found that his thumb and fore-finger had been so badly burned as to
require treatment.
The next morning he called upon the doctor, who dressed the painful
hand and received the mysterious coin in payment for his services.
That night, behind locked doors in one of the officers' rooms of the
United States Mint in Chestnut Street, two men were engaged in a long
whispered conference. The wife of one of the men, as she sat in her
room in the Continental Hotel, anxiously waiting for her husband, was
beginning to wonder whether, after all, marriage was a failure!
Two days later, in speaking of the seizure of over forty thousand bogus
silver dollars and the clever capture of three of the most dangerous
counterfeiters that ever attacked the currency of the United States,
the _Daily News_ said:--
"The most remarkable part of the whole story is that one of the coins,
fresh from the machine of one of the counterfeiters, fell out of a
third-story window near which he was working, was picked up while
almost red hot by a letter-carrier, and passed as genuine through
various hands until it reached Buffalo, where, by the merest accident,
it came into the possession of Mr. Ansel Hobart of the Secret Service.
That gentleman noticed an imperfection at one point of its rim, and
succeeded in tracing the coin to the headquarters of the gang on Vine
Street in this city, where, under the cloak of a locksmith shop and
green grocery business, six hundred of the spurious coins were turned
out daily. So admirably were these counterfeits executed as to defy
scrutiny save by experts of the Government. The coins were not cast
in molds after the ordinary fashion, but were struck with a die, and
plated so thickly with silver as to withstand tests by acids. The
defect which led to the discovery was found only in the one coin
already spoken of, and it is supposed that it was this defect that
caused the piece to spring from the finishing machine and fall out of
the window."
And the New York newspapers of three days later contained the
intelligence that the White Star steamer "Majestic," which sailed for
Liverpool that day, had among her passengers Mr. and Mrs. Ansel J.
Hobart, of Chicago, Illinois.
THE UNTURNED TRUMP
The ferry-boat, "Rappahannock," had an experience in the winter of 1873
that will never be forgotten by any of her passengers.
During one of her regular trips between New York and Brooklyn this boat
suddenly quitted her respectable, though somewhat monotonous, career,
and became a common tramp, without port or destination.
The day awoke in fog such as the oldest inhabitant had never seen. The
East River was blocked with ice and soon became a shrieking bedlam of
groping and bewildered craft, whose pilots could scarcely see their
hands before their faces.
At half past nine the "Rappahannock" left Brooklyn, well laden with
passengers, and started on her customary trip almost directly across
the river--a very short and usually easy voyage. Before even reaching
the middle of the stream, however, the ice and fog had thrown her
completely out of her course. Back and forth, up and down stream, the
pilot vainly groped, amid the shrieking whistles, ringing of fog bells,
and loud crash of ice boulders, until, in the confused clangor, he had
entirely lost his bearings.
When, after long and perilous battling with ice jams and many
hairbreadth escapes from collisions, he suddenly sighted the landing
place on the New York side, he found it occupied by a sister boat,
which had been driven there to avoid destruction. He backed out, only
to be lost again, and for three hours this boat, now become a mere
tramp, wandered aimlessly up and down the East River with its load of
excited passengers, whose emotions ranged anywhere between the rage
and impatience of the belated Wall Street speculator, to whom the
delay might mean a loss of fifty thousand dollars, to the hysteria of
a nervous little woman who had left her baby alone at home, and who
begged the other helpless passengers for the love of Heaven to help her
set her feet once more on land.
Between these two extremes of impatience and excitement was a small
proportion of passengers who remained calm, even endeavoring to while
away the time by exchanging pleasantries and making wagers as to the
time of their deliverance. Among these was a group of men in the cabin
who, after having read and re-read the morning papers, were casting
about for some other method of killing time. One suggested a game of
cards.
"Cards!" laughed one of his companions in misery. "Who'd carry cards on
a ferry-boat? Who, outside of a lunatic asylum, would start on a ten
minutes' voyage provided with games to pass away the time?"
"Here is a euchre deck which is at your service."
The speaker, evidently a globe-trotter, drew from under the bench
a traveling-bag, so much worn and embellished by tags, labels, and
hieroglyphics that it resembled some old veteran just returned from the
wars and still covered with surgeons' plasters. From this he produced a
pack of cards and tendered it to the man who had suggested a game.
"Certainly, if you will join us; but what shall we do for a table?"
"Here is a camp-stool," said the man of the world. And in a moment four
men were sitting around it, cutting for deal, which chanced to fall to
the stranger.
The cards were distributed rapidly, and the dealer was about to turn
the trump when a loud shriek pierced the air and a woman opposite
suddenly sank fainting to the floor.
The tension among the passengers had become so great that a panic
seemed imminent.
"Don't be alarmed, gentlemen; it is nothing serious," said the dealer
calmly. "The lady simply caught sight of her own frightened face in the
mirror, and the shock caused her to faint. It reminds me of a thrilling
experience an American traveler had while bumping through Syria. But,
pardon me, the game!"
Once more he made a movement to turn the trump, when one of the party
exclaimed:--
"There can't be a better time or place than this for telling a
thrilling experience."
"Yes," said another; "do give us some other kind of bumping than we are
having here. Let's have the story before we begin the game."
The stranger leaned back, passed his cigar case, and, having lighted
one himself, began:--
"It is an unwritten law among the wild Bedouins east of the Red Sea
that if an infidel traveler is attended on his journey by one of the
faithful he is safe from the attacks of Mohammedan robbers. As long
as the 'Frank,' as all foreigners are called, is under the protection
of the Star and Crescent, the rascal's hand is stayed, and as they
meet, the villain, who would otherwise show no quarter, salutes with
the grave suavity of a courtier. But let that same traveler become
separated from the Arab guard that he has bribed to give him safe
conduct through his own bandit-infested country, and he becomes
legitimate prey. He will be plundered and perhaps killed, or, worse,
if the robber thinks that cruelty will extort any secrets of hidden
spoil, tortured or held for ransom, with each day's delay losing a few
fingers, which are forwarded to the captive's friends to signify that
the rascals mean business.
"The party in which this American was traveling had been entering Syria
from the south, and were progressed some twelve days from the sacred
base of old Sinai. At a place called Bir-es-Sheba, on the regular
caravan route to and from Mecca from the north, they heard of some
interesting archeological treasures just unearthed some two days'
journey to the east, and, having made the detour, the party snugly
encamped by the side of a beautiful stream under the shadow of the
Tubal chain of mountains.
"The treasures were vastly exaggerated, as is the custom with
everything Oriental, and they soon determined to turn back to the
caravan route and 'bump' on up into Syria--'bumping' being the familiar
term for camel riding, and a very expressive word at that. But on
the afternoon of the first resting-day some one suggested a jaunt to
a famous old well, where it was said were some very ancient tumuli.
But, knowing the Bedouins to be conscientious liars, and sick of this
unrewarded chase for phantom treasures, the American begged to be left
behind in charge of two tents, which were pitched side by side on the
bank of the stream.
"This was at last agreed upon, the whole party except himself going
off on their three days' trip, leaving their comrade stretched at full
length on a rug, his _narghili_, or water pipe, lighted for company.
"This Oriental atmosphere, gentlemen, is a powerful drug. Do what you
will to fight against it, its subtle charm holds you captive. The man
succumbed to its influences and went fast asleep.
"Out of this sweet, trance-like repose he suddenly bounded into the
horrible consciousness of a torturing pain in one of his hands, as
though some wild beast was crunching the bones. But, as he writhed
to his knees to grapple with the foe, he saw instead three swarthy,
evil-faced Bedouins bending over him with ghoulish glee. One had just
cut off, with a hideous dirk-knife, the first three fingers of his
left hand. In an instant it flashed upon him that these were to be
sent to his friends with a demand for ransom. He was correct in this
supposition, for no sooner had the bleeding hand been rudely bandaged
than two of his captors set out upon this mission, leaving him in care
of the third, who was heavily armed.
"No one knew better than the prisoner how impossible such a ransom
would be. His fellow-travelers had brought as little money into Syria
as would meet their actual necessities while there. He therefore began
to cast desperately about in his mind for a loophole of escape before
the fellows should return with these unsatisfactory tidings, which
would result, no doubt, in further mutilations.
"As his gaze swept the tent for something suggesting a plan for
deliverance, he saw it had been gutted of everything except two
articles,--his light silk coat, which hung upon the partition between
the two tents, and the tourist's shaving mirror which it concealed.
The coat had been overlooked because it was as grimy as the tent wall
itself.
"In moments like this one grasps at straws. As it is said a drowning
person reviews his past experiences perfectly in a brief moment, so to
this man, facing desperate odds, came a desperate suggestion.
"He called loudly on a supposed protector in the adjoining tent to come
to the 'window,' and prove to his captor that he was under protection
of a Moslem. As he spoke he slowly drew the coat from before the mirror
in front of which the sheik was standing.
"No words can express the unutterable consternation pictured upon that
blazing face, livid with fright and wonder, as for the first time
it saw its own awful reflection, not knowing it was its own. One
instant he stood stock-still, fascinated, horrified, overwhelmed; then
collapsed, just as that lady did but a moment ago, and the American
quickly possessed himself of his captor's arms and was master of the
situation.
"And now, gentlemen," concluded the story teller, "we will have our
game."
As he spoke he again reached forward to turn the trump. There was a
quickly drawn breath of horror from those who observed him, for the
first three fingers of his left hand were missing.
Before he could turn the card, a savage lurch of the boat, accompanied
by the creaking of timbers, announced the arrival of the "Rappahannock"
at her New York slip--and the trump was never turned.
THE REAL THING
Just before midnight on the ninth day of December in the year 1881,
Malcolm Joyce, of New Haven, made the acquaintance of the real thing.
Prior to that time he had been a sceptic. At the time of his startling
experience, he was in San Francisco, visiting friends whose home was
charmingly situated near the summit of Nob Hill, that conspicuous
eminence on California Street, once the scene of "sand-lot" riots, and
famous for its palaces of millionaires.
Joyce, having spent the evening with his host at a theatre party and
an hour at whist, had glanced over a packet of London papers, smoked
a cigar, and turned off the light preparatory to going to bed. He
stepped to the large bay window of his chamber, to enjoy for a moment
the impressive panorama spread below him in the sombre silence.
There before him, just across the bay, whose fantastically scattered
lights of red and green serve as guiding stars to the mariner passing
through the Golden Gate, lay Oakland, the beautiful city of sunny
homes. To his left loomed up with awe-inspiring grandeur through the
dim shadows the palatial residences of the immediate vicinity, each
dark and silent in its solitary majesty. To the right, in the very
shadow of this manifestation of Occidental millions, and but a block
distant, lay acres of dismal roofs, sheltering never-ending scenes
of Oriental contrast--Chinatown--with its fifty thousand souls, its
underground opium joints and gambling hells, its temples of wealth and
piety and dens of vice and penury.
As Joyce turned from the contemplation of the strange contrast
presented by the scene, the silence of which was broken only by the
ceaseless buzz of the invisible cables in the street below, he was
startled by the signal gongs of two cable cars which passed each other
directly in front of the house. Almost unconsciously he returned to his
position at the window and paused to watch the one disappear over the
summit, while the other as speedily descended the long, steep hill, so
steep that its pavement, never trodden by horses' hoofs, is grass-grown
in the crevices. He stood but a moment and then, realizing the lateness
of the hour, turned abruptly to go to bed. As he did so, his eyes swept
once more the hilltop just beyond.
Horror! Was he asleep? Did he dream? No. From the tower half-way down
the hill came the first stroke of midnight, assuring him that he was
awake. With an icy shudder, chained to the spot, he continued to gaze
at a ghastly spectacle, clearly outlined upon the gloomy background by
the light of the street lamp a block above.
He saw it moving--a human skeleton with uplifted arm and flowing
shroud, all ghastly white, all too real to be mistaken, from the
gleaming skull to the fluttering robe. He saw it approaching nearer
and nearer--gliding swiftly and noiselessly through the air, above
the middle of the street. He tried to move, but could not,--his eyes
refused to leave the hideous sight. He saw it coming, closer and
closer. It would pass below him, not a hundred feet away.
Determined that will and courage should conquer doubt and fear,
summoning all his strength of nerve, he pressed closer to the window,
so close that his face fairly touched the glass--and he saw a human
skeleton soaring through the air.
Now, Malcolm Joyce was not easily frightened. No one had ever accused
him of cowardice, and they who knew him readily believed his statement
that he enjoyed solitude. Yet, as he stood there in the darkness,
his eyes fixed upon the vanishing figure, he felt somehow that he
should welcome company, particularly the company of another not
easily frightened. So strong was this impression of the occasional
disadvantage of solitude that without delay he relighted the gas and
stepped before the mirror. The deathly pallor and agitation that
confronted him was bewildering.
As he tried to calm himself and change the current of his thoughts he
recalled the "spook test" of an old hunter whom he had met in New South
Wales.
This test consisted in asking oneself three questions: "Are you awake,
are you sober, are you sane?" By the time these queries are propounded
and answered, the ghost on trial will have proved itself an illusion.
Without hesitation Joyce answered the first two questions--he was
unquestionably awake and sober. But was he in his right mind? He picked
up a paper and read for a moment, but failed to grasp a single idea! He
turned the page. He could read, but he could not understand! He jumped
up, dazed, frightened, trembling, perspiring. Was his mind giving way
under the strain it had undergone? Once more he looked at the first
page of the paper before him. It was "London Punch"! He was sane!
Hardly had he satisfied himself of the success of his test, when the
familiar signals of two passing cars again sounded in his ears. With
the air of a man convinced that the cause of fear and suffering has
been groundless, he lighted a fresh cigar, stepped briskly to the
window, and, puffing slowly and regularly, calmly watched the course of
the diverging cars. As the distance between them increased, he followed
the one going down-hill until it had reached a point nearly two blocks
distant, and then turned his attention to the summit over which the
other had already disappeared.
As he sharply watched the critical spot his anxiety decreased as, after
some moments, no signs of the unearthly sight appeared.
Of course, he reasoned, while the object he had beheld some ten or
fifteen minutes before might never appear again, it still might have
been a ghost. A sensation akin to doubt stole over him.
But, whether or not his eyes had, after all, played him a trick, he was
now ready to go to bed.
He drew down the shade of the window to his left and had grasped the
cord of the one directly before him, when his arm fell to his side as
if paralyzed. With a loud whirr the suddenly released shade rushed
upward, and there, not thirty yards in front of and below him, he
beheld the shocking spectre gliding up-hill.
He stood in rigid horror, held by the grim monstrosity.
Inclining slightly forward as it soared past, with bony arm upstretched
to heaven, its bleached death's head bare and shining, the snowy
drapery enshrouding its skeleton form in a silent flutter, it presented
to Joyce's view the most horribly revolting and yet fascinating
spectacle he had ever beheld, and one that he never forgot. In the face
of this further proof all his doubts vanished, and he felt absolutely
certain that he had seen what is here described.
But, even before the frightful object had finally passed from his view,
he experienced one of those sudden revulsions of feeling by which fear
becomes courage, and anxiety is followed by mental calm, and thus
reconciled to a new belief, he went to bed.
When he awoke on the following morning, he decided to say nothing to
any one of his strange experience until he had taken counsel with an
intimate bachelor friend, a lawyer. He felt relieved, therefore, to
find the breakfast chat confined to topics entirely foreign to the
spirit world. Evidently none of the family had been disturbed by
ghostly visions. As he looked across the table into the eyes of a
bewitching girl, he almost shuddered at the fleeting thought that the
gruesome nocturnal sight he had seen might have been a warning--an omen
of some dread calamity that might dash forever the hope he entertained
with regard to her. It was to see her again--to be at her side and, if
possible, to woo her for his own--that he was in San Francisco.
Two years previous they had first met, on the opposite coast of the
continent. While ranging in the Maine woods, Joyce had climbed Mount
Royce and Speckle Mountain and visited the tourmaline mines, and on one
of his woodland tramps had come across a college student with one foot
inextricably caught in a bear trap. Fortunately, a legging buckle and
a stout branch of undergrowth, caught at the same time, had prevented
the terrible teeth of the trap from crushing the bone, and the young
fellow, a brother of Joyce's future idol, was promptly released, nearly
exhausted from the shock of his adventure and the fatigue of his
fruitless struggles to escape.
The gratitude of the rescued youth and his parents resulted in an
invitation to Joyce to visit the family, which he accepted with much
alacrity, after having seen the pretty daughter of the house.
Ten o'clock found Malcolm Joyce at the office of his friend, the
lawyer. He had expected Lucien Nelson to be sceptical and full of
good-natured pleasantry and was therefore prepared for the reception
accorded his unusual tale. He paid no attention to his friend's
intimation that he had seen the ghost while under spiritual influence,
rejected a proposition for a writ of ejectment to be served upon it,
and finally aroused Nelson's interest and secured the promise of his
co-operation in an armed attempt, to be made that night, to investigate
the ghastly mystery.
Accordingly, twelve hours later, the two young men, each with a
revolver, were snugly ensconced in a dark corner of the bay window
of Joyce's chamber on Nob Hill. For two hours Malcolm was obliged to
endure all the thinly veiled ridicule, biting sarcasm and ironical
humor that a friend alone dare utter, so that when he at length turned
up the light for a moment to make sure of the time, he was glad to
find that a few moments more would bring the hour of midnight--the
traditional time for ghostly visitations.
The sudden appearance of the cable cars that passed each other on the
hill at twelve served as a signal for another outbreak of raillery on
the part of Nelson, but Joyce, in no mood for further banter, kept his
eyes upon the progress of the cars, searching the steep incline for the
unearthly object which he hoped, yet dreaded, to behold. The downward
car had not yet passed the cross-walk three blocks below, when, with a
feeling of awe which he could not have described, mingled with a sort
of lively satisfaction, he saw again the animated skeleton flash before
his eyes. Emerging, apparently, from the very earth, in the rear and a
little to the left of the departing car, it rose until its full length
stood suspended in the air. Then, after a slight, wavering pause, it
came gliding up the hill.
His experience of the previous night thus confirmed, he was able to
control his voice and nerves as he said, coolly, to his companion,
while dreading what the reply might be:
"Nelson, here's a friend of yours coming up street; better step out
and speak to him."
To his immense relief, the trembling voice of his friend exclaimed at
his ear:
"Great God! A ghost for sure!"
Nelson's horrified tone and perceptible shudder left no doubt of his
state of mind, and it was with much satisfaction that Joyce seized the
opportunity to turn several of the lawyer's gibes against him.
Ignoring these sarcasms, Nelson exclaimed again, emphatically:
"That was a ghost, as sure as I live--and I should like to see more of
him."
"He'll very likely be back in ten or fifteen minutes, same as last
night."
"Well, then, let's tackle him, on his way down."
They shook hands, and neither spoke again until they had reached the
sidewalk, where, three blocks farther down, they concealed themselves
in the deep shadows of a spacious doorway and awaited the expected
return of the midnight visitant.
No one who has not had a similar experience can fully comprehend the
thrill of suspense at such a time. He may have sought a human foe, in
the open or in ambush, have stood guard at a solitary camp fire in the
silent night, or passed a weary vigil in the jungle, prepared to meet
any form of savage beast, but he is still a stranger to the sensation
that comes to him who, in firm belief, awaits the coming of a midnight
ghost.
As the passage of the cable cars on their trip next after midnight had
heralded the return of the spectre on the previous night, Joyce warned
his friend to be prepared for that event.
"After the car has gone and the coast is clear and quiet, go for it,"
he commanded.
"You bet!" was the answer, "and don't forget to be quick on the
trigger."
At that instant a sharp tapping on a window, apparently a block above
them, met their ears, and at the same time they saw the downward car
mounting the hillside. As it approached, the noise increased to a loud
rattle and then suddenly stopped. The car had no sooner passed and the
hill become bare than the ghost appeared at the summit, gliding swiftly
in mid-air, as on the previous occasions.
"There he comes!" the watchers exclaimed together, in excited whispers.
"Remember now," whispered Nelson, "the moment he gets close enough
we'll rush out, and when I say, 'Shoot!' you pump lead into that
snowy skull, while I ladle some pellets between his ribs. Let him
have it six times in succession. And don't forget, it's got to be all
accidental,--we were frenzied with fear and shot in self-defence. Don't
forget that, for we may have to swear to it."
By this time the skeleton was flying toward the block in which they
were concealed.
"Now, then, rush for the middle of the street!"
They rushed, experiencing an awful moment, but when still within some
feet of the apparition, a dark figure, armed with a long club, darted
suddenly from a doorway on the opposite side of the street, and in
another moment the spectre lay prostrate on the ground. Before the
ghost hunters fully realized what had happened, they stood, breathless,
behind the newcomer, as he, unconscious of their presence, stooped over
his fallen quarry.
"What are you doing here?" sternly demanded Nelson, grasping the
ghost-destroyer by the arm. Starting at the touch, the latter sprang
forward in a frantic attempt to escape, but finding himself hopelessly
detained, he stood staring wildly at his captors. "Speak. What are you
doing here?" repeated the lawyer.
"Him not my glost," was the meek reply, in the trembling tones of a
frightened Chinaman.
"Oh, very well. Pick him up and come with us; you are our prisoner."
Without further words, the terrified Chinaman, carrying his prize,
was placed between his captors and marched quickly to Kearney Street,
near by, where, behind locked doors, the two friends proceeded to
investigate an affair that had excited and agitated them as nothing had
ever done before.
Prostrate upon the floor, flat and motionless, their previously
formidable foe was no longer impressive. True, the skull and skeleton
arm, chalked to a ghastly whiteness, were still suggestive of horror,
but when the drapery was lifted the anatomy disclosed was of such
ludicrous simplicity and harmlessness that the astonishment of the
inquisitors brought a faint smile even to the pale yellow face of the
frightened heathen.
Briefly described, the plan and specifications of the ghost were as
follows: A human skull was securely attached to one end of a piece of
inch gas pipe twelve feet long. The other end of the pipe was flattened
out, to permit its passing readily through the grip slot of the cable
road, and was provided with a pair of self-acting spring nippers,
ingeniously constructed of nickel, and so affixed as to act in the
capacity of a grip. Front and rear guards held the structure upright.
Just below the skull the pipe passed through a strip of board, two feet
long by three inches wide, which served as shoulders. Over this the
white shroud, which fell to within two feet of the ground, was loosely
draped, while to one end of the strip the skeleton arm was fastened.
Lower down, at right angles with the first, was a second board, with
rounded ends, which served to give the drapery a natural spread, as
well as to prevent a fracture of the skull when the figure was suddenly
felled by its operators, as the two friends had seen it.
"John," said Joyce, after the examination had been made, "look at these
two revolvers, and then tell us what you've got to say for yourself."
"Him not my glost," repeated the Chinaman, sullenly.
"Whose is it, then?"
"Him Wun Lung glost."
"Who is Wun Lung, and where does he live?"
"Him no livee--him dead."
"Oh! So this is his ghost. Why did you knock it down?"
"Wun Lung say, 'go catchee glost.'"
"Here!" interrupted Nelson, "you just said Wun Lung was dead."
Joyce waved his hand with some impatience. "What's your name?" he
continued.
"My name Sing Lo--me velly good cook--me--"
"Hold on, Lo. Nelson, I'll match you pennies to see which of us is to
give Sing Lo a dollar to tell us the whole story about the ghost."
"I'll go you," grumbled the lawyer, "but it isn't good law."
"Here you are, Sing Lo. Here's your dollar--now tell us everything,
and we'll let you go."
"You givee me back Wun Lung glost?"
"Yes--go ahead."
This assurance, with the sight of the broad coin and the disappearance
of the pistols, worked wonders with the hitherto quaking and evasive
laundryman, and in his best English and most straightforward
manner--circumlocutory as it was--he related the particulars of an
interesting tale.
It appeared that Wun Lung--whose mortal remains the ingenious
contrivance captured had been meant to simulate--had been the
proprietor of a laundry on Dupont Street, a profitable spot, the site
of which appealed to Michael O'Brien, a local politician, as very
desirable for the location of a saloon, but his offer to purchase
was declined and his threats disregarded. The disappointed Irishman
therefore proceeded to extreme measures, broke up the laundry and shot
the owner, who was Sing Lo's employer, but was promptly released with
a five-dollar fine by a compatriot on the bench, on the ground of
self-defence. When O'Brien established his residence and saloon on the
dead Chinaman's premises, a junior Wun Lung conceived the ingenious
idea of frightening the murderer away with the "ghost" of his victim.
The ghastly dummy was constructed and sent flying up and down the hill
at midnight, being attached to and removed from the cable by Sing Lo
and his fellow-laundryman, Ah Wing, while Wun Lung himself roused the
saloon keeper from drunken slumber by a sharp tapping on his window
by means of a "tick-tack," as boys call an ingenious combination of
string, pin, and nail. The appeal to the fears of O'Brien and the
identity of the spectre were emphasized by the solitary bleached hand
of the apparition, the departed Wun having had but a single arm during
the latter years of his life.
"Why did your friend make this contrivance of nickel?" asked Nelson,
with the instinctive inquisitiveness of his legal training.
Sing Lo grinned as he replied:
"Wun Lung say, 'Put-um nickel in slot, Ilishman see-um glost.'"
With an additional dollar, designated by Nelson as "witness fees," and
with his late employer's ghost under his arm, the Chinaman was released
and drifted out into the darkness of Chinatown.