A GAME OF BLUFF
"Thy second question, O pertinacious one?" said the Jinnee, impatiently.
He was standing with folded arms looking down on Horace, who was still
seated on the narrow cornice, not daring to glance below again, lest he
should lose his head altogether.
"I'm coming to it," said Ventimore; "I want to know why you should
propose to dash me to pieces in this barbarous way as a return for
letting you out of that bottle. Were you so comfortable in it as all
that?"
"In the bottle I was at least suffered to rest, and none molested me.
But in releasing me thou didst perfidiously conceal from me that
Suleyman was dead and gone, and that there reigneth one in his stead
mightier a thousand-fold, who afflicteth our race with labours and
tortures exceeding all the punishments of Suleyman."
"What on earth have you got into your head now? You can't mean the Lord
Mayor?"
"Whom else?" said the Jinnee, solemnly. "And though, for this once, by a
device I have evaded his vengeance, yet do I know full well that either
by virtue of the magic jewel upon his breast, or through that malignant
monster with the myriad ears and eyes and tongues, which thou callest
'The Press,' I shall inevitably fall into his power before long."
For the life of him, in spite of his desperate plight, Horace could not
help laughing. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Fakrash," he said, as soon as he
could speak, "but--the Lord Mayor! It's really too absurd. Why, he
wouldn't hurt a hair on a fly's head!"
"Seek not to deceive me further!" said Fakrash, furiously. "Didst thou
not inform me with thy own mouth that the spirits of Earth, Air, Water,
and Fire were subject to his will? Have I no eyes? Do I not behold from
here the labours of my captive brethren? What are those on yonder
bridges but enslaved Jinn, shrieking and groaning in clanking fetters,
and snorting forth steam, as they drag their wheeled burdens behind
them? Are there not others toiling, with panting efforts, through the
sluggish waters; others again, imprisoned in lofty pillars, from which
the smoke of their breath ascendeth even unto Heaven? Doth not the air
throb and quiver with their restless struggles as they writhe below in
darkness and torment? And thou hast the shamelessness to pretend that
these things are done in the Lord Mayor's own realms without his
knowledge! Verily thou must take me for a fool!"
"After all," reflected Ventimore, "if he chooses to consider that
railway engines and steamers, and machinery generally, are inhabited by
so many Jinn 'doing time,' it's not to my interest to undeceive
him--indeed, it's quite the contrary!"
"I wasn't aware the Lord Mayor had so much power as all that," he said;
"but very likely you're right. And if you're so anxious to keep in
favour with him, it would be a great mistake to kill me. That _would_
annoy him."
"Not so," said the Jinnee, "for I should declare that thou hadst spoken
slightingly of him in my hearing, and that I had slain thee on that
account."
"Your proper course," said Horace, "would be to hand me over to him, and
let _him_ deal with the case. Much more regular."
"That may be," said Fakrash; "but I have conceived so bitter a hatred to
thee by reason of thy insolence and treachery, that I cannot forego the
delight of slaying thee with my own hand."
"Can't you really?" said Horace, on the verge of despair. "And _then_,
what will you do?"
"Then," replied the Jinnee, "I shall flee away to Arabia, where I shall
be safe."
"Don't you be too sure of that!" said Horace. "You see all those wires
stretched on poles down there? Those are the pathways of certain Jinn
known as electric currents, and the Lord Mayor could send a message
along them which would be at Baghdad before you had flown farther than
Folkestone. And I may mention that Arabia is now more or less under
British jurisdiction."
He was bluffing, of course, for he knew perfectly well that, even if any
extradition treaty could be put in force, the arrest of a Jinnee would
be no easy matter.
"Thou art of opinion, then, that I should be no safer in mine own
country?" inquired Fakrash.
"I swear by the name of the Lord Mayor (to whom be all reverence!)" said
Horace, "that there is no land you could fly to where you would be any
safer than you are here."
"If I were but sealed up in my bottle once more," said the Jinnee,
"would not even the Lord Mayor have respect unto the seal of Suleyman,
and forbear to disturb me?"
"Why, of course he would!" cried Horace, hardly daring to believe his
ears. "That's really a brilliant idea of yours, my dear Mr. Fakrash."
"And in the bottle I should not be compelled to work," continued the
Jinnee. "For labour of all kinds hath ever been abhorrent unto me."
"I can quite understand that," said Horace, sympathetically. "Just
imagine your having to drag an excursion train to the seaside on a Bank
Holiday, or being condemned to print off a cheap comic paper, or even
the _War Cry_, when you might be leading a snug and idle existence in
your bottle. If I were you, I should go and get inside it at once.
Suppose we go back to Vincent Square and find it?"
"I shall return to the bottle, since in that alone there is safety,"
said the Jinnee. "But I shall return alone."
"Alone!" cried Horace. "You're not going to leave me stuck up here all
by myself?"
"By no means," said the Jinnee. "Have I not said that I am about to cast
thee to perdition? Too long have I delayed in the accomplishment of this
duty."
Once more Horace gave himself up for lost; which was doubly bitter, just
when he had begun to consider that the danger was past. But even then,
he was determined to fight to the last.
"One moment," he said. "Of course, if you've set your heart on pitching
me over, you must. Only--I may be quite mistaken--but I don't quite see
how you are going to manage the rest of your programme without me,
that's all."
"O deficient in intelligence!" cried the Jinnee. "What assistance canst
thou render me?"
"Well," said Horace, "of course, you can get into the bottle
alone--that's simple enough. But the difficulty I see is this: Are you
quite sure you can put the cap on yourself--from the _inside_, you
know?" If he can, he thought, "I'm done for!"
"That," began the Jinnee, with his usual confidence "will be the easiest
of--nay," he corrected himself, "there be things that not even the Jinn
themselves can accomplish, and one of them is to seal a vessel while
remaining in it. I am indebted to thee for reminding me thereof."
"Not at all," said Ventimore. "I shall be delighted to come and seal you
up comfortably myself."
"Again thou speakest folly," exclaimed the Jinnee. "How canst thou seal
me up after I have dashed thee into a thousand pieces?"
"That," said Horace, with all the urbanity he could command, "is
precisely the difficulty I was trying to convey."
"There will be no difficulty, for as soon as I am in the bottle I shall
summon certain inferior Efreets, and they will replace the seal."
"When you are once in the bottle," said Horace, at a venture, "you
probably won't be in a position to summon anybody."
"_Before_ I get into the bottle, then!" said the Jinnee, impatiently.
"Thou dost but juggle with words!"
"But about those Efreets," persisted Horace. "You know what Efreets
_are_! How can you be sure that, when they've got you in the bottle,
they won't hand you over to the Lord Mayor? I shouldn't trust them
myself--but, of course, you know best!"
"Whom shall I trust, then?" said Fakrash, frowning.
"I'm sure I don't know. It's rather a pity you're so determined to
destroy me, because, as it happens, I'm just the one person living who
could be depended on to seal you up and keep your secret. However,
that's your affair. After all, why should I care what becomes of you? I
shan't be there!"
"Even at this hour," said the Jinnee, undecidedly, "I might find it in
my heart to spare thee, were I but sure that thou wouldst be faithful
unto me!"
"I should have thought I was more to be trusted than one of your beastly
Efreets!" said Horace, with well-assumed indifference. "But never mind,
I don't know that I care, after all. I've nothing particular to live for
now. You've ruined me pretty thoroughly, and you may as well finish your
work. I've a good mind to jump over, and save you the trouble. Perhaps,
when you see me bouncing down that dome, you'll be sorry!"
"Refrain from rashness!" said the Jinnee, hastily, without suspecting
that Ventimore had no serious intention of carrying out his threat. "If
thou wilt do as thou art bidden, I will not only pardon thee, but grant
thee all that thou desirest."
"Take me back to Vincent Square first," said Horace. "This is not the
place to discuss business."
"Thou sayest rightly," replied the Jinnee; "hold fast to my sleeve, and
I will transport thee to thine abode."
"Not till you promise to play fair," said Horace, pausing on the brink
of the ledge. "Remember, if you let me go now you drop the only friend
you've got in the world!"
"May I be thy ransom!" replied Fakrash. "There shall not be harmed a
hair of thy head!"
Even then Horace had his misgivings; but as there was no other way of
getting off that cornice, he decided to take the risk. And, as it
proved, he acted judiciously, for the Jinnee flew to Vincent Square with
honourable precision, and dropped him neatly into the armchair in which
he had little hoped ever to find himself again.
"I have brought thee hither," said Fakrash, "and yet I am persuaded that
thou art even now devising treachery against me, and wilt betray me if
thou canst."
Horace was about to assure him once more that no one could be more
anxious than himself to see him safely back in his bottle, when he
recollected that it was impolitic to appear too eager.
"After the way you've behaved," he said, "I'm not at all sure that I
ought to help you. Still, I said I would, on certain conditions, and
I'll keep my word."
"Conditions!" thundered the Jinnee. "Wilt thou bargain with me yet
further?"
"My excellent friend," said Horace quietly, "you know perfectly well
that you can't get yourself safely sealed up again in that bottle
without my assistance. If you don't like my terms, and prefer to take
your chance of finding an Efreet who is willing to brave the Lord Mayor,
well, you've only to say so."
"I have loaded thee with all manner of riches and favours, and I will
bestow no more upon thee," said the Jinnee, sullenly. "Nay, in token of
my displeasure, I will deprive thee even of such gifts as thou hast
retained." He pointed his grey forefinger at Ventimore, whose turban
and jewelled robes instantly shrivelled into cobwebs and tinder, and
fluttered to the carpet in filmy shreds, leaving him in nothing but his
underclothing.
"That only shows what a nasty temper you're in," said Horace, blandly,
"and doesn't annoy me in the least. If you'll excuse me, I'll go and put
on some things I can feel more at home in; and perhaps by the time I
return you'll have cooled down."
He slipped on some clothes hurriedly and re-entered the sitting-room.
"Now, Mr. Fakrash," he said, "we'll have this out. You talk of having
loaded me with benefits. You seem to consider I ought to be grateful to
you. In Heaven's name, for what? I've been as forbearing as possible all
this time, because I gave you credit for meaning well. Now, I'll speak
plainly. I told you from the first, and I tell you now, that I want no
riches nor honours from you. The one real good turn you did me was
bringing me that client, and you spoilt that because you would insist on
building the palace yourself, instead of leaving it to me! As for the
rest--here am I, a ruined and discredited man, with a client who
probably supposes I'm in league with the Devil; with the girl I love,
and might have married, believing that I have left her to marry a
Princess; and her father, unable ever to forgive me for having seen him
as a one-eyed mule. In short, I'm in such a mess all round that I don't
care two straws whether I live or die!"
"What is all this to me?" said the Jinnee.
"Only this--that unless you can see your way to putting things straight
for me, I'm hanged if I take the trouble to seal you up in that bottle!"
"How am _I_ to put things straight for thee?" cried Fakrash, peevishly.
"If you could make all those people entirely forget that affair in the
Guildhall, you can make my friends forget the brass bottle and
everything connected with it, can't you?"
"There would be no difficulty in that," Fakrash admitted.
"Well, do it--and I'll swear to seal you up in the bottle exactly as if
you had never been out of it, and pitch you into the deepest part of the
Thames, where no one will ever disturb you."
"First produce the bottle, then," said Fakrash, "for I cannot believe
but that thou hast some lurking guile in thy heart."
"I'll ring for my landlady and have the bottle brought up," said Horace.
"Perhaps that will satisfy you? Stay, you'd better not let her see you."
"I will render myself invisible," said the Jinnee, suiting the action to
his words. "But beware lest thou play me false," his voice continued,
"for I shall hear thee!"
"So you've come in, Mr. Ventimore?" said Mrs. Rapkin, as she entered.
"And without the furrin gentleman? I _was_ surprised, and so was Rapkin
the same, to see you ridin' off this morning in the gorgious chariot and
'osses, and dressed up that lovely! 'Depend upon it,' I says to Rapkin,
I says, 'depend upon it, Mr. Ventimore'll be sent for to Buckinham
Pallis, if it ain't Windsor Castle!'"
"Never mind that now," said Horace, impatiently; "I want that brass
bottle I bought the other day. Bring it up at once, please."
"I thought you said the other day you never wanted to set eyes on it
again, and I was to do as I pleased with it, sir?"
"Well, I've changed my mind, so let me have it, quick."
"I'm sure I'm very sorry, sir, but that you can't, because Rapkin, not
wishful to have the place lumbered up with rubbish, disposed of it on'y
last night to a gentleman as keeps a rag and bone emporium off the
Bridge Road, and 'alf-a-crown was the most he'd give for it, sir."
"Give me his name," said Horace.
"Dilger, sir--Emanuel Dilger. When Rapkin comes in I'm sure he'd go
round with pleasure, and see about it, if required."
"I'll go round myself," said Horace. "It's all right, Mrs. Rapkin, quite
a natural mistake on your part, but--but I happen to want the bottle
again. You needn't stay."
"O thou smooth-faced and double-tongued one!" said the Jinnee, after she
had gone, as he reappeared to view. "Did I not foresee that thou wouldst
deal crookedly? Restore unto me my bottle!"
"I'll go and get it at once," said Horace; "I shan't be five minutes."
And he prepared to go.
"Thou shalt not leave this house," cried Fakrash, "for I perceive
plainly that this is but a device of thine to escape and betray me to
the Press Devil!"
"If you can't see," said Horace, angrily, "that I'm quite as anxious to
see you safely back in that confounded bottle as ever you can be to get
there, you must be pretty dense! _Can't_ you understand? The bottle's
sold, and I can't buy it back without going out. Don't be so infernally
unreasonable!"
"Go, then," said the Jinnee, "and I will await thy return here. But know
this: that if thou delayest long or returnest without my bottle, I shall
know that thou art a traitor, and will visit thee and those who are dear
to thee with the most unpleasant punishments!"
"I'll be back in half an hour, at most," said Horace, feeling that this
would allow him ample margin, and thankful that it did not occur to
Fakrash to go in person.
He put on his hat, and hurried off in the gathering dusk. He had some
little trouble in finding Mr. Dilger's establishment, which was a dirty,
dusty little place in a back street, with a few deplorable old chairs,
rickety washstands, and rusty fenders outside, and the interior almost
completely blocked by piles of dingy mattresses, empty clock-cases,
tarnished and cracked mirrors, broken lamps, damaged picture-frames, and
everything else which one would imagine could have no possible value
for any human being. But in all this collection of worthless curios the
brass bottle was nowhere to be seen.
Ventimore went in and found a youth of about thirteen straining his eyes
in the fading light over one of those halfpenny humorous journals which,
thanks to an improved system of education, at least eighty per cent. of
our juvenile population are now enabled to appreciate.
"I want to see Mr. Dilger," he began.
"You can't," said the youth. "'Cause he ain't in. He's attending of an
auction."
"When _will_ he be in, do you know?"
"Might be back to his tea--but I wasn't to expect him not before
supper."
"You don't happen to have any old metal bottles--copper or--or brass
would do--for sale?"
"You don't git at me like that! Bottles is made o' glorss."
"Well, a jar, then--a big brass pot--anything of that kind?"
"Don't keep 'em," said the boy, and buried himself once more in his copy
of "Spicy Sniggers."
"I'll just look round," said Horace, and began to poke about with a
sinking heart, and a horrid dread that he might have come to the wrong
shop, for the big pot-bellied vessel certainly did not seem to be there.
At last, to his unspeakable joy, he discovered it under a piece of
tattered drugget. "Why, this is the sort of thing I meant," he said,
feeling in his pocket and discovering that he had exactly a sovereign.
"How much do you want for it?"
"I dunno," said the boy.
"I don't mind three shillings," said Horace, who did not wish to appear
too keen at first.
"I'll tell the guv'nor when he comes in," was the reply, "and you can
look in later."
"I want it at once," insisted Horace. "Come, I'll give you three-and-six
for it."
"It's more than it's wurf," replied the candid youth.
"Perhaps," said Horace, "but I'm rather pressed for time. If you'll
change this sovereign, I'll take the bottle away with me."
"You seem uncommon anxious to get 'old on it, mister!" said the boy,
with sudden suspicion.
"Nonsense!" said Horace. "I live close by, and I thought I might as well
take it, that's all."
"Oh, if that's all, you can wait till the guv'nor's in."
"I--I mayn't be passing this way again for some time," said Horace.
"Bound to be, if you live close by," and the provoking youth returned to
his "Sniggers."
"Do you call this attending to your master's business?" said Horace.
"Listen to me, you young rascal. I'll give you five shillings for it.
You're not going to be fool enough to refuse an offer like that?"
"I ain't goin' to be fool enough to refuse it--nor yet I ain't goin' to
be fool enough to take it, 'cause I'm only 'ere to see as nobody don't
come in and sneak fings. I ain't got no authority to sell anyfink, and I
don't know the proice o' nuffink, so there you _'ave_ it."
"Take the five shillings," said Horace, "and if it's too little I'll
come round and settle with your master later."
"I thought you said you wasn't likely to be porsin' again? No, mister,
you don't kid me that way!"
Horace had a mad impulse to snatch up the precious bottle then and there
and make off with it, and might have yielded to the temptation, with
disastrous consequences, had not an elderly man entered the shop at that
moment. He was bent, and wore rather more fluff and flue upon his person
than most well-dressed people would consider necessary, but he came in
with a certain air of authority, nevertheless.
"Mr. Dilger, sir," piped the youth, "'ere's a gent took a fancy to this
'ere brass pot o' yours. Says he _must_ 'ave it. Five shillings he'd got
to, but I told him he'd 'ave to wait till you come in."
"Quite right, my lad!" said Mr. Dilger, cocking a watery but sharp old
eye at Horace. "Five shillings! Ah, sir, you can't know much about these
hold brass antiquities to make an orfer like that."
"I know as much as most people," said Horace. "But let us say six
shillings."
"Couldn't be done, sir; couldn't indeed. Why, I give a pound for it
myself at Christie's, as sure as I'm standin' 'ere in the presence o' my
Maker, and you a sinner!" he declared impressively, if rather
ambiguously.
"Your memory is not quite accurate," said Horace. "You bought it last
night from a man of the name of Rapkin, who lets lodgings in Vincent
Square, and you paid exactly half a crown for it."
"If you say so I dare say it's correct, sir," said Mr. Dilger, without
exhibiting the least confusion. "And if I did buy it off Mr. Rapkin,
he's a respectable party, and ain't likely to have come by it
dishonest."
"I never said he did. What will you take for the thing?"
"Well, just look at the work in it. They don't turn out the like o' that
nowadays. Dutch, that is; what they used for to put their milk and
such-like in."
"Damn it!" said Horace, completely losing his temper. "_I_ know what it
was used for. _Will_ you tell me what you want for it?"
"I couldn't let a curiosity like that go a penny under thirty
shillings," said Mr. Dilger, affectionately. "It would be robbin'
myself."
"I'll give you a sovereign for it--there," said Horace. "You know best
what profit that represents. That's my last word."
"_My_ last word to that, sir, is good hevenin'," said the worthy man.
"Good evening, then," said Horace, and walked out of the shop; rather to
bring Mr. Dilger to terms than because he really meant to abandon the
bottle, for he dared not go back without it, and he had nothing about
him just then on which he could raise the extra ten shillings, supposing
the dealer refused to trust him for the balance--and the time was
growing dangerously short.
Fortunately the well-worn ruse succeeded, for Mr. Dilger ran out after
him and laid an unwashed claw upon his coat-sleeve. "Don't go, mister,"
he said; "I like to do business if I can; though, 'pon my word and
honour, a sovereign for a work o' art like that! Well, just for luck and
bein' my birthday, we'll call it a deal."
Horace handed over the coin, which left him with a few pence. "There
ought to be a lid or stopper of some sort," he said suddenly. "What have
you done with that?"
"No, sir, there you're mistook, you are, indeed. I do assure you you
never see a pot of this partickler pattern with a lid to it. Never!"
"Oh, don't you, though?" said Horace. "I know better. Never mind," he
said, as he recollected that the seal was in Fakrash's possession. "I'll
take it as it is. Don't trouble to wrap it up. I'm in rather a hurry."
It was almost dark when he got back to his rooms, where he found the
Jinnee shaking with mingled rage and apprehension.
"No welcome to thee!" he cried. "Dilatory dog that thou art! Hadst thou
delayed another minute, I would have called down some calamity upon
thee."
"Well, you need not trouble yourself to do that now," returned
Ventimore. "Here's your bottle, and you can creep into it as soon as you
please."
"But the seal!" shrieked the Jinnee. "What hast thou done with the seal
which was upon the bottle?"
"Why, you've got it yourself, of course," said Horace, "in one of your
pockets."
"O thou of base antecedents!" howled Fakrash, shaking out his flowing
draperies. "How should _I_ have the seal? This is but a fresh device of
thine to undo me!"
"Don't talk rubbish!" retorted Horace. "You made the Professor give it
up to you yesterday. You must have lost it somewhere or other. Never
mind! I'll get a large cork or bung, which will do just as well. And
I've lots of sealing-wax."
"I will have no seal but the seal of Suleyman!" declared the Jinnee.
"For with no other will there be security. Verily I believe that that
accursed sage, thy friend, hath contrived by some cunning to get the
seal once more into his hands. I will go at once to his abode and compel
him to restore it."
"I wouldn't," said Horace, feeling extremely uneasy, for it was
evidently a much simpler thing to let a Jinnee out of a bottle than to
get him in again. "He's quite incapable of taking it. And if you go out
now you'll only make a fuss and attract the attention of the Press,
which I thought you rather wanted to avoid."
"I shall attire myself in the garments of a mortal--even those I assumed
on a former occasion," said Fakrash, and as he spoke his outer robes
modernised into a frock-coat. "Thus shall I escape attention."
"Wait one moment," said Horace. "What is that bulge in your
breast-pocket?"
"Of a truth," said the Jinnee, looking relieved but not a little foolish
as he extracted the object, "it is indeed the seal."
"You're in such a hurry to think the worst of everybody, you see!" said
Horace. "Now, _do_ try to carry away with you into your seclusion a
better opinion of human nature."
"Perdition to all the people of this age!" cried Fakrash, re-assuming
his green robe and turban, "for I now put no faith in human beings and
would afflict them all, were not the Lord Mayor (on whom be peace!)
mightier than I. Therefore, while it is yet time, take thou the stopper,
and swear that, after I am in this bottle, thou wilt seal it as before
and cast it into deep waters, where no eye will look upon it more!"
"With all the pleasure in the world!" said Horace; "only you must keep
_your_ part of the bargain first. You will kindly obliterate all
recollection of yourself and the brass bottle from the minds of every
human being who has had anything to do with you or it."
"Not so," objected the Jinnee, "for thus wouldst thou forget thy
compact."
"Oh, very well, leave _me_ out, then," said Horace. "Not that anything
could make me forget _you_!"
Fakrash swept his right hand round in a half circle. "It is
accomplished," he said. "All recollection of myself and yonder bottle is
now erased from the memories of every one but thyself."
"But how about my client?" said Horace. "I can't afford to lose _him_,
you know."
"He shall return unto thee," said the Jinnee, trembling with impatience.
"Now perform thy share."
Horace had triumphed. It had been a long and desperate duel with this
singular being, who was at once so crafty and so childlike, so credulous
and so suspicious, so benevolent and so malign. Again and again he had
despaired of victory, but he had won at last. In another minute or so
this formidable Jinnee would be safely bottled once more, and powerless
to intermeddle and plague him for the future.
And yet, in the very moment of triumph, quixotic as such scruples may
seem to some, Ventimore's conscience smote him. He could not help a
certain pity for the old creature, who was shaking there convulsively
prepared to re-enter his bottle-prison rather than incur a wholly
imaginary doom. Fakrash had aged visibly within the last hour; now he
looked even older than his three thousand and odd years. True, he had
led Horace a fearful life of late, but at first, at least, his
intentions had been good. His gratitude, if mistaken in its form, was
the sign of a generous disposition. Not every Jinnee, surely, would
have endeavoured to press untold millions and honours and dignities of
all kinds upon him, in return for a service which most mortals would
have considered amply repaid by a brace of birds and an invitation to an
evening party.
And how was Horace treating _him_? He was taking what, in his heart, he
felt to be a rather mean advantage of the Jinnee's ignorance of modern
life to cajole him into returning to his captivity. Why not suffer him
to live out the brief remainder of his years (for he could hardly last
more than another century or two at most) in freedom? Fakrash had learnt
his lesson: he was not likely to interfere again in human affairs; he
might find his way back to the Palace of the Mountain of the Clouds and
end his days there, in peaceful enjoyment of the society of such of the
Jinn as might still survive unbottled.
So, obeying--against his own interests--some kindlier impulse, Horace
made an effort to deter the Jinnee, who was already hovering in air
above the neck of the bottle in a swirl of revolving draperies, like
some blundering old bee vainly endeavouring to hit the opening into his
hive.
"Mr. Fakrash," he cried, "before you go any farther, listen to me.
There's no real necessity, after all, for you to go back to your bottle.
If you'll only wait a little----"
But the Jinnee, who had now swelled to gigantic proportions, and whose
form and features were only dimly recognisable through the wreaths of
black vapour in which he was involved, answered him from his pillar of
smoke in a terrible voice. "Wouldst thou still persuade me to linger?"
he cried. "Hold thy peace and be ready to fulfil thine undertaking."
"But, look here," persisted Horace. "I should feel such a brute if I
sealed you up without telling you----" The whirling and roaring column,
in shape like an inverted cone, was being fast sucked down into the
vessel, till only a semi-materialised but highly infuriated head was
left above the neck of the bottle.
"Must I tarry," it cried, "till the Lord Mayor arrive with his Memlooks,
and the hour of safety is expired? By my head, if thou delayest another
instant, I will put no more faith in thee! And I will come forth once
more, and afflict thee and thy friends--ay, and all the dwellers in this
accursed city--with the most painful and unheard-of calamities."
And, with these words, the head sank into the bottle with a loud clap
resembling thunder.
Horace hesitated no longer. The Jinnee himself had absolved him from all
further scruples; to imperil Sylvia and her parents--not to mention all
London--out of consideration for one obstinate and obnoxious old demon,
would clearly be carrying sentiment much too far.
Accordingly, he made a rush for the jar and slipped the metal cover over
the mouth of the neck, which was so hot that it blistered his fingers,
and, seizing the poker, he hammered down the secret catch until the lid
fitted as closely as Suleyman himself could have required.
Then he stuffed the bottle into a kit-bag, adding a few coals to give it
extra weight, and toiled off with it to the nearest steamboat pier,
where he spent his remaining pence in purchasing a ticket to the Temple.
* * * * *
Next day the following paragraph appeared in one of the evening papers,
which probably had more space than usual at its disposal:
"SINGULAR OCCURRENCE ON A PENNY
STEAMER
"A gentleman on board one of the Thames steamboats (so we are informed
by an eye-witness) met with a somewhat ludicrous mishap yesterday
evening. It appears that he had with him a small portmanteau, or large
hand-bag, which he was supporting on the rail of the stern bulwark. Just
as the vessel was opposite the Savoy Hotel he incautiously raised his
hand to the brim of his hat, thereby releasing hold of the bag, which
overbalanced itself and fell into the deepest part of the river, where
it instantly sank. The owner (whose carelessness occasioned considerable
amusement to passengers in his immediate vicinity) appeared no little
disconcerted by the oversight, and was not unnaturally reticent as to
the amount of his loss, though he was understood to state that the bag
contained nothing of any great value. However this may be, he has
probably learnt a lesson which will render him more careful in future."
THE EPILOGUE
On a certain evening in May Horace Ventimore dined in a private room at
the Savoy, as one of the guests of Mr. Samuel Wackerbath. In fact, he
might almost be said to be the guest of the evening, as the dinner was
given by way of celebrating the completion of the host's new country
house at Lipsfield, of which Horace was the architect, and also to
congratulate him on his approaching marriage (which was fixed to take
place early in the following month) with Miss Sylvia Futvoye.
"Quite a small and friendly party!" said Mr. Wackerbath, looking round
on his numerous sons and daughters, as he greeted Horace in the
reception-room. "Only ourselves, you see, Miss Futvoye, a young lady
with whom you are fairly well acquainted, and her people, and an old
schoolfellow of mine and his wife, who are not yet arrived. He's a man
of considerable eminence," he added, with a roll of reflected importance
in his voice; "quite worth your cultivating. Sir Lawrence Pountney, his
name is. I don't know if you remember him, but he discharged the onerous
duties of Lord Mayor of London the year before last, and acquitted
himself very creditably--in fact, he got a baronetcy for it."
As the year before last was the year in which Horace had paid his
involuntary visit to the Guildhall, he was able to reply with truth that
he _did_ remember Sir Lawrence.
He was not altogether comfortable when the ex-Lord-Mayor was announced,
for it would have been more than awkward if Sir Lawrence had chanced to
remember _him_. Fortunately, he gave no sign that he did so, though his
manner was graciousness itself. "Delighted, my dear Mr. Ventimore," he
said pressing Horace's hand almost as warmly as he had done that October
day of the dais, "most delighted to make your acquaintance! I am always
glad to meet a rising young man, and I hear that the house you have
designed for my old friend here is a perfect palace--a marvel, sir!"
"I knew he was my man," declared Mr. Wackerbath, as Horace modestly
disclaimed Sir Lawrence's compliment. "You remember, Pountney, my dear
fellow, that day when we were crossing Westminster Bridge together, and
I was telling you I thought of building? 'Go to one of the leading
men--an R.A. and all that sort of thing,' you said, 'then you'll be sure
of getting your money's worth.' But I said, 'No, I like to choose for
myself; to--ah--exercise my own judgment in these matters. And there's a
young fellow I have in my eye who'll beat 'em all, if he's given the
chance. I'm off to see him now.' And off I went to Great Cloister Street
(for he hadn't those palatial offices of his in Victoria Street at that
time) without losing another instant, and dropped in on him with my
little commission. Didn't I, Ventimore?"
"You did indeed," said Horace, wondering how far these reminiscences
would go.
"And," continued Mr. Wackerbath, patting Horace on the shoulder, "from
that day to this I've never had a moment's reason to regret it. We've
worked in perfect sympathy. His ideas coincided with mine. I think he
found that I met him, so to speak, on all fours."
Ventimore assented, though it struck him that a happier expression
might, and would, have been employed if his client had remembered one
particular interview in which he had not figured to advantage.
They went in to dinner, in a room sumptuously decorated with panels of
grey-green brocade and softly shaded lamps, and screens of gilded
leather; through the centre of the table rose a tall palm, its boughs
hung with small electric globes like magic fruits.
"This palm," said the Professor, who was in high good humour, "really
gives quite an Oriental look to the table. Personally, I think we might
reproduce the Arabian style of decoration and arrangement generally in
our homes with great advantage. I often wonder it never occurred to my
future son-in-law there to turn his talents in that direction and design
an Oriental interior for himself. Nothing more comfortable and
luxurious--for a bachelor's purposes."
"I'm sure," said his wife, "Horace managed to make himself quite
comfortable enough as it was. He has the most delightful rooms in
Vincent Square." Ventimore heard her remark to Sir Lawrence: "I shall
never forget the first time we dined there, just after my daughter and
he were engaged. I was quite astonished: everything was so
perfect--quite simple, you know, but _so_ ingeniously arranged, and his
landlady such an excellent cook, too! Still, of course, in many ways, it
will be nicer for him to have a home of his own."
"With such a beautiful and charming companion to share it with," said
Sir Lawrence, in his most florid manner, "the--ah--poorest home would
prove a Paradise indeed! And I suppose now, my dear young lady," he
added, raising his voice to address Sylvia, "you are busy making your
future abode as exquisite as taste and research can render it,
ransacking all the furniture shops in London for treasures, and going
about to auctions--or do you--ah--delegate that department to Mr.
Ventimore?"
"I do go about to old furniture shops, Sir Lawrence," she said, "but not
auctions. I'm afraid I should only get just the thing I didn't want if I
tried to bid.... And," she added, in a lower voice, turning to Horace,
"I don't believe _you_ would be a bit more successful, Horace!"
"What makes you say that, Sylvia?" he asked, with a start.
"Why, do you mean to say you've forgotten how you went to that auction
for papa, and came away without having managed to get a single thing?"
she said. "What a short memory you must have!"
There was only tender mockery in her eyes; absolutely no recollection of
the sinister purchase he had made at that sale, or how nearly it had
separated them for ever. So he hastened to admit that perhaps he had
_not_ been particularly successful at the auction in question.
Sir Lawrence next addressed him across the table. "I was just telling
Mrs. Futvoye," he said, "how much I regretted that I had not the
privilege of your acquaintance during my year of office. A Lord Mayor,
as you doubtless know, has exceptional facilities for exercising
hospitality, and it would have afforded me real pleasure if your first
visit to the Guildhall could have been paid under my--hm--ha--auspices."
"You are very kind," said Horace, very much on his guard; "I could not
wish to pay it under better."
"I flatter myself," said the ex-Lord Mayor, "that, while in office, I
did my humble best to maintain the traditions of the City, and I was
fortunate enough to have the honour of receiving more than the average
number of celebrities as guests. But I had one great disappointment, I
must tell you. It had always been a dream of mine that it might fall to
my lot to present some distinguished fellow-countryman with the freedom
of the City. By some curious chance, when the opportunity seemed about
to occur, the thing was put off and I missed it--missed it by the
nearest hair-breadth!"
"Ah, well, Sir Lawrence," said Ventimore, "one can't have _everything_!"
"For my part," put in Lady Pountney, who had only caught a word or two
of her husband's remarks, "what _I_ miss most is having the sentinels
present arms whenever I went out for a drive. They did it so nicely and
respectfully. I confess I enjoyed that. My husband never cared much for
it. Indeed, he wouldn't even use the State coach unless he was
absolutely obliged. He was as obstinate as a mule about it!"
"I see, Lady Pountney," the Professor put in, "that you share the common
prejudice against mules. It's quite a mistaken one. The mule has never
been properly appreciated in this country. He is really the gentlest and
most docile of creatures!"
"I can't say I like them myself," said Lady Pountney; "such a mongrel
sort of animal--neither one thing nor the other!"
"And they're hideous too, Anthony," added his wife. "And not at all
clever!"
"There you're mistaken, my dear," said the Professor; "they are capable
of almost human intelligence. I have had considerable personal
experience of what a mule can do," he informed Lady Pountney, who seemed
still incredulous. "More than most people indeed, and I can assure you,
my dear Lady Pountney, that they readily adapt themselves to almost any
environment, and will endure the greatest hardships without exhibiting
any signs of distress. I see by your expression, Ventimore, that you
don't agree with me, eh?"
Horace had to set his teeth hard for a moment, lest he should disgrace
himself by a peal of untimely mirth--but by a strong effort of will he
managed to command his muscles.
"Well, sir," he said, "I've only chanced to come into close contact with
one mule in my life, and, frankly, I've no desire to repeat the
experience."
"You happened to come upon an unfavourable specimen, that's all," said
the Professor. "There are exceptions to every rule."
"This animal," Horace said, "was certainly exceptional enough in every
way."
"Do tell us all about it," pleaded one of the Miss Wackerbaths, and all
the ladies joined in the entreaty until Horace found himself under the
necessity of improvising a story, which, it must be confessed, fell
exceedingly flat.
This final ordeal past, he grew silent and thoughtful, as he sat there
by Sylvia's side, looking out through the glazed gallery outside upon
the spring foliage along the Embankment, the opaline river, and the shot
towers and buildings on the opposite bank glowing warm brown against an
evening sky of silvery blue.
Not for the first time did it seem strange, incredible almost, to him
that all these people should be so utterly without any recollection of
events which surely might have been expected to leave some trace upon
the least retentive memory--and yet it only proved once more how
thoroughly and honourably the old Jinnee, now slumbering placidly in his
bottle deep down in unfathomable mud, opposite the very spot where they
were dining, had fulfilled his last undertaking.
Fakrash, the brass bottle, and all the fantastic and embarrassing
performances were indeed as totally forgotten as though they had never
been.
* * * * *
And it is but too probable that even this modest and veracious account
of them will prove to have been included in the general act of
oblivion--though the author will trust as long as possible that
Fakrash-el-Aamash may have neglected to provide for this particular
case, and that the history of the Brass Bottle may thus be permitted to
linger awhile in the memories of some at least of its readers.