before our eyes. Then, just as suddenly as it began, the shuddering
ceased. There was another instant of quiescence. Then the creature
began to crawl along the stem of the pipe! It moved with marvelous
caution, the merest fraction of an inch at a time. But still it moved!
Our eyes were riveted on it with a fascination which was absolutely
nauseous. I am unpleasantly affected even as I think of it now. My
dreams of the night before had been nothing to this.
Slowly, slowly, it went, nearer and nearer to the smoker’s nose. Its
mode of progression was in the highest degree unsightly. It glided,
never, so far as I could see, removing its tentacles from the stem of
the pipe. It slipped its hind-most feelers onward until they came up
to those which were in advance. Then, in their turn, it advanced those
which were in front. It seemed, too, to move with the utmost labor,
shuddering as though it were in pain.
We were all, for our parts, speechless. I was momentarily hoping that
the drug would take effect on Bob. Either his constitution enabled him
to offer a strong resistance to narcotics, or else the large quantity
of neat spirit which he had drunk acted--as Tress had malevolently
intended that it should--as an antidote. It seemed to me that he would
_never_ succumb. On went the creature--on, and on, in its infinitesimal
progression. I was spellbound. I would have given the world to scream,
to have been able to utter a sound. I could do nothing else but watch.
The creature had reached the end of the stem. It had gained the amber
mouthpiece. It was within an inch of the smoker’s nose. Still on it
went. It seemed to move with greater freedom on the amber. It increased
its rate of progress. It was actually touching the foremost feature
on the smoker’s countenance. I expected to see it grip the wretched
Bob, when it began to oscillate from side to side. Its oscillations
increased in violence. It fell to the floor. That same instant the
narcotic prevailed. Bob slipped sideways from the chair, the pipe still
held tightly between his rigid jaws.
We were silent. There lay Bob. Close beside him lay the creature. A few
more inches to the left, and he would have fallen on and squashed it
flat. It had fallen on its back. Its feelers were extended upward. They
were writhing and twisting and turning in the air.
Tress was the first to speak.
“I think a little brandy won’t be amiss.” Emptying the remainder of the
brandy into the glass, he swallowed it at a draught. “Now for a closer
examination of our friend.” Taking a pair of tongs from the grate he
nipped the creature between them. He deposited it upon the table. “I
rather fancy that this is a case for dissection.”
He took a penknife from his waistcoat pocket. Opening the large
blade, he thrust its point into the object on the table. Little or no
resistance seemed to be offered to the passage of the blade, but as it
was inserted the tentacula simultaneously began to writhe and twist.
Tress withdrew the knife.
“I thought so!” He held the blade out for our inspection. The point was
covered with some viscid-looking matter. “That’s blood! The thing’s
alive!”
“Alive!”
“Alive! That’s the secret of the whole performance!”
“But----”
“But me no buts, my Pugh! The mystery’s exploded! One more ghost is
lost to the world! The person from whom I _obtained_ that pipe was an
Indian juggler--up to many tricks of the trade. He, or some one for
him, got hold of this sweet thing in reptiles--and a sweeter thing
would, I imagine, be hard to find--and covered it with some preparation
of, possible, gum arabic. He allowed this to harden. Then he stuck
the thing--still living, for that sort of gentry are hard to kill--to
the pipe. The consequence was that when anyone lit up, the warmth was
communicated to the adhesive agent--again some preparation of gum, no
doubt--it moistened it, and the creature, with infinite difficulty, was
able to move. But I am open to lay odds with any gentleman of sporting
taste that _this_ time the creature’s traveling days _are_ done. It
has given me rather a larger taste of the horrors than is good for my
digestion.”
With the aid of the tongs he removed the creature from the table. He
placed it on the hearth. Before Brasher or I had a notion of what it
was he intended to do, he covered it with a heavy marble paper weight.
Then he stood upon the weight, and between the marble and heart he
ground the creature flat.
While the execution was still proceeding, Bob sat up upon the floor.
“Hollo!” he asked, “what’s happened?”
“We’ve emptied the bottle, Bob,” said Tress. “But there’s another where
that came from. Perhaps you could drink another tumblerful, my boy?”
Bob drank it!
FOOTNOTE
“Those gentry are hard to kill.” Here is fact, not fantasy. Lizard
yarns no less sensational than this Mystery Story can be found between
the covers of solemn, zoölogical textbooks.
Reptiles, indeed, are far from finicky in the matters of air, space,
and especially warmth. Frogs and other such sluggish-blooded creatures
have lived after being frozen fast in ice. Their blood is little warmer
than air or water, enjoying no extra casing of fur or feathers.
Air and food seem held in light esteem by lizards. Their blood need
not be highly oxygenated; it nourishes just as well when impure. In
temperate climes lizards lie torpid and buried all winter; some species
of the tropic deserts sleep peacefully all summer. Their anatomy
includes no means for the continuous introduction and expulsion of
air; reptilian lungs are little more than closed sacs, without cell
structure.
If any further zoölogical fact were needed to verify the dénouement of
“The Pipe,” it might be the general statement that lizards are abnormal
brutes anyhow. Consider the chameleons of unsettled hue. And what is
one to think of an animal which, when captured by the tail, is able to
make its escape by willfully shuffling off that appendage?--EDITOR.
THE UPPER BERTH
By F. MARION CRAWFORD
[Attribution: Reprinted by permission of the publishers (in England,
T. Fisher Unwin, and in America, The Macmillan Company) from F. Marion
Crawford’s “Wandering Ghosts,” copyright, 1911.]
I
Somebody asked for the cigars. We had talked so long, and the
conversation was beginning to languish, the tobacco smoke had got into
the heavy curtains, the wine had got into those brains which were
liable to become heavy, and it was already perfectly evident, unless
somebody did something to rouse our oppressed spirits, the meeting
would soon come to its natural conclusion, and we, the guests, would
speedily go home to bed, and most certainly to sleep. No one had
said anything very remarkable, it may be no one had anything to say.
Jones had given us every particular of his last hunting adventure in
Yorkshire. Mr. Tompkins, of Boston, had explained at elaborate length
those working principles by the due and careful maintenance of which
the Atchison, Topeka, and Sante Fe Railroad not only extended its
territory, increased its departmental influence, and transported live
stock without starving them to death before the day of actual delivery,
but also, had for years succeeded in deceiving those passengers who
bought its tickets into the fallacious belief that the corporation
aforesaid was really able to transport human life without destroying
it. Signor Tombola had endeavored to persuade us, by arguments which
we took no trouble to oppose, that the unity of his country in no way
resembled the average modern torpedo, carefully planned, constructed
with all the skill of the greatest European arsenals, but, when
constructed, destined to be directed by feeble hands into a region
where it must undoubtedly explode, unseen, unfeared, and unheard, into
the illimitable wastes of political chaos.
It is unnecessary to go into further details. The conversation had
assumed proportions which would have bored Prometheus on his rock,
which would have driven Tantalus to distraction, and which would
have impelled Ixion to seek relaxation in the simple but instructive
dialogues of Herr Ollendorf, rather than submit to the greater evil of
listening to our talk. We had sat at a table for hours; we were bored,
we were tired, and nobody showed signs of moving.
Somebody called for cigars. We all instinctively looked toward the
speaker. Brisbane was a man of five-and-thirty-years of age, and
remarkable for those gifts which chiefly attract the attention of men.
He was a strong man. The external proportions of his figure presented
nothing extraordinary to the common eye, though his size was above the
average. He was a little over six feet in height, and moderately broad
in the shoulder; he did not appear to be stout, but, on the other hand
he was certainly not thin; his small head was supported by a strong and
sinewy neck; his broad, muscular hands seemed to possess a peculiar
skill in breaking walnuts without the assistance of the ordinary
cracker, and, seeing him in profile, one could not help remarking the
extraordinary breadth of his sleeves and the unusual thickness of his
chest. He was one of those men who are commonly spoken of among men as
deceptive; that is to say, that though he looked exceedingly strong,
he was in reality very much stronger than he looked. Of his features
I need say little. His head is small, his hair is thin, his eyes are
blue, his nose is large, he has a small mustache and a square jaw.
Everybody knows Brisbane, and when he asked for a cigar everybody
looked at him.
“It is a very singular thing,” said Brisbane.
Everybody stopped talking. Brisbane’s voice was not loud, but possessed
a peculiar quality of penetrating general conversation and cutting
it like a knife. Everybody listened. Brisbane perceiving that he
had attracted their general attention, lighted his cigar with equal
equanimity.
“It is very singular,” he continued, “that thing about ghosts. People
are always asking whether anybody has seen a ghost. I have.”
“Bosh! What, you? You don’t mean to say so, Brisbane? Well, for a man
of his intelligence!”
A chorus of exclamations greeted Brisbane’s remarkable statement.
Everybody called for cigars, and Stubbs, the butler, suddenly appeared
from the depths of nowhere with a fresh bottle of dry champagne. The
situation was saved; Brisbane was going to tell a story.
“I am an old sailor,” said Brisbane, “and as I have to cross the
Atlantic pretty often, I have my favorites. Most men have their
favorites. I have seen a man wait in a Broadway bar for three-quarters
of an hour for a particular car which he liked. I believe the barkeeper
made at least one-third of his living by that man’s preference. I have
a habit of waiting for certain ships when I am obliged to cross that
duckpond. It may be a prejudice, but I was never cheated out of a good
passage but once in my life. I remember it very well; it was a warm
morning in June, and the custom house officials, who were hanging about
waiting for a steamer already on her way up from quarantine, presented
a peculiarly hazy and thoughtful appearance. I had not much luggage--I
never have. I mingled with the crowd of passengers, porters, and
officious individuals in blue coats and brass buttons, who seemed to
spring up like mushrooms from the deck of a moored steamer to obtrude
their unnecessary services upon the independent passengers. I have
often noticed with a certain interest the spontaneous evolution of
these fellows. They are not there when you arrive; five minutes after
the pilot has called ‘Go ahead!’ they, or at least their blue coats and
brass buttons, have disappeared from deck and gangway as completely
as though they had been consigned to that locker which tradition
unanimously ascribes to Davy Jones. But, at the moment of starting,
they are there, clean-shaved, blue-coated, and ravenous for fees. I
hastened on board. The ‘Kamtschatka’ was one of my favorite ships. I
say was, because she emphatically no longer is. I cannot conceive of
any inducement which could entice me to make another voyage in her.
Yes, I know what you are going to say. She is uncommonly clean in the
run aft, she has enough bluffing off in the bows to keep her dry,
and the lower berths are the most of them double. She has a lot of
advantages, but I won’t cross in her again. Excuse the digression. I
got on board. I hailed the steward, whose red nose and redder whiskers
are equally familiar to me.
“‘One hundred and five, lower berth,’ said I, in the business-like tone
peculiar to men who think no more of crossing the Atlantic than taking
a whiskey cocktail at downtown Delmonico’s.
“The steward took my portmanteau, great coat, and rug. I shall never
forget the expression on his face. Not that he turned pale. It is
maintained by the most eminent divines that even miracles cannot change
the course of nature. I have no hesitation in saying that he did not
turn pale; but, from his expression, I judged that he was either about
to shed tears, to sneeze, or to drop my portmanteau. As the latter
contained two bottles of particularly fine old sherry, presented to
me for my voyage by my old friend Snigginson van Pickyns, I felt
extremely nervous. But the steward did none of these things.
“‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ said he in a low voice, and led the way.
“I supposed my Hermes, as he led me to the lower regions, had had a
little grog, but I said nothing, and followed him. One hundred and five
was on the port side, well aft. There was nothing remarkable about the
stateroom. The lower berth, like most of those upon the ‘Kamtschatka,’
was double. There was plenty of room; there was the usual washing
apparatus, calculated to convey an idea of luxury to the mind of a
North American Indian; there were the usual inefficient racks of brown
wood, in which it is more easy to hang a large-sized umbrella than the
common toothbrush of commerce. Upon the uninviting mattresses were
carefully folded together those blankets which a great modern humorist
has aptly compared to cold buckwheat cakes. The question of towels
was left entirely to the imagination. The glass decanters were filled
with a transparent liquid faintly tinged with brown, but from which
an odor less faint, but not more pleasing, ascended to the nostrils,
like a far-off seasick reminiscence of oily machinery. Sad-colored
curtains half closed the upper berth. The hazy June daylight shed a
faint illumination upon the desolate little scene. Ugh! How I hate that
stateroom!
“The steward deposited my traps and looked at me as though he wanted to
get away--probably in search of more passengers and more fees. It is
always a good plan to start in favor with those functionaries, and I
accordingly gave him certain coins there and then.
“‘I’ll try and make yer comfortable all I can,’ he remarked, as he put
the coins in his pocket. Nevertheless, there was a doubtful intonation
in his voice which surprised me. Possibly his scale of fees had gone
up, and he was not satisfied; but on the whole I was inclined to think
that, as he himself would have expressed it, he was ‘the better for a
glass.’ I was wrong, however, and did the man injustice.
II
“Nothing especially noteworthy of mention occurred during the day. We
left the pier punctually, and it was very pleasant to be fairly under
way, for the weather was warm and sultry, and the motion of the steamer
produced a refreshing breeze.
“Everybody knows what the first day at sea is like. People pace the
decks and stare at each other, and occasionally meet acquaintances
whom they did not know to be on board. There is the usual uncertainty
as to whether the food will be good, bad, or indifferent, until the
first two meals have put the matter beyond a doubt, there is the usual
uncertainty about the weather, until the ship is fairly off Fire
Island. The tables are crowded at first, and then suddenly thinned.
Pale-faced people spring from their seats and precipitate themselves
toward the door, and each old sailor breathes more freely as his
seasick neighbor rushes from his side, leaving him plenty of elbow room
and an unlimited command over the mustard.
“One passage across the Atlantic is very much like another, and we who
cross very often do not make the voyage for the sake of novelty. Whales
and icebergs are indeed always objects of interest, but, after all, one
whale is very much like another whale, and one rarely sees an iceberg
at close quarters. To the majority of us, the most delightful moment of
the day on board an ocean steamer is when we have taken our last turn
on deck, have smoked our last cigar, and having succeeded in tiring
ourselves, feel at liberty to turn in with a clear conscience. On that
first night of the voyage I felt particularly lazy, and went to bed
in one hundred and five rather earlier than I usually do. As I turned
in, I was amazed to see that I was to have a companion. A portmanteau,
very like my own, lay in the opposite corner, and in the upper berth
had been deposited a neatly folded rug with a stick and umbrella. I
had hoped to be alone, and I was disappointed; but I wondered who my
roommate was to be, and I determined to have a look at him.
“Before I had been long in bed he entered. He was, as far as I
could see, a very tall man, very thin, very pale, with sandy hair
and whiskers, and colorless gray eyes. He had about him, I thought,
an air of rather dubious fashion; the sort of man you might see in
Wall Street, without being able precisely to say what he was doing
there--the sort of man who frequents the Café Anglais, who always
seems to be alone, and who drinks champagne; you might meet him on
a race-course, but he would never appear to be doing anything there
either. A little overdressed--a little odd. There are three or four of
his kind on every ocean steamer. I made up my mind that I did not care
to make his acquaintance, and I went to sleep saying to myself that I
would study his habits in order to avoid him. If he rose early, I would
rise late; if he went to bed late, I would go to bed early. I did not
care to know him. If you once know people of that kind they are always
turning up. Poor fellow! I need not have taken the trouble to come to
so many decisions about him, for I never saw him again after that first
night in one hundred and five.
“I was sleeping soundly when I was suddenly waked by a loud noise. To
judge from the sound, my roommate must have sprung with a single leap
from the upper berth to the floor. I heard him fumbling with the latch
and bolt of the door, which opened almost immediately, and then I heard
his footsteps as he ran at full speed down the passage, leaving the
door open behind him. The ship was rolling a little, and I expected to
hear him stumble or fall, but he ran as though he were running for his
life. The door swung on its hinges with the motion of the vessel, and
the sound annoyed me. I got up and shut it, and groped my way back to
my berth in the darkness. I went to sleep again; but I have no idea
how long I slept.
“When I awoke it was still quite dark, but I felt a disagreeable
sensation of cold, and it seemed to me that the air was damp. You
know the peculiar smell of a cabin which has been wet with sea water.
I covered myself up as well as I could and dozed off again, framing
compliments to be made the next day, and selecting the most powerful
epithets in language. I could hear my roommate turn over in the upper
berth. He had probably returned while I was asleep. Once I thought I
heard him groan, and I argued that he was seasick. That is particularly
unpleasant when one is below. Nevertheless I dozed off and slept till
early daylight.
“The ship was rolling heavily, much more than on the previous evening,
and the gray light which came in through the porthole changed in tint
with every movement according as the angle of the vessel’s side turned
the glasses seaward or skyward. It was very cold--unaccountably so for
the month of June. I turned my head and looked at the porthole, and
saw to my surprise that it was wide open and hooked back. I believe I
swore audibly. Then I got up and shut it. As I turned back I glanced at
the upper berth. The curtains were drawn close together; my companion
had probably felt as cold as I. It struck me that I had slept enough.
The stateroom was uncomfortable, though, strange to say, I could not
smell the dampness which had annoyed me in the night. My roommate was
still asleep--excellent opportunity for avoiding him, so I dressed at
once and went on deck. The day was warm and cloudy, with an oily smell
on the water. It was seven o’clock as I came out--much later than I
had imagined. I came across the doctor, who was taking his first sniff
of the morning air. He was a young man from the West of Ireland--a
tremendous fellow, with black hair and blue eyes, already inclined to
be stout; he had a happy-go-lucky, healthy look about him which was
rather attractive.
“‘Fine mornin’,’ I remarked by way of introduction.
“‘Well,’ said he, eyeing me with an air of ready interest, ‘it’s a
fine morning and it’s not a fine morning. I don’t think it’s much of a
morning.’
“‘Well, no--it is not so very fine,’ said I.
“‘It’s just what I call fuggly weather,’ replied the doctor.
“‘It was very cold last night, I thought,’ I remarked. ‘However, when
I looked about, I found that the porthole was wide open. I had not
noticed it when I went to bed. And the stateroom was damp, too.’
“‘Damp!’ said he. ‘Whereabouts are you?’
“‘One hundred and five--’
“To my surprise the doctor started visibly, and stared at me.
“‘What is the matter?’ I asked.
“‘Oh--nothing,’ he answered; ‘only everybody has complained of that
stateroom for the last three trips.’
“‘I shall complain, too,’ I said. ‘It has certainly not been properly
aired. It is a shame!’
“‘I don’t believe it can be helped,’ answered the doctor. ‘I believe
there is something--well, it is not my business to frighten passengers.’
“‘You need not be afraid of frightening me,’ I replied. ‘I can stand
any amount of damp. If I should get a bad cold I will come to you.’
“I offered the doctor a cigar, which he took and examined very
critically.
“‘It is not so much the damp,’ he remarked. ‘However, I dare say you
will get on very well. Have you a roommate?’
“‘Yes; a deuce of a fellow, who bolts out in the middle of the night
and leaves the door open.’
“Again the doctor glanced curiously at me. Then he lighted the cigar
and looked grave.
“‘Did he come back?’ he asked presently.
“‘Yes. I was asleep, but I waked up and heard him moving. Then I felt
cold and went to sleep again. This morning I found the porthole open.’
“‘Look here,’ said the doctor, quietly, ‘I don’t care much for this
ship. I don’t care a rap for her reputation. I tell you what I will do.
I have a good-sized place up here. I will share it with you, though I
don’t know you from Adam.’
“I was very much surprised at the proposition. I could not imagine
why he should take such a sudden interest in my welfare. However, his
manner as he spoke of the ship was peculiar.
“‘You are very good, Doctor,’ I said. ‘But really, I believe even now
the cabin could be aired, or cleaned out, or something. Why do you not
care for the ship?’
“‘We are not superstitious in our profession, sir,’ replied the doctor.
‘But the sea makes people so. I don’t want to prejudice you, and I
don’t want to frighten you, but if you will take my advice you will
move in here. I would as soon see you overboard,’ he added, ‘as know
that you or any other man was to sleep in one hundred and five.’
“‘Good gracious! Why?’ I asked.
“‘Just because on the last three trips the people who have slept there
actually have gone overboard,’ he answered gravely.
“The intelligence was startling and exceedingly unpleasant, I confess.
I looked hard at the doctor to see whether he was making game of me,
but he looked perfectly serious. I thanked him warmly for his offer,
but told him I intended to be the exception to the rule by which
everyone who slept in that particular stateroom went overboard. He did
not say much, but looked as grave as ever, and hinted that before we
got across, I should probably reconsider his proposal. In the course
of time we went to breakfast, at which only an inconsiderable number
of passengers assembled. I noticed that one or two of the officers
who breakfasted with us looked grave. After breakfast I went into my
stateroom in order to get a book. The curtains of the upper berth
were still closely drawn. Not a word was to be heard. My roommate was
probably still asleep.