The scene shifts to the Author's study--a blazing coal fire, the
stoker sitting dripping and steaming before it, with his feet inside
the fender, while the Author fusses about the room, directing the
preparation of hot drinks. The Author is acutely aware not only of the
stoker but of himself. The stoker has probably never been in the home
of an Author before; he is probably awe-stricken at the array of
books, at the comfort, convenience, and efficiency of the home, at the
pleasant personality entertaining him.... Meanwhile the Author does
not forget that the stoker is material, is "copy," is being watched,
_observed_. So he poses and watches, until presently he forgets to
pose in his astonishment at the thing he is observing. Because this
stoker is rummier than a stoker ought to be----
He does not simply accept a hot drink; he informs his host just how
hot the drink must be to satisfy him.
"Isn't there something you could put in it--something called red
pepper? I've tasted that once or twice. It's good. If you could put in
a bit of red pepper."
"If you can stand that sort of thing?"
"And if there isn't much water, can't you set light to the stuff? Or
let me drink it boiling, out of a pannikin or something? Pepper and
all."
Wonderful fellows, these stokers! The Author went to the bell and
asked for red pepper.
And then as he came back to the fire he saw something that he
instantly dismissed as an optical illusion, as a mirage effect of the
clouds of steam his guest was disengaging. The stoker was sitting, all
crouched up, as close over the fire as he could contrive; and he was
holding his black hands, not to the fire but _in_ the fire, holding
them pressed flat against two red, glowing masses of coal.... He
glanced over his shoulder at the Author with a guilty start, and then
instantly the Author perceived that the hands were five or six inches
away from the coal.
Then came smoking. The Author produced one of his big cigars--for
although a conscientious pipe-smoker himself he gave people cigars;
and then, again struck by something odd, he went off into a corner of
the room where a little oval mirror gave him a means of watching the
stoker undetected. And this is what he saw.
He saw the stoker, after a furtive glance at him, deliberately turn
the cigar round, place the lighted end in his mouth, inhale strongly,
and blow a torrent of sparks and smoke out of his nose. His firelit
face as he did this expressed a diabolical relief. Then very hastily
he reversed the cigar again, and turned round to look at the Author.
The Author turned slowly towards him.
"You like that cigar?" he asked, after one of those mutual pauses that
break down a pretence.
"It's admirable."
"Why do you smoke it the other way round?"
The stoker perceived he was caught. "It's a stokehole trick," he said.
"Do you mind if I do it? I didn't think you saw."
"Pray smoke just as you like," said the Author, and advanced to watch
the operation.
It was exactly like the fire-eater at a village fair. The man stuck
the burning cigar into his mouth and blew sparks out of his nostrils.
"Ah!" he said, with a note of genuine satisfaction. And then, with the
cigar still burning in the corner of his mouth, he turned to the fire
and _began to rearrange the burning coals with his hands_ so as to
pile up a great glowing mass. He picked up flaming and white-hot lumps
as one might pick up lumps of sugar. The Author watched him,
dumbfounded.
"I say!" he cried. "You stokers get a bit tough."
The stoker dropped the glowing piece of coal in his hand. "I forgot,"
he said, and sat back a little.
"Isn't that a bit--_extra_?" asked the Author, regarding him. "Isn't
that some sort of trick?"
"We get so tough down there," said the stoker, and paused discreetly
as the servant came in with the red pepper.
"Now you can drink," said the Author, and set himself to mix a drink
of a pungency that he would have considered murderous ten minutes
before. When he had done the stoker reached over and added more red
pepper.
"I don't quite see how it is your hand doesn't burn," said the Author
as the stoker drank. The stoker shook his head over the uptilted
glass.
"Incombustible," he said, putting it down. "Could I have just a tiny
drop more? Just brandy and pepper, if you _don't_ mind. Set alight. I
don't care for water except when it's super-heated steam."
And as the Author poured out another stiff glass of this incandescent
brew, the stoker put up his hand and scratched the matted black hair
over his temple. Then instantly he desisted and sat looking wickedly
at the Author, while the Author stared at him aghast. For at the
corner of his square, high, narrow forehead, revealed for an instant
by the thrusting back of the hair, a curious stumpy excrescence had
been visible; and the top of his ear--he had a pointed top to his ear!
"A-a-a-a-h!" said the Author, with dilated eyes.
"A-a-a-a-h!" said the stoker, in hopeless distress.
"But you aren't----!"
"I know--I know I'm not. I know.... I'm a devil. A poor, lost,
homeless devil."
And suddenly, with a gesture of indescribable despair, the apparent
stoker buried his face in his hands and burst into tears.
"Only man who's ever been decently kind to me," he sobbed. "And
now--you'll chuck me out again into the beastly wet and cold....
Beautiful fire.... Nice drink.... Almost homelike.... Just to torment
me.... Boo-ooh!"
And let it be recorded to the credit of our little Author, that he did
overcome his momentary horror, that he did go quickly round the table,
and that he patted that dirty stoker's shoulder.
"There!" he said. "There! Don't mind my rudeness. Have another nice
drink. Have a hell of a drink. I won't turn you out if you're
unhappy--on a day like this. Have just a mouthful of pepper, man, and
pull yourself together."
And suddenly the poor devil caught hold of his arm. "Nobody good to
me," he sobbed. "Nobody good to me." And his tears ran down over the
Author's plump little hand--scalding tears.