NEW BURLESQUES
by
Bret Harte
CONTENTS
RUPERT THE RESEMBLER [After Rupert of Hentzau and Prisoner of Zenda]
THE STOLEN CIGAR CASE By A. CO--N D--LE
GOLLY AND THE CHRISTIAN, OR THE MINX AND THE MANXMAN By H-LL C--NE
THE ADVENTURES OF JOHN LONGBOWE, YEOMAN
BEING A MODERN-ANTIQUE REALISTIC ROMANCE
(COMPILED FROM SEVERAL EMINENT SOURCES)
DAN'L BOREM BY E. N---S W--T---T
STORIES THREE BY R-DY--D K-PL--G
"ZUT-SKI" THE PROBLEM OF A WICKED FEME SOLE BY M-R-E C-R-LLI
RUPERT THE RESEMBLER
By A--TH--Y H-PE
CHAPTER I
RUDOLPH OF TRULYRURALANIA
When I state that I was own brother to Lord Burleydon, had an income of
two thousand a year, could speak all the polite languages fluently, was
a powerful swordsman, a good shot, and could ride anything from an
elephant to a clotheshorse, I really think I have said enough to
satisfy any feminine novel-reader of Bayswater or South Kensington that
I was a hero. My brother's wife, however, did not seem to incline to
this belief.
"A more conceited, self-satisfied little cad I never met than you," she
said. "Why don't you try to do something instead of sneering at others
who do? You never take anything seriously--except yourself, which
isn't worth it. You are proud of your red hair and peaked nose just
because you fondly believe that you got them from the Prince of
Trulyruralania, and are willing to think evil of your ancestress to
satisfy your snobbish little soul. Let me tell you, sir, that there
was no more truth about that than there was in that silly talk of her
partiality for her husband's red-haired gamekeeper in Scotland. Ah!
that makes you start--don't it? But I have always observed that a mule
is apt to remember only the horse side of his ancestry!"
Whenever my pretty sister-in-law talks in this way I always try to
forget that she came of a family far inferior to our own, the
Razorbills. Indeed, her people--of the Nonconformist stock--really had
nothing but wealth and rectitude, and I think my brother Bob, in his
genuine love for her, was willing to overlook the latter for the sake
of the former.
My pretty sister-in-law's interest in my affairs always made me believe
that she secretly worshiped me--although it was a fact, as will be seen
in the progress of this story, that most women blushed on my addressing
them. I used to say it "was the reflection of my red hair on a
transparent complexion," which was rather neat--wasn't it? And subtle?
But then, I was always saying such subtle things.
"My dear Rose," I said, laying down my egg spoon (the egg spoon really
had nothing to do with this speech, but it imparted such a delightfully
realistic flavor to the scene), "I'm not to blame if I resemble the
S'helpburgs."
"It's your being so beastly proud of it that I object to!" she replied.
"And for Heaven's sake, try to BE something, and not merely resemble
things! The fact is you resemble too much--you're ALWAYS resembling.
You resemble a man of fashion, and you're not; a wit, and you're not; a
soldier, a sportsman, a hero--and you're none of 'em. Altogether,
you're not in the least convincing. Now, listen! There's a good
chance for you to go as our attache with Lord Mumblepeg, the new
Ambassador to Cochin China. In all the novels, you know, attaches are
always the confidants of Grand Duchesses, and know more state secrets
than their chiefs; in real life, I believe they are something like a
city clerk with a leaning to private theatricals. Say you'll go! Do!"
"I'll take a few months' holiday first," I replied, "and then," I added
in my gay, dashing way, "if the place is open--hang it if I don't go!"
"Good old bounder!" she said, "and don't think too much of that
precious Prince Rupert. He was a bad lot."
She blushed again at me--as her husband entered.
"Take Rose's advice, Rupert, my boy," he said, "and go!"
And that is how I came to go to Trulyruralania. For I secretly
resolved to take my holiday in traveling in that country and trying, as
dear Lady Burleydon put it, really to be somebody, instead of
resembling anybody in particular. A precious lot SHE knew about it!
CHAPTER II
IN WHICH MY HAIR CAUSES A LOT OF THINGS
You go to Trulyruralania from Charing Cross. In passing through Paris
we picked up Mlle. Beljambe, who was going to Kohlslau, the capital of
Trulyruralania, to marry the Grand Duke Michael, who, however, as I was
informed, was in love with the Princess Flirtia. She blushed on seeing
me--but, I was told afterwards, declined being introduced to me on any
account. However, I thought nothing of this, and went on to Bock, the
next station to Kohlslau. At the little inn in the forest I was
informed I was just in time to see the coronation of the new king the
next day. The landlady and her daughter were very communicative, and,
after the fashion of the simple, guileless stage peasant, instantly
informed me what everybody was doing, and at once explained the
situation. She told me that the Grand Duke Michael--or Black Michael
as he was called--himself aspired to the throne, as well as to the hand
of the Princess Flirtia, but was hated by the populace, who preferred
the young heir, Prince Rupert; because he had the hair and features of
the dynasty of the S'helpburgs, "which," she added, "are singularly
like your own."
"But is red hair so very peculiar here?" I asked.
"Among the Jews--yes, sire! I mean yes, SIR," she corrected herself.
"You seldom see a red-headed Jew."
"The Jews!" I repeated in astonishment.
"Of course you know the S'helpburgs are descended directly from
Solomon--and have indeed some of his matrimonial peculiarities," she
said, blushing.
I was amazed--but recalled myself. "But why do they call the Duke of
Kohlslau Black Michael?" I asked carelessly.
"Because he is nearly black, sir. You see, when the great Prince
Rupert went abroad in the old time he visited England, Scotland, and
Africa. They say he married an African lady there--and that the Duke
is really more in the direct line of succession than Prince Rupert."
But here the daughter showed me to my room. She blushed, of course,
and apologized for not bringing a candle, as she thought my hair was
sufficiently illuminating. "But," she added with another blush, "I do
SO like it."
I replied by giving her something of no value,--a Belgian nickel which
wouldn't pass in Bock, as I had found to my cost. But my hair had
evidently attracted attention from others, for on my return to the
guest-room a stranger approached me, and in the purest and most precise
German--the Court or 'Olland Hof speech--addressed me:
"Have you the red hair of the fair King or the hair of your father?"
Luckily I was able to reply with the same purity and precision: "I have
both the hair of the fair King and my own. But I have not the hair of
my father nor of Black Michael, nor of the innkeeper nor the
innkeeper's wife. The red HEIR of the fair King would be a son."
Possibly this delicate mot on the approaching marriage of the King was
lost in the translation, for the stranger strode abruptly away. I
learned, however, that the King was actually then in Bock, at the
castle a few miles distant, in the woods. I resolved to stroll thither.
It was a fine old mediaeval structure. But as the singular incidents I
am about to relate combine the romantic and adventurous atmosphere of
the middle ages with all the appliances of modern times, I may briefly
state that the castle was lit by electricity, bad fire-escapes on each
of the turrets, four lifts, and was fitted up by one of the best West
End establishments. The sanitary arrangements were excellent, and the
drainage of the most perfect order, as I had reason to know personally
later. I was so affected by the peaceful solitude that I lay down
under a tree and presently fell asleep. I was awakened by the sound of
voices, and, looking up, beheld two men bending over me. One was a
grizzled veteran, and the other a younger dandyfied man; both were
dressed in shooting suits.
"Never saw such a resemblance before in all my life," said the elder
man. "'Pon my soul! if the King hadn't got shaved yesterday because
the Princess Flirtia said his beard tickled her, I'd swear it was he!"
I could not help thinking how lucky it was--for this narrative--that
the King HAD shaved, otherwise my story would have degenerated into a
mere Comedy of Errors. Opening my eyes, I said boldly:
"Now that you are satisfied who I resemble, gentlemen, perhaps you will
tell me who you are?"
"Certainly," said the elder curtly. "I am Spitz--a simple colonel of
his Majesty's, yet, nevertheless, the one man who runs this whole
dynasty--and this young gentleman is Fritz, my lieutenant. And you
are--?"
"My name is Razorbill--brother to Lord Burleydon," I replied calmly.
"Good heavens! another of the lot!" he muttered. Then, correcting
himself, he said brusquely: "Any relation to that Englishwoman who was
so sweet on the old Rupert centuries ago?"
Here, again, I suppose my sister-in-law would have had me knock down
the foreign insulter of my English ancestress--but I colored to the
roots of my hair, and even farther--with pleasure at this proof of my
royal descent! And then a cheery voice was heard calling "Spitz!" and
"Fritz!" through the woods.
"The King!" said Spitz to Fritz quickly. "He must not see him."
"Too late," said Fritz, as a young man bounded lightly out of the
bushes.
I was thunderstruck! It was as if I had suddenly been confronted with
a mirror--and beheld myself! Of course he was not quite so
good-looking, or so tall, but he was still a colorable imitation! I was
delighted.
Nevertheless, for a moment he did not seem to reciprocate my feeling.
He stared at me, staggered back and passed his hand across his
forehead. "Can it be," he muttered thickly, "that I've got 'em agin?
Yet I only had--shingle glash!"
But Fritz quickly interposed.
"Your Majesty is all right--though," he added in a lower voice, "let
this be a warning to you for to-morrow! This gentleman is Mr.
Razorbill--you know the old story of the Razorbills?--Ha! ha!"
But the King did not laugh; he extended his hand and said gently, "You
are welcome--my cousin!" Indeed, my sister-in-law would have probably
said that--dissipated though he was--he was the only gentleman there.
"I have come to see the coronation, your Majesty," I said.
"And you shall," said the King heartily, "and shall go with us! The
show can't begin without us--eh, Spitz?" he added playfully, poking the
veteran in the ribs, "whatever Michael may do!"
Then he linked his arms in Spitz's and mine. "Let's go to the hut--and
have some supper and fizz," he said gayly.
We went to the hut. We had supper. We ate and drank heavily. We
danced madly around the table. Nevertheless I thought that Spitz and
Fritz were worried by the King's potations, and Spitz at last went so
far as to remind his Majesty that they were to start early in the
morning for Kohlslau. I noticed also that as the King drank his speech
grew thicker and Spitz and Fritz exchanged glances. At last Spitz said
with stern significance:
"Your Majesty has not forgotten the test invariably submitted to the
King at his coronation?"
"Shertenly not," replied the King, with his reckless laugh. "The King
mush be able to pronounsh--name of his country--intel-lillil-gibly:
mush shay (hic!): 'I'm King of--King of--Tootoo-tooral-looral-anyer.'"
He staggered, laughed, and fell under the table.
"He cannot say it!" gasped Fritz and Spitz in one voice. "He is lost!"
"Unless," said Fritz suddenly, pointing at me with a flash of
intelligence, "HE can personate him, and say it. Can you?" he turned
to me brusquely.
It was an awful moment. I had been drinking heavily too, but I
resolved to succeed. "I'm King of Trooly-rooly--" I murmured; but I
could not master it--I staggered and followed the King under the table.
"Is there no one here," roared Spitz, "who can shave thish dynasty, and
shay 'Tooral--'? No! ---- it! I mean 'Trularlooral--'" but he, too,
lurched hopelessly forward.
"No one can say 'Tooral-looral--'" muttered Fritz; and, grasping Spitz
in despair, they both rolled under the table.
How long we lay there, Heaven knows! I was awakened by Spitz playing
the garden hose on me. He was booted and spurred, with Fritz by his
side. The King was lying on a bench, saying feebly: "Blesh you, my
chillen."
"By politely acceding to Black Michael's request to 'try our
one-and-six sherry,' he has been brought to this condition," said Spitz
bitterly. "It's a trick to keep him from being crowned. In this
country if the King is crowned while drunk, the kingdom instantly
reverts to a villain--no matter who. But in this case the villain is
Black Michael. Ha! What say you, lad? Shall we frustrate the rascal,
by having YOU personate the King?"
I was--well!--intoxicated at the thought! But what would my
sister-in-law say? Would she--in her Nonconformist
conscience--consider it strictly honorable? But I swept all scruples
aside. A King was to be saved! "I will go," I said. "Let us on to
Kohlslau--riding like the wind!" We rode like the wind, furiously,
madly. Mounted on a wild, dashing bay--known familiarly as the "Bay of
Biscay" from its rough turbulence--I easily kept the lead. But our
horses began to fail. Suddenly Spitz halted, clapped his hand to his
head, and threw himself from his horse. "Fools!" he said, "we should
have taken the train! It will get there an hour before we will!" He
pointed to a wayside station where the 7.15 excursion train for
Kohlslau was waiting.
"But how dreadfully unmediaeval!--What will the public say?" I began.
"Bother the public!" he said gruffly. "Who's running this dynasty--you
or I? Come!" With the assistance of Fritz he tied up my face with a
handkerchief to simulate toothache, and then, with a shout of defiance,
we three rushed madly into a closely packed third-class carriage.
Never shall I forget the perils, the fatigue, the hopes and fears of
that mad journey. Panting, perspiring, packed together with cheap
trippers, but exalted with the one hope of saving the King, we at last
staggered out on the Kohlslau platform utterly exhausted. As we did so
we heard a distant roar from the city. Fritz turned an ashen gray,
Spitz a livid blue. "Are we too late?" he gasped, as we madly fought
our way into the street, where shouts of "The King! The King!" were
rending the air. "Can it be Black Michael?" But here the crowd
parted, and a procession, preceded by outriders, flashed into the
square. And there, seated in a carriage beside the most beautiful
red-haired girl I had ever seen, was the King,--the King whom we had
left two hours ago, dead drunk in the hut in the forest!
CHAPTERS III TO XXII (Inclusive)
IN WHICH THINGS GET MIXED
We reeled against each other aghast! Spitz recovered himself first.
"We must fly!" he said hoarsely. "If the King has discovered our
trick--we are lost!"
"But where shall we go?" I asked.
"Back to the hut."
We caught the next train to Bock. An hour later we stood panting
within the hut. Its walls and ceiling were splashed with sinister red
stains. "Blood!" I exclaimed joyfully. "At last we have a real
mediaeval adventure!"
"It's Burgundy, you fool," growled Spitz; "good Burgundy wasted!" At
this moment Fritz appeared dragging in the hut-keeper.
"Where is the King?" demanded Spitz fiercely of the trembling peasant.
"He was carried away an hour ago by Black Michael and taken to the
castle."
"And when did he LEAVE the castle?" roared Spitz.
"He never left the castle, sir, and, alas! I fear never will, alive!"
replied the man, shuddering.
We stared at each other! Spitz bit his grizzled mustache. "So," he
said bitterly, "Black Michael has simply anticipated us with the same
game! We have been tricked. I knew it could not be the King whom they
crowned! No!" he added quickly, "I see it all--it was Rupert of
Glasgow!"
"Who is Rupert of Glasgow?" I cried.
"Oh, I really can't go over all that family rot again," grunted Spitz.
"Tell him, Fritz."
Then, taking me aside, Fritz delicately informed me that Rupert of
Glasgow--a young Scotchman--claimed equally with myself descent from
the old Rupert, and that equally with myself he resembled the King.
That Michael had got possession of him on his arrival in the country,
kept him closely guarded in the castle, and had hid his resemblance in
a black wig and false mustache; that the young Scotchman, however,
seemed apparently devoted to Michael and his plots; and there was
undoubtedly some secret understanding between them. That it was
evidently Michael's trick to have the pretender crowned, and then, by
exposing the fraud and the condition of the real King, excite the
indignation of the duped people, and seat himself on the throne!
"But," I burst out, "shall this base-born pretender remain at Kohlslau
beside the beautiful Princess Flirtia? Let us to Kohlslau at once and
hurl him from the throne!"
"One pretender is as good as another," said Spitz dryly. "But leave
HIM to me. 'Tis the King we must protect and succor! As for that
Scotch springald, before midnight I shall have him kidnaped, brought
back to his master in a close carriage, and you--YOU shall take his
place at Kohlslau."
"I will," I said enthusiastically, drawing my sword; "but I have done
nothing yet. Please let me kill something!"
"Aye, lad!" said Spitz, with a grim smile at my enthusiasm. "There's a
sheep in your path. Go out and cleave it to the saddle. And bring the
saddle home!"
My sister-in-law might have thought me cruel--but I did it.
CHAP XXIII AND SOME OTHER CHAPS
I know not how it was compassed, but that night Rupert of Glasgow was
left bound and gagged against the door of the castle, and the
night-bell pulled. And that night I was seated on the throne of the
S'helpburgs. As I gazed at the Princess Flirtia, glowing in the
characteristic beauty of the S'helpburgs, and admired her striking
profile, I murmured softly and half audibly: "Her nose is as a tower
that looketh toward Damascus."
She looked puzzled, and knitted her pretty brows. "Is that poetry?"
she asked.
"No" I said promptly. "It's only part of a song of our great
Ancestor." As she blushed slightly, I playfully flung around her fair
neck the jeweled collar of the Order of the S'helpburgs--three golden
spheres pendant, quartered from the arms of Lombardy---with the ancient
Syric motto, El Ess Dee.
She toyed with it a moment, and then said softly: "You have changed,
Rupert. Do ye no ken hoo?"
I looked at her--as surprised at her dialect as at the imputation.
"You don't talk that way, as you did. And you don't say, 'It WILL be
twelve o'clock,' when you mean, 'It IS twelve o'clock,' nor 'I will be
going out,' when you mean 'I AM.' And you didn't say, 'Eh, sirs!' or
'Eh, mon,' to any of the Court--nor 'Hoot awa!' nor any of those
things. And," she added with a divine little pout, "you haven't told
me I was 'sonsie' or 'bonnie' once."
I could with difficulty restrain myself. Rage, indignation, and
jealousy filled my heart almost to bursting. I understood it all; that
rascally Scotchman had made the most of his time, and dared to get
ahead of me! I did not mind being taken for the King, but to be
confounded with this infernal descendant of a gamekeeper--was too much!
Yet with a superhuman effort I remained calm--and even smiled.
"You are not well?" said the Princess earnestly. "I thought you were
taking too much of the Strasbourg pie at supper! And you are not
going, surely--so soon?" she added, as I rose.
"I must go at once," I said. "I have forgotten some important business
at Bock."
"Not boar hunting again?" she said poutingly.
"No, I'm hunting a red dear," I said with that playful subtlety which
would make her take it as a personal compliment, though I was only
thinking of that impostor, and longing to get at him, as I bowed and
withdrew.
In another hour I was before Black Michael's castle at Bock. These are
lightning changes, I know--and the sovereignty of Trulyruralania WAS
somewhat itinerant--but when a kingdom and a beautiful Princess are at
stake, what are you to do? Fritz had begged me to take him along, but
I arranged that he should come later, and go up unostentatiously in the
lift. I was going by way of the moat. I was to succor the King, but I
fear my real object was to get at Rupert of Glasgow.
I had noticed the day before that a large outside drain pipe, decreed
by the Bock County Council, ran from the moat to the third floor of the
donjon keep. I surmised that the King was imprisoned on that floor.
Examining the pipe closely, I saw that it was really a pneumatic
dispatch tube, for secretly conveying letters and dispatches from the
castle through the moat beyond the castle walls. Its extraordinary
size, however, gave me the horrible conviction that it was to be used
to convey the dead body of the King to the moat. I grew cold with
horror--but I was determined.
I crept up the pipe. As I expected, it opened funnel-wise into a room
where the poor King was playing poker with Black Michael. It took me
but a moment to dash through the window into the room, push the King
aside, gag and bind Black Michael, and lower him by a stout rope into
the pipe he had destined for another. Having him in my power, I
lowered him until I heard his body splash in the water in the lower
part of the pipe. Then I proceeded to draw him up again, intending to
question him in regard to Rupert of Glasgow. But this was difficult, as
his saturated clothing made him fit the smooth pipe closely. At last I
had him partly up, when I was amazed at a rush of water from the pipe
which flooded the room. I dropped him and pulled him up again with the
same result. Then in a flash I saw it all. His body, acting like a
piston in the pipe, had converted it into a powerful pump. Mad with
joy, I rapidly lowered and pulled him up again and again, until the
castle was flooded--and the moat completely drained! I had created the
diversion I wished; the tenants of the castle were disorganized and
bewildered in trying to escape from the deluge, and the moat was
accessible to my friends. Placing the poor King on a table to be out
of the water, and tying up his head in my handkerchief to disguise him
from Michael's guards, I drew my sword and plunged downstairs with the
cataract in search of the miscreant Rupert. I reached the drawbridge,
when I heard the sounds of tumult and was twice fired at,--once, as I
have since learned, by my friends, under the impression that I was the
escaping Rupert of Glasgow, and once by Black Michael's myrmidons,
under the belief that I was the King. I was struck by the fact that
these resemblances were confusing and unfortunate! At this moment,
however, I caught sight of a kilted figure leaping from a lower window
into the moat. Some instinct impelled me to follow it. It rapidly
crossed the moat and plunged into the forest, with me in pursuit. I
gained upon it; suddenly it turned, and I found myself again confronted
with MYSELF--and apparently the King! But that very resemblance made
me recognize the Scotch pretender, Rupert of Glasgow. Yet he would
have been called a "braw laddie," and his handsome face showed a
laughing good humor, even while he opposed me, claymore in hand.
"Bide a wee, Maister Rupert Razorbill," he said lightly, lowering his
sword, "before we slit ane anither's weasands. I'm no claimin' any
descent frae kings, and I'm no acceptin' any auld wife's clavers
against my women forbears, as ye are! I'm just paid gude honest siller
by Black Michael for the using of ma face and figure--sic time as his
Majesty is tae worse frae trink! And I'm commeesioned frae Michael to
ask ye what price YE would take to join me in performing these
duties--turn and turn aboot. Eh, laddie--but he would pay ye mair than
that daft beggar, Spitz."
Rage and disgust overpowered me. "And THIS is my answer," I said,
rushing upon him.
I have said earlier in these pages that I was a "strong" swordsman. In
point of fact, I had carefully studied in the transpontine theatres
that form of melodramatic mediaeval sword-play known as "two up and two
down." To my disgust, however, this wretched Scotchman did not seem to
understand it, but in a twinkling sent my sword flying over my head.
Before I could recover it, he had mounted a horse ready saddled in the
wood, and, shouting to me that he would take my "compleements" to the
Princess, galloped away. Even then I would have pursued him afoot, but,
hearing shouts behind me, I turned as Spitz and Fritz rode up.
"Has the King escaped to Kohlslau?" asked Fritz, staring at me.
"No," I said, "but Rupert of Glasgow"--
"--Rupert of Glasgow," growled Spitz. "We've settled him! He's gagged
and bound and is now on his way to the frontier in a close carriage."
"Rupert--on his way to the frontier?" I gasped.
"Yes. Two of my men found him, disguised with a handkerchief over his
face, trying to escape from the castle. And while we were looking for
the King, whom we supposed was with you, they have sent the rascally
Scotchman home."
"Fool!" I gasped. "Rupert of Glasgow has just left me! YOU HAVE
DEPORTED YOUR OWN KING." And overcome by my superhuman exertions, I
sank unconscious to the ground.
When I came to, I found myself in a wagon lit, speeding beyond the
Trulyruralania frontier. On my berth was lying a missive with the seal
of the S'helpburgs. Tearing it open I recognized the handwriting of
the Princess Flirtia.
MY DEAR RUPERT,--Owing to the confusion that arises from there being so
many of you, I have concluded to accept the hand of the Duke Michael.
I may not become a Queen, but I shall bring rest to my country, and
Michael assures me in his playful manner that "three of a kind," "even
of the same color," do not always win at poker. It will tranquilize
you somewhat to know that the Lord Chancellor assures me that on
examining the records of the dynasty he finds that my ancestor Rupert
never left his kingdom during his entire reign, and that consequently
your ancestress has been grossly maligned. I am sending typewritten
copies of this to Rupert of Glasgow and the King. Farewell.
FLIRTIA.
Once a year, at Christmastide, I receive a simple foreign hamper via
Charing Cross, marked "Return empty." I take it in silence to my own
room, and there, opening it, I find--unseen by any other eyes but my
own--a modest pate de foie gras, of the kind I ate with the Princess
Flirtia. I take out the pate, replace the label, and have the hamper
reconveyed to Charing Cross.
THE STOLEN CIGAR CASE
By A. CO--N D--LE
I found Hemlock Jones in the old Brook Street lodgings, musing before
the fire. With the freedom of an old friend I at once threw myself in
my usual familiar attitude at his feet, and gently caressed his boot.
I was induced to do this for two reasons: one, that it enabled me to
get a good look at his bent, concentrated face, and the other, that it
seemed to indicate my reverence for his superhuman insight. So
absorbed was he even then, in tracking some mysterious clue, that he
did not seem to notice me. But therein I was wrong--as I always was in
my attempt to understand that powerful intellect.
"It is raining," he said, without lifting his head.
"You have been out, then?" I said quickly.
"No. But I see that your umbrella is wet, and that your overcoat has
drops of water on it."
I sat aghast at his penetration. After a pause he said carelessly, as
if dismissing the subject: "Besides, I hear the rain on the window.
Listen."
I listened. I could scarcely credit my ears, but there was the soft
pattering of drops on the panes. It was evident there was no deceiving
this man!
"Have you been busy lately?" I asked, changing the subject. "What new
problem--given up by Scotland Yard as inscrutable--has occupied that
gigantic intellect?"
He drew back his foot slightly, and seemed to hesitate ere he returned
it to its original position. Then he answered wearily: "Mere
trifles--nothing to speak of. The Prince Kupoli has been here to get
my advice regarding the disappearance of certain rubies from the
Kremlin; the Rajah of Pootibad, after vainly beheading his entire
bodyguard, has been obliged to seek my assistance to recover a jeweled
sword. The Grand Duchess of Pretzel-Brauntswig is desirous of
discovering where her husband was on the night of February 14; and last
night"--he lowered his voice slightly--"a lodger in this very house,
meeting me on the stairs, wanted to know why they didn't answer his
bell."
I could not help smiling--until I saw a frown gathering on his
inscrutable forehead.
"Pray remember," he said coldly, "that it was through such an
apparently trivial question that I found out Why Paul Ferroll Killed
His Wife, and What Happened to Jones!"
I became dumb at once. He paused for a moment, and then suddenly
changing back to his usual pitiless, analytical style, he said: "When I
say these are trifles, they are so in comparison to an affair that is
now before me. A crime has been committed,--and, singularly enough,
against myself. You start," he said. "You wonder who would have dared
to attempt it. So did I; nevertheless, it has been done. I have been
ROBBED!"
"YOU robbed! You, Hemlock Jones, the Terror of Peculators!" I gasped
in amazement, arising and gripping the table as I faced him.
"Yes! Listen. I would confess it to no other. But YOU who have
followed my career, who know my methods; you, for whom I have partly
lifted the veil that conceals my plans from ordinary humanity,--you,
who have for years rapturously accepted my confidences, passionately
admired my inductions and inferences, placed yourself at my beck and
call, become my slave, groveled at my feet, given up your practice
except those few unremunerative and rapidly decreasing patients to
whom, in moments of abstraction over MY problems, you have administered
strychnine for quinine and arsenic for Epsom salts; you, who have
sacrificed anything and everybody to me,--YOU I make my confidant!"
I arose and embraced him warmly, yet he was already so engrossed in
thought that at the same moment he mechanically placed his hand upon
his watch chain as if to consult the time. "Sit down," he said. "Have
a cigar?"
"I have given up cigar smoking," I said.
"Why?" he asked.
I hesitated, and perhaps colored. I had really given it up because,
with my diminished practice, it was too expensive. I could afford only
a pipe. "I prefer a pipe," I said laughingly. "But tell me of this
robbery. What have you lost?"
He arose, and planting himself before the fire with his hands under his
coattails, looked down upon me reflectively for a moment. "Do you
remember the cigar case presented to me by the Turkish Ambassador for
discovering the missing favorite of the Grand Vizier in the fifth
chorus girl at the Hilarity Theatre? It was that one. I mean the cigar
case. It was incrusted with diamonds."
"And the largest one had been supplanted by paste," I said.
"Ah," he said, with a reflective smile, "you know that?"
"You told me yourself. I remember considering it a proof of your
extraordinary perception. But, by Jove, you don't mean to say you have
lost it?"
He was silent for a moment. "No; it has been stolen, it is true, but I
shall still find it. And by myself alone! In your profession, my dear
fellow, when a member is seriously ill, he does not prescribe for
himself, but calls in a brother doctor. Therein we differ. I shall
take this matter in my own hands."
"And where could you find better?" I said enthusiastically. "I should
say the cigar case is as good as recovered already."
"I shall remind you of that again," he said lightly. "And now, to show
you my confidence in your judgment, in spite of my determination to
pursue this alone, I am willing to listen to any suggestions from you."
He drew a memorandum book from his pocket and, with a grave smile, took
up his pencil.
I could scarcely believe my senses. He, the great Hemlock Jones,
accepting suggestions from a humble individual like myself! I kissed
his hand reverently, and began in a joyous tone:
"First, I should advertise, offering a reward; I should give the same
intimation in hand-bills, distributed at the 'pubs' and the
pastry-cooks'. I should next visit the different pawnbrokers; I should
give notice at the police station. I should examine the servants. I
should thoroughly search the house and my own pockets. I speak
relatively," I added, with a laugh. "Of course I mean YOUR own."
He gravely made an entry of these details.
"Perhaps," I added, "you have already done this?"
"Perhaps," he returned enigmatically. "Now, my dear friend," he
continued, putting the note-book in his pocket and rising, "would you
excuse me for a few moments? Make yourself perfectly at home until I
return; there may be some things," he added with a sweep of his hand
toward his heterogeneously filled shelves, "that may interest you and
while away the time. There are pipes and tobacco in that corner."
Then nodding to me with the same inscrutable face he left the room. I
was too well accustomed to his methods to think much of his
unceremonious withdrawal, and made no doubt he was off to investigate
some clue which had suddenly occurred to his active intelligence.
Left to myself I cast a cursory glance over his shelves. There were a
number of small glass jars containing earthy substances, labeled
"Pavement and Road Sweepings," from the principal thoroughfares and
suburbs of London, with the sub-directions "for identifying
foot-tracks." There were several other jars, labeled "Fluff from
Omnibus and Road Car Seats," "Cocoanut Fibre and Rope Strands from
Mattings in Public Places," "Cigarette Stumps and Match Ends from Floor
of Palace Theatre, Row A, 1 to 50." Everywhere were evidences of this
wonderful man's system and perspicacity.
I was thus engaged when I heard the slight creaking of a door, and I
looked up as a stranger entered. He was a rough-looking man, with a
shabby overcoat and a still more disreputable muffler around his throat
and the lower part of his face. Considerably annoyed at his intrusion,
I turned upon him rather sharply, when, with a mumbled, growling
apology for mistaking the room, he shuffled out again and closed the
door. I followed him quickly to the landing and saw that he
disappeared down the stairs. With my mind full of the robbery, the
incident made a singular impression upon me. I knew my friend's habit
of hasty absences from his room in his moments of deep inspiration; it
was only too probable that, with his powerful intellect and magnificent
perceptive genius concentrated on one subject, he should be careless of
his own belongings, and no doubt even forget to take the ordinary
precaution of locking up his drawers. I tried one or two and found
that I was right, although for some reason I was unable to open one to
its fullest extent. The handles were sticky, as if some one had opened
them with dirty fingers. Knowing Hemlock's fastidious cleanliness, I
resolved to inform him of this circumstance, but I forgot it, alas!
until--but I am anticipating my story.
His absence was strangely prolonged. I at last seated myself by the
fire, and lulled by warmth and the patter of the rain on the window, I
fell asleep. I may have dreamt, for during my sleep I had a vague
semi-consciousness as of hands being softly pressed on my pockets--no
doubt induced by the story of the robbery. When I came fully to my
senses, I found Hemlock Jones sitting on the other side of the hearth,
his deeply concentrated gaze fixed on the fire.
"I found you so comfortably asleep that I could not bear to awaken
you," he said, with a smile.
I rubbed my eyes. "And what news?" I asked. "How have you succeeded?"
"Better than I expected," he said, "and I think," he added, tapping his
note-book, "I owe much to YOU."
Deeply gratified, I awaited more. But in vain. I ought to have
remembered that in his moods Hemlock Jones was reticence itself. I
told him simply of the strange intrusion, but he only laughed.
Later, when I arose to go, he looked at me playfully. "If you were a
married man," he said, "I would advise you not to go home until you had
brushed your sleeve. There are a few short brown sealskin hairs on the
inner side of your forearm, just where they would have adhered if your
arm had encircled a seal-skin coat with some pressure!"
"For once you are at fault," I said triumphantly; "the hair is my own,
as you will perceive; I have just had it cut at the hairdresser's, and
no doubt this arm projected beyond the apron."
He frowned slightly, yet, nevertheless, on my turning to go he embraced
me warmly--a rare exhibition in that man of ice. He even helped me on
with my overcoat and pulled out and smoothed down the flaps of my
pockets. He was particular, too, in fitting my arm in my overcoat
sleeve, shaking the sleeve down from the armhole to the cuff with his
deft fingers. "Come again soon!" he said, clapping me on the back.
"At any and all times," I said enthusiastically; "I only ask ten
minutes twice a day to eat a crust at my office, and four hours' sleep
at night, and the rest of my time is devoted to you always, as you
know."
"It is indeed," he said, with his impenetrable smile.
Nevertheless, I did not find him at home when I next called. One
afternoon, when nearing my own home, I met him in one of his favorite
disguises,--a long blue swallow-tailed coat, striped cotton trousers,
large turn-over collar, blacked face, and white hat, carrying a
tambourine. Of course to others the disguise was perfect, although it
was known to myself, and I passed him--according to an old
understanding between us--without the slightest recognition, trusting
to a later explanation. At another time, as I was making a
professional visit to the wife of a publican at the East End, I saw
him, in the disguise of a broken-down artisan, looking into the window
of an adjacent pawnshop. I was delighted to see that he was evidently
following my suggestions, and in my joy I ventured to tip him a wink;
it was abstractedly returned.
Two days later I received a note appointing a meeting at his lodgings
that night. That meeting, alas! was the one memorable occurrence of my
life, and the last meeting I ever had with Hemlock Jones! I will try
to set it down calmly, though my pulses still throb with the
recollection of it.
I found him standing before the fire, with that look upon his face
which I had seen only once or twice in our acquaintance--a look which I
may call an absolute concatenation of inductive and deductive
ratiocination--from which all that was human, tender, or sympathetic
was absolutely discharged. He was simply an icy algebraic symbol!
Indeed, his whole being was concentrated to that extent that his
clothes fitted loosely, and his head was absolutely so much reduced in
size by his mental compression that his hat tipped back from his
forehead and literally hung on his massive ears.
After I had entered he locked the doors, fastened the windows, and even
placed a chair before the chimney. As I watched these significant
precautions with absorbing interest, he suddenly drew a revolver and,
presenting it to my temple, said in low, icy tones:
"Hand over that cigar case!"
Even in my bewilderment my reply was truthful, spontaneous, and
involuntary. "I haven't got it," I said.
He smiled bitterly, and threw down his revolver. "I expected that
reply! Then let me now confront you with something more awful, more
deadly, more relentless and convincing than that mere lethal
weapon,--the damning inductive and deductive proofs of your guilt!" He
drew from his pocket a roll of paper and a note-book.
"But surely," I gasped, "you are joking! You could not for a moment
believe"--
"Silence! Sit down!" I obeyed.
"You have condemned yourself," he went on pitilessly. "Condemned
yourself on my processes,--processes familiar to you, applauded by you,
accepted by you for years! We will go back to the time when you first
saw the cigar case. Your expressions," he said in cold, deliberate
tones, consulting his paper, "were, 'How beautiful! I wish it were
mine.' This was your first step in crime--and my first indication.
From 'I WISH it were mine' to 'I WILL have it mine,' and the mere
detail, 'HOW CAN I make it mine?' the advance was obvious. Silence!
But as in my methods it was necessary that there should be an
overwhelming inducement to the crime, that unholy admiration of yours
for the mere trinket itself was not enough. You are a smoker of
cigars."
"But," I burst out passionately, "I told you I had given up smoking
cigars."
"Fool!" he said coldly, "that is the SECOND time you have committed
yourself. Of course you told me! What more natural than for you to
blazon forth that prepared and unsolicited statement to PREVENT
accusation. Yet, as I said before, even that wretched attempt to cover
up your tracks was not enough. I still had to find that overwhelming,
impelling motive necessary to affect a man like you. That motive I
found in the strongest of all impulses--Love, I suppose you would call
it," he added bitterly, "that night you called! You had brought the
most conclusive proofs of it on your sleeve."
"But--" I almost screamed.
"Silence!" he thundered. "I know what you would say. You would say
that even if you had embraced some Young Person in a sealskin coat,
what had that to do with the robbery? Let me tell you, then, that that
sealskin coat represented the quality and character of your fatal
entanglement! You bartered your honor for it--that stolen cigar case
was the purchaser of the sealskin coat!
"Silence! Having thoroughly established your motive, I now proceed to
the commission of the crime itself. Ordinary people would have begun
with that--with an attempt to discover the whereabouts of the missing
object. These are not MY methods."
So overpowering was his penetration that, although I knew myself
innocent, I licked my lips with avidity to hear the further details of
this lucid exposition of my crime.
"You committed that theft the night I showed you the cigar case, and
after I had carelessly thrown it in that drawer. You were sitting in
that chair, and I had arisen to take something from that shelf. In
that instant you secured your booty without rising. Silence! Do you
remember when I helped you on with your overcoat the other night? I
was particular about fitting your arm in. While doing so I measured
your arm with a spring tape measure, from the shoulder to the cuff. A
later visit to your tailor confirmed that measurement. It proved to be
THE EXACT DISTANCE BETWEEN YOUR CHAIR AND THAT DRAWER!"
I sat stunned.
"The rest are mere corroborative details! You were again tampering
with the drawer when I discovered you doing so! Do not start! The
stranger that blundered into the room with a muffler on--was myself!
More, I had placed a little soap on the drawer handles when I purposely
left you alone. The soap was on your hand when I shook it at parting.
I softly felt your pockets, when you were asleep, for further
developments. I embraced you when you left--that I might feel if you
had the cigar case or any other articles hidden on your body. This
confirmed me in the belief that you had already disposed of it in the
manner and for the purpose I have shown you. As I still believed you
capable of remorse and confession, I twice allowed you to see I was on
your track: once in the garb of an itinerant negro minstrel, and the
second time as a workman looking in the window of the pawnshop where
you pledged your booty."
"But," I burst out, "if you had asked the pawnbroker, you would have
seen how unjust"--
"Fool!" he hissed, "that was one of YOUR suggestions--to search the
pawnshops! Do you suppose I followed any of your suggestions, the
suggestions of the thief? On the contrary, they told me what to avoid."
"And I suppose," I said bitterly, "you have not even searched your
drawer?"
"No," he said calmly.
I was for the first time really vexed. I went to the nearest drawer
and pulled it out sharply. It stuck as it had before, leaving a part
of the drawer unopened. By working it, however, I discovered that it
was impeded by some obstacle that had slipped to the upper part of the
drawer, and held it firmly fast. Inserting my hand, I pulled out the
impeding object. It was the missing cigar case! I turned to him with
a cry of joy.
But I was appalled at his expression. A look of contempt was now added
to his acute, penetrating gaze. "I have been mistaken," he said
slowly; "I had not allowed for your weakness and cowardice! I thought
too highly of you even in your guilt! But I see now why you tampered
with that drawer the other night. By some inexplicable means--possibly
another theft--you took the cigar case out of pawn and, like a whipped
hound, restored it to me in this feeble, clumsy fashion. You thought
to deceive me, Hemlock Jones! More, you thought to destroy my
infallibility. Go! I give you your liberty. I shall not summon the
three policemen who wait in the adjoining room--but out of my sight
forever!"
As I stood once more dazed and petrified, he took me firmly by the ear
and led me into the hall, closing the door behind him. This reopened
presently, wide enough to permit him to thrust out my hat, overcoat,
umbrella, and overshoes, and then closed against me forever!
I never saw him again. I am bound to say, however, that thereafter my
business increased, I recovered much of my old practice, and a few of
my patients recovered also. I became rich. I had a brougham and a
house in the West End. But I often wondered, pondering on that
wonderful man's penetration and insight, if, in some lapse of
consciousness, I had not really stolen his cigar case!
GOLLY AND THE CHRISTIAN,
OR
THE MINX AND THE MANXMAN
By H-LL C--NE
BOOK I
Golly Coyle was the only granddaughter of a vague and somewhat simple
clergyman who existed, with an aunt, solely for Golly's epistolary
purposes. There was, of course, intermediate ancestry,--notably a dead
mother who was French, and therefore responsible for any later
naughtiness in Golly,--but they have no purpose here. They lived in the
Isle of Man. Golly knew a good deal of Man, for even at the age of
twelve she was in love with John Gale--only son of Lord Gale, who was
connected with the Tempests. Gales, however, were frequent and
remarkable along the coast, so that it was not singular that one day
she found John "coming on" on a headland where she was sitting. His
dog had "pointed" her. "It's exceedingly impolite to point to anything
you want," said Golly. Touched by this, and overcome by a strange
emotion, John Gale turned away and went to Canada. Slight as the
incident was, it showed that inborn chivalry to women, that desire for
the Perfect Life, that intense eagerness to incarnate Christianity in
modern society, which afterward distinguished him. Golly loved him!
For all that, she still remained a "tomboy" as she was,--robbing
orchards, mimicking tramps and policemen, buttering the stairs and the
steps of houses, tying kettles to dogs' tails, and marching in a white
jersey, with the curate's hat on, through the streets of the village.
"Gol dern my skin!" said the dear old clergyman, as he tried to emerge
from a surplice which Golly had stitched together; "what spirits the
child DO have!" Yet everybody loved her! And when John Gale returned
from Canada, and looked into her big blue eyes one day at church, small
wonder that he immediately went off again to Paris, and an extended
Continental sojourn, with a serious leaning to theology! Golly bore
his absence meekly but characteristically; got a boat, disported like a
duck in the water, attempted to elope with a boy appropriately named
Drake, but encountered a half gale at sea and a whole Gale in John on a
yacht, who rescued them both. Convinced now that there was but one way
to escape from his Fate--Golly!--John Gale took holy orders and at once
started for London. As he stood on the deck of the steamer he heard an
imbecile chuckle in his ear. It was the simple old clergyman: "You are
going to London to join the Church, John; Golly is going there, too, as
hospital nurse. There's a pair of you! He! he! Look after her, John,
and protect her Manx simplicity." Before John could recover himself,
Golly was at his side executing the final steps of a "cellar-door flap
jig" to the light-hearted refrain:--
"We are a simple family--we are--we are--we are!"
And even as her pure young voice arose above the screams of the
departure whistle, she threw a double back-somersault on the
quarterdeck, cleverly alighting on the spikes of the wheel before the
delighted captain.
"Jingle my electric bells," he said, looking at the bright young thing,
"but you're a regular minx--"
"I beg your pardon," interrupted John Gale, with a quick flush.
"I mean a regular MANX," said the captain hurriedly.
A singular paleness crossed the deeply religious face of John. As the
vessel rose on the waves, he passed his hand hurriedly first across his
brows and then over his high-buttoned clerical waistcoat, that visible
sign of a devoted ascetic life! Then murmuring in his low, deep voice,
"Brandy, steward," he disappeared below.