THE SIREN
The startling episode of the attack of the dog had not sufficed to
distract Colonel Livingston's regard from his manifest duty as guide,
philosopher and friend to all the incarcerated wayfarers. He was too old
a campaigner for that. After the confusion had ceased and comment on the
stirring incident had died away, he looked about in austere
contemplation. His eyes rested upon the Conductor and Porter, who were
discussing something together at the end of the car. He acted promptly.
"Here," he called out, cheerfully but imperatively, "if you think that
this train crew has but one sort of responsibility just now, you are
mistaken. Passengers must, under the circumstances, have even more
attention than usual. They must be entertained. You must each tell a
story. Mr. Conductor, I call upon you first."
The conductor was mightily embarrassed. Evidently story-telling was not
his specialty. Recognizing, however, the fact that there was nothing
for him but submission to the inflexible Colonel, he succumbed, red in
the face and twisting nervously his short mustache.
"I'm not much at telling anything," he managed to explain, "and don't
believe I have any story of my own that would be worth while, but I
never hear the whistle cut loose that I don't think of what a man I met
in San Francisco told me of what has been going on in one of the big
cities, and may be going on yet for all I know. I haven't been East of
Denver for a long time--that's the end of my run--and, it seems to me,
that, if what he told me is true, I'd have seen something about it in
the newspapers. Maybe not, though; they miss lots of things. Anyhow,
this is what he told me--and I'll try to tell it just as he did, even
using some of his big words, about what has been happening with a kind
of big whistle to help sailors which they call,
THE SIREN
Half a mile off shore, an adjunct of the light-house, was the Siren,
friend of mariners and enemy of all the rest of mankind. When the fog
came upon the face of the waters and steamers and sailing vessels,
creeping fearfully about in all directions, were in danger of collision,
with resultant horrors, and shrieked out their apprehensions in strident
whistlings, the Siren responded through the opaque waste with a warning
howl, telling each seaman where he was and where was safety and where
was death. It was a howl of the pitch and key best adapted for reaching
a great distance and served its purpose well, yet it was doleful as a
sound from the tomb or the wail of a lost soul with a bass voice. But
little cared the fog-fretted captains or their crews or passengers for
the lugubriousness of the Siren's call. As long as the notes of the
misnamed fog-horn indicated the path to safety they cared nothing for
the quality of the note.
In the city which stood beside the shore, the case was different. People
recognized the fact that the great water highways must be made safe and
that mariners must be protected, but the burden of the Siren was hard to
bear. Little attention had been paid to its sound at first but the
constant iteration had told upon mind and body as tells the constant
falling of a single drop of water upon the head. People were seriously
affected. In the foggy season strong men became fretful and impatient
and weak women were compelled to seek the country. The whole city was
threatened with an attack of nervous debility. All night long, and
sometimes late into the forenoon, the fog would hang stubbornly above
the harbor, and all night long and far into the daylight, the Siren
would groan and groan while the people raved. Sanitariums did a thriving
business. Some sort of climax was approaching when Hannibal Perkins
appeared from the suburbs upon the scene.
Hannibal Perkins was a young man about twenty-one years of age. He was
born "down East" as he explained, and was tall and gaunt, with pleasant
blue eyes and a soft voice. He was ambitious and possessed of an
inventive genius which he wished to cultivate. He had graduated from the
city high school and desired now to spend two or three years in a famous
scientific academy, but could not gratify his wish, because of relative
poverty. He helped his father in the work of a small truck farm just
outside the city, but there was small yearly surplus to aid in the
realization of Hannibal's hopes and plans. There was stuff in the youth,
though. Regretting but not dismayed, Hannibal worked doggedly, ever
planning as to how he might raise honestly the needed money. The little
farm lay close beside the shore and at night the youth's thoughts were
frequently disturbed, for the Perkin's family got the full benefit of
the Siren's groans.
Not only was Hannibal Perkins an inventor, but he had a musical gift as
well. He played the violin with skill and feeling, and had studied with
an excellent teacher, a friend of the family who had become interested
in Hannibal and given him lessons gratis. He possessed an exquisite ear
and it is doubtful if in all the city there was a person who suffered
more from the Siren's dismal cry than did this robust young man. Night
after night he would toss about in his bed and but endure. "Is there no
way of stopping it," he thought. "Cannot the same end be attained in
some less melancholy and devastating way?" Unable to sleep regularly, at
last, in desperation he set his wits to work.
Reading a scientific magazine one day, a single sentence impressed
itself upon Hannibal Perkin's memory: "It is a well known fact that a
musical sound can be heard distinctly at a greater distance than can an
unmusical one." Hannibal pondered much.
One night, either because his nerves chanced to be a little more nearly
on edge than usual or because the Siren chanced to be in good working
order, the sounds which came from the outer harbor seemed to Hannibal
more than ordinarily loud and mournful and appalling. He raged
helplessly. "What need of so much noise, and such a noise!" he fumed,
but, sobering in temper with reflection, tried to content himself with
muttering resignedly: "I suppose it's necessary that the thing should be
heard as far away as possible,"--then checked his muttering suddenly.
The sentence in the scientific periodical had recurred to him. "It is a
well known fact that a musical sound can be heard distinctly at a
greater distance than an unmusical one." He rose from his bed and sat
silent, with wrinkled brow. Gradually the wrinkles disappeared and a
light came into the young man's eyes. He sprang to his feet, giving vent
as he did so to the single, all unstudied, expression "B'gosh!" He had
learned it when a boy "down East" while working in the fields with the
hired man.
For the next two weeks Hannibal Perkins did little labor on the farm.
His time was spent from daylight to dark in a small lean-to which served
the double purpose of woodshed and workship. Then for another week,
he was in town studying the mechanism of the great church
organs--instruments with which he was already tolerably familiar--and
consulting with organ-builders and other craftsmen. The fourth week was
spent in the little shop again.
It was the beginning of one of the foggiest months in the year that
Hannibal Perkins, hat in hand, somewhat abashed, but resolute, entered
the office of the mayor of the city. He looked curiously upon the man
seated at his desk. He saw a person of apparently strong physique, but
thin and pale and with glittering eyes, the eyes of a victim of
insomnia. The mayor wheeled about in his chair.
"What do you want?" he asked peevishly.
It was not a pleasant reception but, as a matter of fact, the man
ordinarily affable was nervous and consequently irritable. Hannibal
resolved not to appear abashed.
"It's about the Siren," he said.
"What!" The mayor was all interest now. "What about the Siren?"
"I want to suggest a means for getting rid of the awful sounds which
come over the water every night; to get rid of them so that the people
of this city can sleep again."
The mayor stared at his visitor for a moment or two and then spoke
solemnly:
"Young man if you can do what you propose you are not unlikely to take
my place in this seat, some day. You will be the most popular man in the
city. Look at me! I weighed two hundred and ten pounds when the Siren
was first placed in the harbor. Now I weigh a scant one hundred and
fifty-six. There are thousands of others who have suffered in the same
way--insomnia, shattered nerves and all that sort of thing--and the
situation is growing worse instead of better. Only the stolid and dull
are unaffected. Talk about American restlessness and excitability! Why,
what has been in the past will be calm philosophy compared with what
will come in the future when Sirens are established in every harbor of
the country. Of course, young man, I know that you're only a dreamer, a
would-be inventor--you have the big full eyes of an inventor--but I
don't feel like being impatient with any one whose efforts are bent in a
direction as laudable as are yours. Tell me what your particular dream
is." And the mayor leaned back wearily.
"But I'm not a dreamer!" exclaimed Hannibal excitedly. "I know what I
have been doing and what I'm talking about. I tell you I can get rid of
the ghastly noise made by the Siren and yet have the vessels warned in a
fog as well as they are now. Yes, I'll warn them at even a greater
distance. More than that," and Hannibal began to get excited, "more than
that, I'll transform what is now a source of agony to one of pleasure. I
guarantee it. I can explain my plan to you and you'll say it's feasible,
sir; I know you will!" and the young man paused, out of breath.
The mayor's face had taken on a look of patient endurance. "Go ahead,"
he said, "and show me how the wheels work in your head. I hope it will
not take long."
Hannibal paid no attention to the sarcasm. He was too full of his
subject: "I tell you, Mr. Mayor, that I've solved the problem. I've
spent weeks and weeks upon it and at last I've got it. I can make it as
clear as day to you. First I want you to hear this from one of the
leading scientific magazines of the world," and he drew forth a clipping
and began to read--
"It is a well known fact that a musical sound can be heard distinctly
at a greater distance than can an unmusical one."
[Illustration: "THE MAYOR HAD BEEN GETTING INTERESTED"]
"There," continued Hannibal triumphantly, as he restored the clipping to
his pocket, "you see the point; you can hear a musical sound at a
greater distance than you can hear an unmusical one. The dismal wails of
the Siren are not musical, but why not make them so? There's a way and I
have found it."
The mayor was sitting erect in his chair, now. He was becoming
interested. "Go on," he said.
"Well," replied Hannibal. "There's not much more to say at present. I've
given you the general idea. The principle is sound and I know how to put
the design into execution."
"Are you sure," said the mayor, "are you very sure?"
"I am," responded Hannibal.
"Well, what do you want?"
"I want the privilege of putting new works inside the Siren, that's
all."
"But the Siren is under the control of the United States Government. How
can we get permission for the experiment?"
"Oh," said Hannibal, cheerfully, "I've thought all that out. The
government usually pays attention to the advice of business men of any
locality where it has established something in their interest. The
vessel men here are the ones who have influence in the case. Get the
vessel men to endorse it and the government will consent to the
experiment."
The mayor had been getting more and more interested as all the bearings
of the case became clear to him. The thing seemed practicable, and what
would not follow should it really prove a success! It would redound to
his credit that he had recognized the plan which gave the city peace. He
reached a decision promptly.
"I'll help you," he declared, "I'll call a meeting of the vessel men for
to-morrow night. You'll have to be there to explain the thing as you
have to me--more fully though. Does that suit you?"
Hannibal departed walking on air. Could he convince the vessel men! He
had not the slightest doubt of it.
He neither ate nor slept much from the time he left the mayor's office,
until on the evening of the next day when he entered the hall where the
vessel men were assembled, the mayor with them.
The mayor took the chair, called the meeting to order, explained briefly
the proposition which had been made to him, and said that he had
thought it best to refer the suppliant to those most vitally interested
in the matter. The inventor was present and would make his own
explanation.
Hannibal took the platform tremblingly. He had never addressed an
audience in his life, and his knees shook and there was a lump in his
throat. At first he could not articulate, but when a bluff, red-faced
old mariner, taking pity on him, called out--"Don't be scared, young
man; take your time," he recovered himself and began stammeringly.
Gradually the words came more freely. He believed in his scheme, and
that gave him strength. He warmed to his subject and almost forgot where
he was. He became eloquent, in an inventor's way. He described the
present horrors of the Siren, the condition of the people, and the
prejudice that was growing up in consequence against anything marine, a
prejudice which might in time affect seriously the shipping interest.
Then he told how much farther a musical sound could travel than could an
unmusical one. Then he outlined vaguely the value and nature of his
invention which would substitute one sound for the other, and make of
the Siren a blessing on land as well as on the water. He carried his
audience with him and, when he closed his address, flushed and earnest,
his hand was grasped heartily by a large proportion of those present.
There was a brief debate, but it was nearly all one way, and it was
decided, that the Presidents of the Vessel Owners Association and the
Tug Owners Association should form a committee of two, to proceed at
once to Washington and there secure from the right department permission
for the trying of Hannibal's experiment. Furthermore there was
contributed on the spot a sum sufficient, in Hannibal's estimation, for
the execution of his plan. Within two weeks the committee had made its
trip and returned with the government's consent to the undertaking.
Hannibal went to work.
It was no simple task that now faced the young man, albeit the greatest
obstacle was just removed. Sanguine as most inventors are, supplied with
funds sufficient for his purpose, unlimited as to time, he yet realized
a certain gravity to the situation. He rented a wing of an old
warehouse, hired capable mechanics as assistants and plunged into his
labor, feverishly.
What is known as the "orchestrion" is a gigantic musical machine popular
in summer gardens, restaurants and various similar places of public
resort. Perforated sheets of metal are slipped into the machine, one
after another, and different tunes are played according to the
perforations in the metal. The basis of Hannibal Perkin's idea was the
orchestrion, with the addition of certain adjuncts of the fog-horn, to
secure a volume of sound equaling that which nightly woke the echoes and
everything else. Of course he could not himself manufacture perforated
plates of the size he required, but a special order to a great firm in
the business solved this part of the problem and a huge set of circular
plates, twenty-five feet in diameter, was soon delivered at his shop.
The machine itself was all the work of Hannibal and his two assistants.
The day came when the thing was done and the monster orchestrion, or
whatever it might be called, was loaded on a barge and towed to the
light-house where the siren was about to be deposed. To make the proper
attachments for the orchestrion--which did not get its power from
winding up in the ordinary way, but by a steam arrangement--was a work
of time, for just here was the most difficult part of the undertaking,
and where the inventive genius of Hannibal Perkins shone out most
brilliantly. It was a new departure but it was all right in principle,
as Hannibal had maintained, and the day came when he announced that,
when the fog fell that night, a new Siren, one with a voice such as was
never heard before on sea or shore, would call across the waters to
belated vessel men.
Night came and the fog came with it. Dimmer and dimmer grew the flashes
from the light-house lantern until, at last, they could no longer be
distinguished from the shore, and then, to the people of the great city
came a sensation.
"Chippie, get your hair cut, hair cut, hair cut,
Chippie, get your hair cut, hair cut short."
Loud and clear from away out in the harbor came the notes of the
rollicking tune, once so generally popular. The atmosphere was fairly
saturated with it. Never had even the howl of the detested Siren so
thoroughly permeated every outdoor nook and cranny of the town. The
moving multitudes on the brilliantly lighted streets paused and
listened, and as they stood there, lost and curious, the same sweet but
tremendous voice informed them affably:
"There'll be a hot time,
In the old town to-night."
Evidently this spirit of the waters, was of a lively, not to say
hilarious, disposition--at least that was the first impression
given--but as the hours passed, the music changed in character, and it
finally dawned upon the populace that there was method in the madness of
the Siren--for the news had flown rapidly of what the wonder
was--gentler airs succeeded until the hour when the young men calling
should go home, when apparently impersonating all the young women in the
city, the Siren spoke softly:
"Bid me good-bye and go!"
and, later, as the time came when erring heads of families might be
lingering out too late for their own good, the mentor started in with--
"Oh, Willie, we have missed you!"
and, a little later, after apparent consideration, wailed out
despairingly:
"Oh, father, dear father, come home with me now."
It was charming! Still later, came soothing, familiar airs in a minor
key, such as were sleep-encouraging, and there was no variation from
this until six a.m., when there was an outbreak:
"I can't get 'em up, I can't get 'em up, I can't get 'em up this
morning!
The sergeant's worse than the private,
The captain's worse than the sergeant!
The major's worse than the captain,
The colonel's the worst of 'em all!
I can't get 'em up, I can't get 'em up, I can't get 'em up to-day!"
Ringing out over all the city was the reveille, but, as if in drowsy
answer came a little later, almost like an echo--the lazy, listless,
"Let me dream again."
Evidently not what was approved of, for, sharply and indignantly,
followed the peremptory demand to--
"Take your clothes and go."
And so, until the fog lifted, continued the interesting programme of the
Siren. The people were delighted. No more was the name of the "Siren" a
misnomer. The newspapers were full of praise of Hannibal Perkins, the
inventor, and a dream, for once, was realized. Improvements were made by
the elated genius. People in the city soon perceived that certain airs
were played only at certain hours, so that one could tell what time of
night it was while lying comfortably in bed. The invention was
recognized as a boon to the community. The Board of Trade voted a neat
lump sum to Hannibal Perkins, he was elected member of numerous
scientific and musical societies, and negotiations were begun with the
government looking to the introduction of the Siren in harbors
everywhere.
Now comes reference to the action of a law of nature which has always
been accounted curious, that law which is in direct contradiction of the
old and popular saying that one cannot have too much of a good thing.
The months passed, months of triumph and elation for Hannibal Perkins,
and, at first, of enjoyment for those on land. Then in the city came a
gradual change, though Hannibal, in the light-house, was not aware of
it. There arose an anti-Siren party, and a clamorous one! It was the old
story--they were "tired" of the same old tunes. They were all antiquated
things it was declared. It was the result of that quality in the human
ear and human nerves which enables them to endure the continual passing
of a railroad train, but not the too frequent repetition of a musical
air. Even an effort to remedy this fault did not avail. There came two
dread November weeks of almost continual fog, day and night, and, as
the Siren gave four tunes an hour for variety's sake, it necessarily
played ninety-six tunes a day, and there weren't enough popular airs in
existence to keep this up without constant duplication, or worse! A new
form of nervousness was seizing upon the multitude. Even the mayor, who
had grown fat, was getting thin again.
On the other hand the Siren had a powerful supporting force in the
officers and crews of every vessel entering the harbor. Most delightful
was it to those gallant seamen, when the fog lay dense and sinister, to
hear, at a greater distance from land than ever before, the sounds which
guided them to safety and, at the same time, to recognize and be cheered
by the notes of some familiar air. They heard the Siren only
occasionally and to them there was no monotony. The whole shipping
interest arose figuratively in arms against those who objected to the
new order of things.
And so the case stands now. The government is considering the matter.
Doubtless the Perkins Siren will, in the end, be adopted--with
modifications and restrictions. Hannibal Perkins is pondering over the
question of why people get so maddeningly tired of a piece of music,
from some favorite of the operas down to the latest bit of "rag-time."
They do not get tired of bread and beefsteak! Is the palate wiser than
the ear? Even Hannibal Perkins cannot answer that question. Human nature
is odd.