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Twelve Stories and a Dream

Part 2 out of 5

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"Tell her to go away."

I did.

Then I could hear a curious pattering upon the door, almost like
some one feeling for the handle in the dark, and Pyecraft's familiar

"It's all right," I said, "she's gone."

But for a long time the door didn't open.

I heard the key turn. Then Pyecraft's voice said, "Come in."

I turned the handle and opened the door. Naturally I expected to see

Well, you know, he wasn't there!

I never had such a shock in my life. There was his sitting-room
in a state of untidy disorder, plates and dishes among the books
and writing things, and several chairs overturned, but Pyecraft--

"It's all right, o' man; shut the door," he said, and then I
discovered him.

There he was right up close to the cornice in the corner by the door,
as though some one had glued him to the ceiling. His face was anxious
and angry. He panted and gesticulated. "Shut the door," he said.
"If that woman gets hold of it--"

I shut the door, and went and stood away from him and stared.

"If anything gives way and you tumble down," I said, "you'll break
your neck, Pyecraft."

"I wish I could," he wheezed.

"A man of your age and weight getting up to kiddish gymnastics--"

"Don't," he said, and looked agonised.

"I'll tell you," he said, and gesticulated.

"How the deuce," said I, "are you holding on up there?"

And then abruptly I realised that he was not holding on at all,
that he was floating up there--just as a gas-filled bladder might
have floated in the same position. He began a struggle to thrust
himself away from the ceiling and to clamber down the wall to me.
"It's that prescription," he panted, as he did so. "Your great-gran--"

He took hold of a framed engraving rather carelessly as he spoke
and it gave way, and he flew back to the ceiling again, while
the picture smashed onto the sofa. Bump he went against the ceiling,
and I knew then why he was all over white on the more salient curves
and angles of his person. He tried again more carefully, coming
down by way of the mantel.

It was really a most extraordinary spectacle, that great, fat,
apoplectic-looking man upside down and trying to get from the ceiling
to the floor. "That prescription," he said. "Too successful."


"Loss of weight--almost complete."

And then, of course, I understood.

"By Jove, Pyecraft," said I, "what you wanted was a cure for fatness!
But you always called it weight. You would call it weight."

Somehow I was extremely delighted. I quite liked Pyecraft for the time.
"Let me help you!" I said, and took his hand and pulled him down.
He kicked about, trying to get a foothold somewhere. It was very like
holding a flag on a windy day.

"That table," he said, pointing, "is solid mahogany and very heavy.
If you can put me under that---"

I did, and there he wallowed about like a captive balloon, while
I stood on his hearthrug and talked to him.

I lit a cigar. "Tell me," I said, "what happened?"

"I took it," he said.

"How did it taste?"


I should fancy they all did. Whether one regards the ingredients
or the probable compound or the possible results, almost all of
my great-grandmother's remedies appear to me at least to be
extraordinarily uninviting. For my own part--

"I took a little sip first."


"And as I felt lighter and better after an hour, I decided to take
the draught."

"My dear Pyecraft!"

"I held my nose," he explained. "And then I kept on getting lighter
and lighter--and helpless, you know."

He gave way to a sudden burst of passion. "What the goodness am I
to DO?" he said.

"There's one thing pretty evident," I said, "that you mustn't do.
If you go out of doors, you'll go up and up." I waved an arm upward.
"They'd have to send Santos-Dumont after you to bring you down again."

"I suppose it will wear off?"

I shook my head. "I don't think you can count on that," I said.

And then there was another burst of passion, and he kicked out
at adjacent chairs and banged the floor. He behaved just as I should
have expected a great, fat, self-indulgent man to behave under trying
circumstances--that is to say, very badly. He spoke of me and
my great-grandmother with an utter want of discretion.

"I never asked you to take the stuff," I said.

And generously disregarding the insults he was putting upon me,
I sat down in his armchair and began to talk to him in a sober,
friendly fashion.

I pointed out to him that this was a trouble he had brought upon
himself, and that it had almost an air of poetical justice. He had
eaten too much. This he disputed, and for a time we argued the point.

He became noisy and violent, so I desisted from this aspect
of his lesson. "And then," said I, "you committed the sin of euphuism.
You called it not Fat, which is just and inglorious, but Weight. You--"

He interrupted to say he recognised all that. What was he to DO?

I suggested he should adapt himself to his new conditions. So we
came to the really sensible part of the business. I suggested that
it would not be difficult for him to learn to walk about on the ceiling
with his hands--

"I can't sleep," he said.

But that was no great difficulty. It was quite possible, I pointed out,
to make a shake-up under a wire mattress, fasten the under things
on with tapes, and have a blanket, sheet, and coverlet to button
at the side. He would have to confide in his housekeeper, I said;
and after some squabbling he agreed to that. (Afterwards it was
quite delightful to see the beautifully matter-of-fact way with which
the good lady took all these amazing inversions.) He could have
a library ladder in his room, and all his meals could be laid on
the top of his bookcase. We also hit on an ingenious device by which
he could get to the floor whenever he wanted, which was simply to put
the British Encyclopaedia (tenth edition) on the top of his open
shelves. He just pulled out a couple of volumes and held on, and down
he came. And we agreed there must be iron staples along the skirting,
so that he could cling to those whenever he wanted to get about the
room on the lower level.

As we got on with the thing I found myself almost keenly interested.
It was I who called in the housekeeper and broke matters to her,
and it was I chiefly who fixed up the inverted bed. In fact, I spent
two whole days at his flat. I am a handy, interfering sort of man
with a screw-driver, and I made all sorts of ingenious adaptations
for him--ran a wire to bring his bells within reach, turned all
his electric lights up instead of down, and so on. The whole affair
was extremely curious and interesting to me, and it was delightful
to think of Pyecraft like some great, fat blow-fly, crawling about
on his ceiling and clambering round the lintels of his doors
from one room to another, and never, never, never coming to
the club any more. . . .

Then, you know, my fatal ingenuity got the better of me. I was
sitting by his fire drinking his whisky, and he was up in his
favourite corner by the cornice, tacking a Turkey carpet to the
ceiling, when the idea struck me. "By Jove, Pyecraft!" I said, "all
this is totally unnecessary."

And before I could calculate the complete consequences of my notion
I blurted it out. "Lead underclothing," said I, and the mischief was

Pyecraft received the thing almost in tears. "To be right ways up
again--" he said. I gave him the whole secret before I saw where
it would take me. "Buy sheet lead," I said, "stamp it into discs.
Sew 'em all over your underclothes until you have enough. Have
lead-soled boots, carry a bag of solid lead, and the thing is done!
Instead of being a prisoner here you may go abroad again, Pyecraft;
you may travel--"

A still happier idea came to me. "You need never fear a shipwreck.
All you need do is just slip off some or all of your clothes, take the
necessary amount of luggage in your hand, and float up in the air--"

In his emotion he dropped the tack-hammer within an ace of my head.
"By Jove!" he said, "I shall be able to come back to the club again."

The thing pulled me up short. "By Jove!" I said faintly. "Yes.
Of course--you will."

He did. He does. There he sits behind me now, stuffing--as I live!--
a third go of buttered tea-cake. And no one in the whole world knows--
except his housekeeper and me--that he weighs practically nothing;
that he is a mere boring mass of assimilatory matter, mere clouds
in clothing, niente, nefas, the most inconsiderable of men. There
he sits watching until I have done this writing. Then, if he can,
he will waylay me. He will come billowing up to me. . . .

He will tell me over again all about it, how it feels, how it
doesn't feel, how he sometimes hopes it is passing off a little.
And always somewhere in that fat, abundant discourse he will say,
"The secret's keeping, eh? If any one knew of it--I should be
so ashamed. . . . Makes a fellow look such a fool, you know.
Crawling about on a ceiling and all that. . . ."

And now to elude Pyecraft, occupying, as he does, an admirable
strategic position between me and the door.


"There's a man in that shop," said the Doctor, "who has been in

"Nonsense!" I said, and stared back at the shop. It was the usual
village shop, post-office, telegraph wire on its brow, zinc pans and
brushes outside, boots, shirtings, and potted meats in the window.
"Tell me about it," I said, after a pause.

"_I_ don't know," said the Doctor. "He's an ordinary sort of lout--
Skelmersdale is his name. But everybody about here believes it
like Bible truth."

I reverted presently to the topic.

"I know nothing about it," said the Doctor, "and I don't WANT to know.
I attended him for a broken finger--Married and Single cricket match--
and that's when I struck the nonsense. That's all. But it shows you
the sort of stuff I have to deal with, anyhow, eh? Nice to get
modern sanitary ideas into a people like this!"

"Very," I said in a mildly sympathetic tone, and he went on to tell
me about that business of the Bonham drain. Things of that kind,
I observe, are apt to weigh on the minds of Medical Officers of Health.
I was as sympathetic as I knew how, and when he called the Bonham
people "asses," I said they were "thundering asses," but even that
did not allay him.

Afterwards, later in the summer, an urgent desire to seclude myself,
while finishing my chapter on Spiritual Pathology--it was really,
I believe, stiffer to write than it is to read--took me to Bignor.
I lodged at a farmhouse, and presently found myself outside that
little general shop again, in search of tobacco. "Skelmersdale,"
said I to myself at the sight of it, and went in.

I was served by a short, but shapely, young man, with a fair downy
complexion, good, small teeth, blue eyes, and a languid manner.
I scrutinised him curiously. Except for a touch of melancholy
in his expression, he was nothing out of the common. He was in the
shirt-sleeves and tucked-up apron of his trade, and a pencil was
thrust behind his inoffensive ear. Athwart his black waistcoat was
a gold chain, from which dangled a bent guinea.

"Nothing more to-day, sir?" he inquired. He leant forward over
my bill as he spoke.

"Are you Mr. Skelmersdale?" said I.

"I am, sir," he said, without looking up.

"Is it true that you have been in Fairyland?"

He looked up at me for a moment with wrinkled brows, with an aggrieved,
exasperated face. "O SHUT it! " he said, and, after a moment
of hostility, eye to eye, he went on adding up my bill. "Four,
six and a half," he said, after a pause. "Thank you, Sir."

So, unpropitiously, my acquaintance with Mr. Skelmersdale began.

Well, I got from that to confidence--through a series of toilsome
efforts. I picked him up again in the Village Room, where of a night
I went to play billiards after my supper, and mitigate the extreme
seclusion from my kind that was so helpful to work during the day.
I contrived to play with him and afterwards to talk with him. I found
the one subject to avoid was Fairyland. On everything else he was
open and amiable in a commonplace sort of way, but on that he had
been worried--it was a manifest taboo. Only once in the room did
I hear the slightest allusion to his experience in his presence,
and that was by a cross-grained farm hand who was losing to him.
Skelmersdale had run a break into double figures, which, by the Bignor
standards, was uncommonly good play. "Steady on!" said his adversary.
"None of your fairy flukes!"

Skelmersdale stared at him for a moment, cue in hand, then flung
it down and walked out of the room.

"Why can't you leave 'im alone?" said a respectable elder who had
been enjoying the game, and in the general murmur of disapproval
the grin of satisfied wit faded from the ploughboy's face.

I scented my opportunity. "What's this joke," said I, "about Fairyland?"

"'Tain't no joke about Fairyland, not to young Skelmersdale," said
the respectable elder, drinking. A little man with rosy cheeks was
more communicative. "They DO say, sir," he said, "that they took him
into Aldington Knoll an' kep' him there a matter of three weeks."

And with that the gathering was well under weigh. Once one sheep
had started, others were ready enough to follow, and in a little time
I had at least the exterior aspect of the Skelmersdale affair.
Formerly, before he came to Bignor, he had been in that very similar
little shop at Aldington Corner, and there whatever it was did happen
had taken place. The story was clear that he had stayed out late
one night on the Knoll and vanished for three weeks from the sight
of men, and had returned with "his cuffs as clean as when he started,"
and his pockets full of dust and ashes. He returned in a state of
moody wretchedness that only slowly passed away, and for many days he
would give no account of where it was he had been. The girl he was
engaged to at Clapton Hill tried to get it out of him, and threw him
over partly because he refused, and partly because, as she said, he
fairly gave her the "'ump." And then when, some time after, he let out
to some one carelessly that he had been in Fairyland and wanted to go
back, and when the thing spread and the simple badinage of the
countryside came into play, he threw up his situation abruptly, and
came to Bignor to get out of the fuss. But as to what had happened in
Fairyland none of these people knew. There the gathering in the Village
Room went to pieces like a pack at fault. One said this, and another
said that.

Their air in dealing with this marvel was ostensibly critical and
sceptical, but I could see a considerable amount of belief showing
through their guarded qualifications. I took a line of intelligent
interest, tinged with a reasonable doubt of the whole story.

"If Fairyland's inside Aldington Knoll," I said, "why don't you dig it

"That's what I says," said the young ploughboy.

"There's a-many have tried to dig on Aldington Knoll," said the
respectable elder, solemnly, "one time and another. But there's
none as goes about to-day to tell what they got by digging."

The unanimity of vague belief that surrounded me was rather impressive;
I felt there must surely be SOMETHING at the root of so much conviction,
and the already pretty keen curiosity I felt about the real facts
of the case was distinctly whetted. If these real facts were to be
got from any one, they were to be got from Skelmersdale himself;
and I set myself, therefore, still more assiduously to efface
the first bad impression I had made and win his confidence to the pitch
of voluntary speech. In that endeavour I had a social advantage.
Being a person of affability and no apparent employment, and wearing
tweeds and knickerbockers, I was naturally classed as an artist
in Bignor, and in the remarkable code of social precedence prevalent
in Bignor an artist ranks considerably higher than a grocer's assistant.
Skelmersdale, like too many of his class, is something of a snob;
he had told me to "shut it," only under sudden, excessive provocation,
and with, I am certain, a subsequent repentance; he was, I knew,
quite glad to be seen walking about the village with me. In due course,
he accepted the proposal of a pipe and whisky in my rooms readily
enough, and there, scenting by some happy instinct that there
was trouble of the heart in this, and knowing that confidences beget
confidences, I plied him with much of interest and suggestion from
my real and fictitious past. And it was after the third whisky
of the third visit of that sort, if I remember rightly, that a propos
of some artless expansion of a little affair that had touched and
left me in my teens, that he did at last, of his own free will
and motion, break the ice. "It was like that with me," he said,
"over there at Aldington. It's just that that's so rum. First I didn't
care a bit and it was all her, and afterwards, when it was too late,
it was, in a manner of speaking, all me."

I forbore to jump upon this allusion, and so he presently threw out
another, and in a little while he was making it as plain as daylight
that the one thing he wanted to talk about now was this Fairyland
adventure he had sat tight upon for so long. You see, I'd done
the trick with him, and from being just another half-incredulous,
would-be facetious stranger, I had, by all my wealth of shameless
self-exposure, become the possible confidant. He had been bitten
by the desire to show that he, too, had lived and felt many things,
and the fever was upon him.

He was certainly confoundedly allusive at first, and my eagerness
to clear him up with a few precise questions was only equalled
and controlled by my anxiety not to get to this sort of thing too soon.
But in another meeting or so the basis of confidence was complete;
and from first to last I think I got most of the items and aspects--
indeed, I got quite a number of times over almost everything that
Mr. Skelmersdale, with his very limited powers of narration, will
ever be able to tell. And so I come to the story of his adventure,
and I piece it all together again. Whether it really happened,
whether he imagined it or dreamt it, or fell upon it in some strange
hallucinatory trance, I do not profess to say. But that he invented
it I will not for one moment entertain. The man simply and honestly
believes the thing happened as he says it happened; he is transparently
incapable of any lie so elaborate and sustained, and in the belief
of the simple, yet often keenly penetrating, rustic minds about him
I find a very strong confirmation of his sincerity. He believes--
and nobody can produce any positive fact to falsify his belief.
As for me, with this much of endorsement, I transmit his story--
I am a little old now to justify or explain.

He says he went to sleep on Aldington Knoll about ten o'clock one
night--it was quite possibly Midsummer night, though he has never
thought of the date, and he cannot be sure within a week or so--
and it was a fine night and windless, with a rising moon. I have been
at the pains to visit this Knoll thrice since his story grew up
under my persuasions, and once I went there in the twilight summer
moonrise on what was, perhaps, a similar night to that of his adventure.
Jupiter was great and splendid above the moon, and in the north
and northwest the sky was green and vividly bright over the sunken
sun. The Knoll stands out bare and bleak under the sky, but surrounded
at a little distance by dark thickets, and as I went up towards it
there was a mighty starting and scampering of ghostly or quite
invisible rabbits. Just over the crown of the Knoll, but nowhere else,
was a multitudinous thin trumpeting of midges. The Knoll is, I believe,
an artificial mound, the tumulus of some great prehistoric chieftain,
and surely no man ever chose a more spacious prospect for a sepulchre.
Eastward one sees along the hills to Hythe, and thence across
the Channel to where, thirty miles and more perhaps, away, the great
white lights by Gris Nez and Boulogne wink and pass and shine.
Westward lies the whole tumbled valley of the Weald, visible as far
as Hindhead and Leith Hill, and the valley of the Stour opens
the Downs in the north to interminable hills beyond Wye. All
Romney Marsh lies southward at one's feet, Dymchurch and Romney
and Lydd, Hastings and its hill are in the middle distance, and
the hills multiply vaguely far beyond where Eastbourne rolls up
to Beachy Head.

And out upon all this it was that Skelmersdale wandered, being troubled
in his earlier love affair, and as he says, "not caring WHERE he went."
And there he sat down to think it over, and so, sulking and grieving,
was overtaken by sleep. And so he fell into the fairies' power.

The quarrel that had upset him was some trivial matter enough
between himself and the girl at Clapton Hill to whom he was engaged.
She was a farmer's daughter, said Skelmersdale, and "very respectable,"
and no doubt an excellent match for him; but both girl and lover
were very young and with just that mutual jealousy, that intolerantly
keen edge of criticism, that irrational hunger for a beautiful
perfection, that life and wisdom do presently and most mercifully
dull. What the precise matter of quarrel was I have no idea. She may
have said she liked men in gaiters when he hadn't any gaiters on,
or he may have said he liked her better in a different sort of hat,
but however it began, it got by a series of clumsy stages to bitterness
and tears. She no doubt got tearful and smeary, and he grew dusty
and drooping, and she parted with invidious comparisons, grave doubts
whether she ever had REALLY cared for him, and a clear certainty
she would never care again. And with this sort of thing upon his mind
he came out upon Aldington Knoll grieving, and presently, after
a long interval, perhaps, quite inexplicably, fell asleep.

He woke to find himself on a softer turf than ever he had slept
on before, and under the shade of very dark trees that completely
hid the sky. Always, indeed, in Fairyland the sky is hidden, it seems.
Except for one night when the fairies were dancing, Mr. Skelmersdale,
during all his time with them, never saw a star. And of that night
I am in doubt whether he was in Fairyland proper or out where the rings
and rushes are, in those low meadows near the railway line at Smeeth.

But it was light under these trees for all that, and on the leaves
and amidst the turf shone a multitude of glow-worms, very bright
and fine. Mr. Skelmersdale's first impression was that he was SMALL,
and the next that quite a number of people still smaller were standing
all about him. For some reason, he says, he was neither surprised
nor frightened, but sat up quite deliberately and rubbed the sleep
out of his eyes. And there all about him stood the smiling elves
who had caught him sleeping under their privileges and had brought
him into Fairyland.

What these elves were like I have failed to gather, so vague
and imperfect is his vocabulary, and so unobservant of all minor
detail does he seem to have been. They were clothed in something
very light and beautiful, that was neither wool, nor silk, nor leaves,
nor the petals of flowers. They stood all about him as he sat and waked,
and down the glade towards him, down a glow-worm avenue and fronted
by a star, came at once that Fairy Lady who is the chief personage
of his memory and tale. Of her I gathered more. She was clothed in
filmy green, and about her little waist was a broad silver girdle. Her
hair waved back from her forehead on either side; there were curls not
too wayward and yet astray, and on her brow was a little tiara,
set with a single star. Her sleeves were some sort of open sleeves
that gave little glimpses of her arms; her throat, I think, was
a little displayed, because he speaks of the beauty of her neck
and chin. There was a necklace of coral about her white throat,
and in her breast a coral-coloured flower. She had the soft lines
of a little child in her chin and cheeks and throat. And her eyes,
I gather, were of a kindled brown, very soft and straight and sweet
under her level brows. You see by these particulars how greatly
this lady must have loomed in Mr. Skelmersdale's picture. Certain
things he tried to express and could not express; "the way she moved,"
he said several times; and I fancy a sort of demure joyousness
radiated from this Lady.

And it was in the company of this delightful person, as the guest
and chosen companion of this delightful person, that Mr. Skelmersdale
set out to be taken into the intimacies of Fairyland. She welcomed
him gladly and a little warmly--I suspect a pressure of his hand
in both of hers and a lit face to his. After all, ten years ago
young Skelmersdale may have been a very comely youth. And once
she took his arm, and once, I think, she led him by the hand adown
the glade that the glow-worms lit.

Just how things chanced and happened there is no telling from
Mr. Skelmersdale's disarticulated skeleton of description. He gives
little unsatisfactory glimpses of strange corners and doings, of places
where there were many fairies together, of "toadstool things that
shone pink," of fairy food, of which he could only say "you should
have tasted it!" and of fairy music, "like a little musical box,"
that came out of nodding flowers. There was a great open place
where fairies rode and raced on "things," but what Mr. Skelmersdale
meant by "these here things they rode," there is no telling. Larvae,
perhaps, or crickets, or the little beetles that elude us so abundantly.
There was a place where water splashed and gigantic king-cups grew,
and there in the hotter times the fairies bathed together. There were
games being played and dancing and much elvish love-making, too,
I think, among the moss-branch thickets. There can be no doubt that
the Fairy Lady made love to Mr. Skelmersdale, and no doubt either
that this young man set himself to resist her. A time came, indeed,
when she sat on a bank beside him, in a quiet, secluded place
"all smelling of vi'lets," and talked to him of love.

"When her voice went low and she whispered," said Mr. Skelmersdale,
"and laid 'er 'and on my 'and, you know, and came close with a soft,
warm friendly way she 'ad, it was as much as I could do to keep my

It seems he kept his head to a certain limited unfortunate extent.
He saw "'ow the wind was blowing," he says, and so, sitting there
in a place all smelling of violets, with the touch of this lovely
Fairy Lady about him, Mr. Skelmersdale broke it to her gently--
that he was engaged!

She had told him she loved him dearly, that he was a sweet human lad
for her, and whatever he would ask of her he should have--even
his heart's desire.

And Mr. Skelmersdale, who, I fancy, tried hard to avoid looking
at her little lips as they just dropped apart and came together,
led up to the more intimate question by saying he would like enough
capital to start a little shop. He'd just like to feel, he said,
he had money enough to do that. I imagine a little surprise in those
brown eyes he talked about, but she seemed sympathetic for all that,
and she asked him many questions about the little shop, "laughing like"
all the time. So he got to the complete statement of his affianced
position, and told her all about Millie.

"All?" said I.

"Everything," said Mr. Skelmersdale, "just who she was, and where
she lived, and everything about her. I sort of felt I 'ad to all
the time, I did."

"'Whatever you want you shall have,' said the Fairy Lady. 'That's as
good as done. You SHALL feel you have the money just as you wish.
And now, you know--YOU MUST KISS ME.'"

And Mr. Skelmersdale pretended not to hear the latter part of her
remark, and said she was very kind. That he really didn't deserve she
should be so kind. And--

The Fairy Lady suddenly came quite close to him and whispered, "Kiss

"And," said Mr. Skelmersdale, "like a fool, I did."

There are kisses and kisses, I am told, and this must have been quite
the other sort from Millie's resonant signals of regard. There was
something magic in that kiss; assuredly it marked a turning point.
At any rate, this is one of the passages that he thought sufficiently
important to describe most at length. I have tried to get it right,
I have tried to disentangle it from the hints and gestures through
which it came to me, but I have no doubt that it was all different
from my telling and far finer and sweeter, in the soft filtered light
and the subtly stirring silences of the fairy glades. The Fairy Lady
asked him more about Millie, and was she very lovely, and so on--
a great many times. As to Millie's loveliness, I conceive him
answering that she was "all right." And then, or on some such
occasion, the Fairy Lady told him she had fallen in love with him
as he slept in the moonlight, and so he had been brought into
Fairyland, and she had thought, not knowing of Millie, that perhaps
he might chance to love her. "But now you know you can't," she said,
"so you must stop with me just a little while, and then you must
go back to Millie." She told him that, and you know Skelmersdale
was already in love with her, but the pure inertia of his mind kept
him in the way he was going. I imagine him sitting in a sort
of stupefaction amidst all these glowing beautiful things, answering
about his Millie and the little shop he projected and the need
of a horse and cart. . . . And that absurd state of affairs must
have gone on for days and days. I see this little lady, hovering
about him and trying to amuse him, too dainty to understand his
complexity and too tender to let him go. And he, you know, hypnotised
as it were by his earthly position, went his way with her hither
and thither, blind to everything in Fairyland but this wonderful
intimacy that had come to him. It is hard, it is impossible, to give
in print the effect of her radiant sweetness shining through the jungle
of poor Skelmersdale's rough and broken sentences. To me, at least,
she shone clear amidst the muddle of his story like a glow-worm
in a tangle of weeds.

There must have been many days of things while all this was happening--
and once, I say, they danced under the moonlight in the fairy rings
that stud the meadows near Smeeth--but at last it all came to an end.
She led him into a great cavernous place, lit by a red nightlight
sort of thing, where there were coffers piled on coffers, and cups
and golden boxes, and a great heap of what certainly seemed to all
Mr. Skelmersdale's senses--coined gold. There were little gnomes
amidst this wealth, who saluted her at her coming, and stood aside.
And suddenly she turned on him there with brightly shining eyes.

"And now," she said, "you have been kind to stay with me so long,
and it is time I let you go. You must go back to your Millie. You must
go back to your Millie, and here--just as I promised you--they will
give you gold."

"She choked like," said Mr. Skelmersdale. "At that, I had a sort
of feeling--" (he touched his breastbone) "as though I was fainting
here. I felt pale, you know, and shivering, and even then--I 'adn't
a thing to say."

He paused. "Yes," I said.

The scene was beyond his describing. But I know that she kissed
him good-bye.

"And you said nothing?"

"Nothing," he said. "I stood like a stuffed calf. She just looked
back once, you know, and stood smiling like and crying--I could
see the shine of her eyes--and then she was gone, and there was
all these little fellows bustling about me, stuffing my 'ands and
my pockets and the back of my collar and everywhere with gold."

And then it was, when the Fairy Lady had vanished, that Mr. Skelmersdale
really understood and knew. He suddenly began plucking out the gold
they were thrusting upon him, and shouting out at them to prevent
their giving him more. "'I don't WANT yer gold,' I said. 'I 'aven't
done yet. I'm not going. I want to speak to that Fairy Lady again.'
I started off to go after her and they held me back. Yes, stuck
their little 'ands against my middle and shoved me back. They kept
giving me more and more gold until it was running all down my
trouser legs and dropping out of my 'ands. 'I don't WANT yer gold,'
I says to them, 'I want just to speak to the Fairy Lady again.'"

"And did you?"

"It came to a tussle."

"Before you saw her?"

"I didn't see her. When I got out from them she wasn't anywhere
to be seen."

So he ran in search of her out of this red-lit cave, down a long
grotto, seeking her, and thence he came out in a great and desolate
place athwart which a swarm of will-o'-the-wisps were flying to and fro.
And about him elves were dancing in derision, and the little gnomes
came out of the cave after him, carrying gold in handfuls and casting
it after him, shouting, "Fairy love and fairy gold! Fairy love and
fairy gold!"

And when he heard these words, came a great fear that it was all over,
and he lifted up his voice and called to her by her name, and suddenly
set himself to run down the slope from the mouth of the cavern,
through a place of thorns and briers, calling after her very loudly
and often. The elves danced about him unheeded, pinching him
and pricking him, and the will-o'-the-wisps circled round him
and dashed into his face, and the gnomes pursued him shouting and
pelting him with fairy gold. As he ran with all this strange rout
about him and distracting him, suddenly he was knee-deep in a swamp,
and suddenly he was amidst thick twisted roots, and he caught his foot
in one and stumbled and fell. . . .

He fell and he rolled over, and in that instant he found himself
sprawling upon Aldington Knoll, all lonely under the stars.

He sat up sharply at once, he says, and found he was very stiff
and cold, and his clothes were damp with dew. The first pallor
of dawn and a chilly wind were coming up together. He could have
believed the whole thing a strangely vivid dream until he thrust
his hand into his side pocket and found it stuffed with ashes.
Then he knew for certain it was fairy gold they had given him.
He could feel all their pinches and pricks still, though there was
never a bruise upon him. And in that manner, and so suddenly,
Mr. Skelmersdale came out of Fairyland back into this world of men.
Even then he fancied the thing was but the matter of a night until
he returned to the shop at Aldington Corner and discovered amidst
their astonishment that he had been away three weeks.

"Lor'! the trouble I 'ad!" said Mr. Skelmersdale.


"Explaining. I suppose you've never had anything like that to explain."

"Never," I said, and he expatiated for a time on the behaviour of
this person and that. One name he avoided for a space.

"And Millie?" said I at last.

"I didn't seem to care a bit for seeing Millie," he said.

"I expect she seemed changed?"

"Every one was changed. Changed for good. Every one seemed big,
you know, and coarse. And their voices seemed loud. Why, the sun,
when it rose in the morning, fair hit me in the eye!"

"And Millie?"

"I didn't want to see Millie."

"And when you did?"

"I came up against her Sunday, coming out of church. 'Where you been?'
she said, and I saw there was a row. _I_ didn't care if there was.
I seemed to forget about her even while she was there a-talking
to me. She was just nothing. I couldn't make out whatever I 'ad seen
in 'er ever, or what there could 'ave been. Sometimes when she
wasn't about, I did get back a little, but never when she was there.
Then it was always the other came up and blotted her out. . . .
Anyow, it didn't break her heart."

"Married?" I asked.

"Married 'er cousin," said Mr. Skelmersdale, and reflected on the
pattern of the tablecloth for a space.

When he spoke again it was clear that his former sweetheart had clean
vanished from his mind, and that the talk had brought back the Fairy
Lady triumphant in his heart. He talked of her--soon he was letting
out the oddest things, queer love secrets it would be treachery to
repeat. I think, indeed, that was the queerest thing in the whole
affair, to hear that neat little grocer man after his story was done,
with a glass of whisky beside him and a cigar between his fingers,
witnessing, with sorrow still, though now, indeed, with a time-blunted
anguish, of the inappeasable hunger of the heart that presently
came upon him. "I couldn't eat," he said, "I couldn't sleep. I made
mistakes in orders and got mixed with change. There she was day
and night, drawing me and drawing me. Oh, I wanted her. Lord! how
I wanted her! I was up there, most evenings I was up there on the Knoll,
often even when it rained. I used to walk over the Knoll and round it
and round it, calling for them to let me in. Shouting. Near blubbering
I was at times. Daft I was and miserable. I kept on saying it was all
a mistake. And every Sunday afternoon I went up there, wet and fine,
though I knew as well as you do it wasn't no good by day. And I've
tried to go to sleep there."

He stopped sharply and decided to drink some whisky.

"I've tried to go to sleep there," he said, and I could swear his lips
trembled. "I've tried to go to sleep there, often and often. And,
you know, I couldn't, sir--never. I've thought if I could go to sleep
there, there might be something. But I've sat up there and laid up
there, and I couldn't--not for thinking and longing. It's the
longing. . . . I've tried--"

He blew, drank up the rest of his whisky spasmodically, stood up
suddenly and buttoned his jacket, staring closely and critically
at the cheap oleographs beside the mantel meanwhile. The little
black notebook in which he recorded the orders of his daily round
projected stiffly from his breast pocket. When all the buttons were
quite done, he patted his chest and turned on me suddenly. "Well,"
he said, "I must be going."

There was something in his eyes and manner that was too difficult
for him to express in words. "One gets talking," he said at last
at the door, and smiled wanly, and so vanished from my eyes.
And that is the tale of Mr. Skelmersdale in Fairyland just as
he told it to me.


The scene amidst which Clayton told his last story comes back very
vividly to my mind. There he sat, for the greater part of the time,
in the corner of the authentic settle by the spacious open fire, and
Sanderson sat beside him smoking the Broseley clay that bore his name.
There was Evans, and that marvel among actors, Wish, who is also a
modest man. We had all come down to the Mermaid Club that Saturday
morning, except Clayton, who had slept there overnight--which indeed
gave him the opening of his story. We had golfed until golfing was
invisible; we had dined, and we were in that mood of tranquil
kindliness when men will suffer a story. When Clayton began to tell
one, we naturally supposed he was lying. It may be that indeed he was
lying--of that the reader will speedily be able to judge as well as I.
He began, it is true, with an air of matter-of-fact anecdote, but
that we thought was only the incurable artifice of the man.

"I say!" he remarked, after a long consideration of the upward
rain of sparks from the log that Sanderson had thumped, "you know
I was alone here last night?"

"Except for the domestics," said Wish.

"Who sleep in the other wing," said Clayton. "Yes. Well--" He pulled
at his cigar for some little time as though he still hesitated about
his confidence. Then he said, quite quietly, "I caught a ghost!"

"Caught a ghost, did you?" said Sanderson. "Where is it?"

And Evans, who admires Clayton immensely and has been four weeks
in America, shouted, "CAUGHT a ghost, did you, Clayton? I'm glad
of it! Tell us all about it right now."

Clayton said he would in a minute, and asked him to shut the door.

He looked apologetically at me. "There's no eavesdropping of course,
but we don't want to upset our very excellent service with any rumours
of ghosts in the place. There's too much shadow and oak panelling
to trifle with that. And this, you know, wasn't a regular ghost.
I don't think it will come again--ever."

"You mean to say you didn't keep it?" said Sanderson.

"I hadn't the heart to," said Clayton.

And Sanderson said he was surprised.

We laughed, and Clayton looked aggrieved. "I know," he said, with
the flicker of a smile, "but the fact is it really WAS a ghost,
and I'm as sure of it as I am that I am talking to you now. I'm not
joking. I mean what I say."

Sanderson drew deeply at his pipe, with one reddish eye on Clayton,
and then emitted a thin jet of smoke more eloquent than many words.

Clayton ignored the comment. "It is the strangest thing that has
ever happened in my life. You know, I never believed in ghosts
or anything of the sort, before, ever; and then, you know, I bag
one in a corner; and the whole business is in my hands."

He meditated still more profoundly, and produced and began to pierce
a second cigar with a curious little stabber he affected.

"You talked to it?" asked Wish.

"For the space, probably, of an hour."

"Chatty?" I said, joining the party of the sceptics.

"The poor devil was in trouble," said Clayton, bowed over his cigar-end
and with the very faintest note of reproof.

"Sobbing?" some one asked.

Clayton heaved a realistic sigh at the memory. "Good Lord!" he said;
"yes." And then, "Poor fellow! yes."

"Where did you strike it?" asked Evans, in his best American accent.

"I never realised," said Clayton, ignoring him, "the poor sort of
thing a ghost might be," and he hung us up again for a time, while
he sought for matches in his pocket and lit and warmed to his cigar.

"I took an advantage," he reflected at last.

We were none of us in a hurry. "A character," he said, "remains
just the same character for all that it's been disembodied. That's
a thing we too often forget. People with a certain strength or
fixity of purpose may have ghosts of a certain strength and fixity
of purpose--most haunting ghosts, you know, must be as one-idea'd
as monomaniacs and as obstinate as mules to come back again and again.
This poor creature wasn't." He suddenly looked up rather queerly, and
his eye went round the room. "I say it," he said, "in all kindliness,
but that is the plain truth of the case. Even at the first glance
he struck me as weak."

He punctuated with the help of his cigar.

"I came upon him, you know, in the long passage. His back was towards
me and I saw him first. Right off I knew him for a ghost. He was
transparent and whitish; clean through his chest I could see the glimmer
of the little window at the end. And not only his physique but
his attitude struck me as being weak. He looked, you know, as though
he didn't know in the slightest whatever he meant to do. One hand
was on the panelling and the other fluttered to his mouth. Like--SO!"

"What sort of physique?" said Sanderson.

"Lean. You know that sort of young man's neck that has two great
flutings down the back, here and here--so! And a little, meanish head
with scrubby hair--And rather bad ears. Shoulders bad, narrower
than the hips; turn-down collar, ready-made short jacket, trousers
baggy and a little frayed at the heels. That's how he took me.
I came very quietly up the staircase. I did not carry a light,
you know--the candles are on the landing table and there is that lamp--
and I was in my list slippers, and I saw him as I came up. I stopped
dead at that--taking him in. I wasn't a bit afraid. I think that
in most of these affairs one is never nearly so afraid or excited
as one imagines one would be. I was surprised and interested.
I thought, 'Good Lord! Here's a ghost at last! And I haven't believed
for a moment in ghosts during the last five-and-twenty years.'"

"Um," said Wish.

"I suppose I wasn't on the landing a moment before he found out I
was there. He turned on me sharply, and I saw the face of an immature
young man, a weak nose, a scrubby little moustache, a feeble chin.
So for an instant we stood--he looking over his shoulder at me
and regarded one another. Then he seemed to remember his high calling.
He turned round, drew himself up, projected his face, raised his arms,
spread his hands in approved ghost fashion--came towards me.
As he did so his little jaw dropped, and he emitted a faint, drawn-out
'Boo.' No, it wasn't--not a bit dreadful. I'd dined. I'd had a bottle
of champagne, and being all alone, perhaps two or three--perhaps
even four or five--whiskies, so I was as solid as rocks and no more
frightened than if I'd been assailed by a frog. 'Boo!' I said.
'Nonsense. You don't belong to THIS place. What are you doing here?'

"I could see him wince. 'Boo-oo,' he said.

"'Boo--be hanged! Are you a member?' I said; and just to show
I didn't care a pin for him I stepped through a corner of him and
made to light my candle. 'Are you a member?' I repeated, looking
at him sideways.

"He moved a little so as to stand clear of me, and his bearing
became crestfallen. 'No,' he said, in answer to the persistent
interrogation of my eye; 'I'm not a member--I'm a ghost.'

"'Well, that doesn't give you the run of the Mermaid Club. Is there
any one you want to see, or anything of that sort?' and doing it as
steadily as possible for fear that he should mistake the carelessness
of whisky for the distraction of fear, I got my candle alight.
I turned on him, holding it. 'What are you doing here?' I said.

"He had dropped his hands and stopped his booing, and there he stood,
abashed and awkward, the ghost of a weak, silly, aimless young man.
'I'm haunting,' he said.

"'You haven't any business to,' I said in a quiet voice.

"'I'm a ghost,' he said, as if in defence.

"'That may be, but you haven't any business to haunt here. This is
a respectable private club; people often stop here with nursemaids
and children, and, going about in the careless way you do, some poor
little mite could easily come upon you and be scared out of her wits.
I suppose you didn't think of that?'

"'No, sir,' he said, 'I didn't.'

"'You should have done. You haven't any claim on the place, have you?
Weren't murdered here, or anything of that sort?'

"'None, sir; but I thought as it was old and oak-panelled--'

"'That's NO excuse.' I regarded him firmly. 'Your coming here is
a mistake,' I said, in a tone of friendly superiority. I feigned
to see if I had my matches, and then looked up at him frankly.
'If I were you I wouldn't wait for cock-crow--I'd vanish right away.'

"He looked embarrassed. 'The fact IS, sir--' he began.

"'I'd vanish,' I said, driving it home.

"'The fact is, sir, that--somehow--I can't.'

"'You CAN'T?'

"'No, sir. There's something I've forgotten. I've been hanging
about here since midnight last night, hiding in the cupboards
of the empty bedrooms and things like that. I'm flurried. I've never
come haunting before, and it seems to put me out.'

"'Put you out?'

"'Yes, sir. I've tried to do it several times, and it doesn't come off.
There's some little thing has slipped me, and I can't get back.'

"That, you know, rather bowled me over. He looked at me in such
an abject way that for the life of me I couldn't keep up quite
the high, hectoring vein I had adopted. 'That's queer,' I said,
and as I spoke I fancied I heard some one moving about down below.
'Come into my room and tell me more about it,' I said. 'I didn't,
of course, understand this,' and I tried to take him by the arm.
But, of course, you might as well have tried to take hold of a puff
of smoke! I had forgotten my number, I think; anyhow, I remember
going into several bedrooms--it was lucky I was the only soul
in that wing--until I saw my traps. 'Here we are,' I said, and sat
down in the arm-chair; 'sit down and tell me all about it. It seems
to me you have got yourself into a jolly awkward position, old chap.'

"Well, he said he wouldn't sit down! he'd prefer to flit up and down
the room if it was all the same to me. And so he did, and in a little
while we were deep in a long and serious talk. And presently,
you know, something of those whiskies and sodas evaporated out of me,
and I began to realise just a little what a thundering rum and weird
business it was that I was in. There he was, semi-transparent--
the proper conventional phantom, and noiseless except for his ghost
of a voice--flitting to and fro in that nice, clean, chintz-hung
old bedroom. You could see the gleam of the copper candlesticks
through him, and the lights on the brass fender, and the corners
of the framed engravings on the wall,--and there he was telling me
all about this wretched little life of his that had recently ended
on earth. He hadn't a particularly honest face, you know, but being
transparent, of course, he couldn't avoid telling the truth."

"Eh?" said Wish, suddenly sitting up in his chair.

"What?" said Clayton.

"Being transparent--couldn't avoid telling the truth--I don't see it,"
said Wish.

"_I_ don't see it," said Clayton, with inimitable assurance. "But
it IS so, I can assure you nevertheless. I don't believe he got once
a nail's breadth off the Bible truth. He told me how he had been
killed--he went down into a London basement with a candle to look
for a leakage of gas--and described himself as a senior English
master in a London private school when that release occurred."

"Poor wretch!" said I.

"That's what I thought, and the more he talked the more I thought it.
There he was, purposeless in life and purposeless out of it. He talked
of his father and mother and his schoolmaster, and all who had ever
been anything to him in the world, meanly. He had been too sensitive,
too nervous; none of them had ever valued him properly or understood
him, he said. He had never had a real friend in the world,
I think; he had never had a success. He had shirked games and failed
examinations. 'It's like that with some people,' he said; 'whenever
I got into the examination-room or anywhere everything seemed to go.'
Engaged to be married of course--to another over-sensitive person, I
suppose--when the indiscretion with the gas escape ended his affairs.
'And where are you now?' I asked. 'Not in--?'

"He wasn't clear on that point at all. The impression he gave me was
of a sort of vague, intermediate state, a special reserve for souls
too non-existent for anything so positive as either sin or virtue.
_I_ don't know. He was much too egotistical and unobservant to give
me any clear idea of the kind of place, kind of country, there is on
the Other Side of Things. Wherever he was, he seems to have fallen in
with a set of kindred spirits: ghosts of weak Cockney young men,
who were on a footing of Christian names, and among these there was
certainly a lot of talk about 'going haunting' and things like that.
Yes--going haunting! They seemed to think 'haunting' a tremendous
adventure, and most of them funked it all the time. And so primed,
you know, he had come."

"But really!" said Wish to the fire.

"These are the impressions he gave me, anyhow," said Clayton, modestly.
"I may, of course, have been in a rather uncritical state, but that
was the sort of background he gave to himself. He kept flitting up and
down, with his thin voice going talking, talking about his wretched
self, and never a word of clear, firm statement from first to last.
He was thinner and sillier and more pointless than if he had been
real and alive. Only then, you know, he would not have been in my
bedroom here--if he HAD been alive. I should have kicked him out."

"Of course," said Evans, "there ARE poor mortals like that."

"And there's just as much chance of their having ghosts as the rest
of us," I admitted.

"What gave a sort of point to him, you know, was the fact that
he did seem within limits to have found himself out. The mess he had
made of haunting had depressed him terribly. He had been told
it would be a 'lark'; he had come expecting it to be a 'lark,'
and here it was, nothing but another failure added to his record!
He proclaimed himself an utter out-and-out failure. He said, and
I can quite believe it, that he had never tried to do anything all
his life that he hadn't made a perfect mess of--and through all
the wastes of eternity he never would. If he had had sympathy,
perhaps--. He paused at that, and stood regarding me. He remarked that,
strange as it might seem to me, nobody, not any one, ever, had given
him the amount of sympathy I was doing now. I could see what he wanted
straight away, and I determined to head him off at once. I may be a
brute, you know, but being the Only Real Friend, the recipient of the
confidences of one of these egotistical weaklings, ghost or body, is
beyond my physical endurance. I got up briskly. 'Don't you brood on
these things too much,' I said. 'The thing you've got to do is to get
out of this get out of this--sharp. You pull yourself together and
TRY.' 'I can't,' he said. 'You try,' I said, and try he did."

"Try!" said Sanderson. "HOW?"

"Passes," said Clayton.


"Complicated series of gestures and passes with the hands. That's
how he had come in and that's how he had to get out again. Lord!
what a business I had!"

"But how could ANY series of passes--?" I began.

"My dear man," said Clayton, turning on me and putting a great
emphasis on certain words, "you want EVERYTHING clear. _I_ don't
know HOW. All I know is that you DO--that HE did, anyhow, at least.
After a fearful time, you know, he got his passes right and suddenly

"Did you," said Sanderson, slowly, "observe the passes?"

"Yes," said Clayton, and seemed to think. "It was tremendously queer,"
he said. "There we were, I and this thin vague ghost, in that silent
room, in this silent, empty inn, in this silent little Friday-night
town. Not a sound except our voices and a faint panting he made when
he swung. There was the bedroom candle, and one candle on the dressing-
table alight, that was all--sometimes one or other would flare up into
a tall, lean, astonished flame for a space. And queer things happened.
'I can't,' he said; 'I shall never--!' And suddenly he sat down on
a little chair at the foot of the bed and began to sob and sob.
Lord! what a harrowing, whimpering thing he seemed!

"'You pull yourself together,' I said, and tried to pat him on the
back, and . . . my confounded hand went through him! By that time,
you know, I wasn't nearly so--massive as I had been on the landing.
I got the queerness of it full. I remember snatching back my hand out
of him, as it were, with a little thrill, and walking over to the
dressing-table. 'You pull yourself together,' I said to him, 'and
try.' And in order to encourage and help him I began to try as well."

"What!" said Sanderson, "the passes?"

"Yes, the passes."

"But--" I said, moved by an idea that eluded me for a space.

"This is interesting," said Sanderson, with his finger in his pipe-
bowl. "You mean to say this ghost of yours gave away--"

"Did his level best to give away the whole confounded barrier? YES."

"He didn't," said Wish; "he couldn't. Or you'd have gone there too."

"That's precisely it," I said, finding my elusive idea put into words
for me.

"That IS precisely it," said Clayton, with thoughtful eyes upon the

For just a little while there was silence.

"And at last he did it?" said Sanderson.

"At last he did it. I had to keep him up to it hard, but he did it
at last--rather suddenly. He despaired, we had a scene, and then
he got up abruptly and asked me to go through the whole performance,
slowly, so that he might see. 'I believe,' he said, 'if I could SEE
I should spot what was wrong at once.' And he did. '_I_ know,'
he said. 'What do you know?' said I. '_I_ know,' he repeated.
Then he said, peevishly, 'I CAN'T do it if you look at me--I really
CAN'T; it's been that, partly, all along. I'm such a nervous fellow
that you put me out.' Well, we had a bit of an argument. Naturally
I wanted to see; but he was as obstinate as a mule, and suddenly
I had come over as tired as a dog--he tired me out. 'All right,'
I said, '_I_ won't look at you,' and turned towards the mirror,
on the wardrobe, by the bed.

He started off very fast. I tried to follow him by looking in
the looking-glass, to see just what it was had hung. Round went
his arms and his hands, so, and so, and so, and then with a rush
came to the last gesture of all--you stand erect and open out your
arms--and so, don't you know, he stood. And then he didn't! He didn't!
He wasn't! I wheeled round from the looking-glass to him. There was
nothingl I was alone, with the flaring candles and a staggering mind.
What had happened? Had anything happened? Had I been dreaming? . . .
And then, with an absurd note of finality about it, the clock upon
the landing discovered the moment was ripe for striking ONE. So!--Ping!
And I was as grave and sober as a judge, with all my champagne and
whisky gone into the vast serene. Feeling queer, you know--confoundedly
QUEER! Queer! Good Lord!"

He regarded his cigar-ash for a moment. "That's all that happened," he

"And then you went to bed?" asked Evans.

"What else was there to do?"

I looked Wish in the eye. We wanted to scoff, and there was something,
something perhaps in Clayton's voice and manner, that hampered our

"And about these passes?" said Sanderson.

"I believe I could do them now."

"Oh!" said Sanderson, and produced a penknife and set himself to grub
the dottel out of the bowl of his clay.

"Why don't you do them now?" said Sanderson, shutting his pen-knife
with a click.

"That's what I'm going to do," said Clayton.

"They won't work," said Evans.

"If they do--" I suggested.

"You know, I'd rather you didn't," said Wish, stretching out his legs.

"Why?" asked Evans.

"I'd rather he didn't," said Wish.

"But he hasn't got 'em right," said Sanderson, plugging too much
tobacco in his pipe.

"All the same, I'd rather he didn't," said Wish.

We argued with Wish. He said that for Clayton to go through those
gestures was like mocking a serious matter. "But you don't believe--?"
I said. Wish glanced at Clayton, who was staring into the fire, weighing
something in his mind. "I do--more than half, anyhow, I do," said Wish.

"Clayton," said I, "you're too good a liar for us. Most of it was
all right. But that disappearance . . . happened to be convincing.
Tell us, it's a tale of cock and bull."

He stood up without heeding me, took the middle of the hearthrug,
and faced me. For a moment he regarded his feet thoughtfully, and
then for all the rest of the time his eyes were on the opposite wall,
with an intent expression. He raised his two hands slowly to the level
of his eyes and so began. . . .

Now, Sanderson is a Freemason, a member of the lodge of the Four Kings,
which devotes itself so ably to the study and elucidation of all the
mysteries of Masonry past and present, and among the students of this
lodge Sanderson is by no means the least. He followed Clayton's motions
with a singular interest in his reddish eye. "That's not bad," he said,
when it was done. "You really do, you know, put things together,
Clayton, in a most amazing fashion. But there's one little detail out."

"I know," said Clayton. "I believe I could tell you which."


"This," said Clayton, and did a queer little twist and writhing
and thrust of the hands.


"That, you know, was what HE couldn't get right," said Clayton.
"But how do YOU--?"

"Most of this business, and particularly how you invented it, I don't
understand at all," said Sanderson, "but just that phase--I do."
He reflected. "These happen to be a series of gestures--connected
with a certain branch of esoteric Masonry. Probably you know.
Or else--HOW?" He reflected still further. "I do not see I can do
any harm in telling you just the proper twist. After all, if you know,
you know; if you don't, you don't."

"I know nothing," said Clayton, "except what the poor devil let
out last night."

"Well, anyhow," said Sanderson, and placed his churchwarden very
carefully upon the shelf over the fireplace. Then very rapidly he
gesticulated with his hands.

"So?" said Clayton, repeating.

"So," said Sanderson, and took his pipe in hand again.

"Ah, NOW," said Clayton, "I can do the whole thing--right."

He stood up before the waning fire and smiled at us all. But I think
there was just a little hesitation in his smile. "If I begin--"
he said.

"I wouldn't begin," said Wish.

"It's all right!" said Evans. "Matter is indestructible. You don't
think any jiggery-pokery of this sort is going to snatch Clayton
into the world of shades. Not it! You may try, Clayton, so far as
I'm concerned, until your arms drop off at the wrists."

"I don't believe that," said Wish, and stood up and put his arm
on Clayton's shoulder. "You've made me half believe in that story
somehow, and I don't want to see the thing done!"

"Goodness!" said I, "here's Wish frightened!"

"I am," said Wish, with real or admirably feigned intensity. "I
believe that if he goes through these motions right he'll GO."

"He'll not do anything of the sort," I cried. "There's only one way
out of this world for men, and Clayton is thirty years from that.
Besides . . . And such a ghost! Do you think--?"

Wish interrupted me by moving. He walked out from among our chairs
and stopped beside the tole and stood there. "Clayton," he said,
"you're a fool."

Clayton, with a humorous light in his eyes, smiled back at him.
"Wish," he said, "is right and all you others are wrong. I shall go.
I shall get to the end of these passes, and as the last swish whistles
through the air, Presto!--this hearthrug will be vacant, the room
will be blank amazement, and a respectably dressed gentleman of
fifteen stone will plump into the world of shades. I'm certain.
So will you be. I decline to argue further. Let the thing be tried."

"NO," said Wish, and made a step and ceased, and Clayton raised
his hands once more to repeat the spirit's passing.

By that time, you know, we were all in a state of tension--largely
because of the behaviour of Wish. We sat all of us with our eyes on
Clayton--I, at least, with a sort of tight, stiff feeling about me
as though from the back of my skull to the middle of my thighs my
body had been changed to steel. And there, with a gravity that was
imperturbably serene, Clayton bowed and swayed and waved his hands
and arms before us. As he drew towards the end one piled up, one
tingled in one's teeth. The last gesture, I have said, was to swing
the arms out wide open, with the face held up. And when at last he
swung out to this closing gesture I ceased even to breathe. It was
ridiculous, of course, but you know that ghost-story feeling. It was
after dinner, in a queer, old shadowy house. Would he, after all--?

There he stood for one stupendous moment, with his arms open and his
upturned face, assured and bright, in the glare of the hanging lamp.
We hung through that moment as if it were an age, and then came from
all of us something that was half a sigh of infinite relief and half a
reassuring "NO!" For visibly--he wasn't going. It was all nonsense.
He had told an idle story, and carried it almost to conviction, that
was all! . . . And then in that moment the face of Clayton, changed.

It changed. It changed as a lit house changes when its lights are
suddenly extinguished. His eyes were suddenly eyes that were fixed,
his smile was frozen on his lips, and he stood there still. He stood
there, very gently swaying.

That moment, too, was an age. And then, you know, chairs were scraping,
things were falling, and we were all moving. His knees seemed to give,
and he fell forward, and Evans rose and caught him in his arms. . . .

It stunned us all. For a minute I suppose no one said a coherent
thing. We believed it, yet could not believe it. . . . I came out
of a muddled stupefaction to find myself kneeling beside him,
and his vest and shirt were torn open, and Sanderson's hand lay
on his heart. . . .

Well--the simple fact before us could very well wait our convenience;
there was no hurry for us to comprehend. It lay there for an hour;
it lies athwart my memory, black and amazing still, to this day.
Clayton had, indeed, passed into the world that lies so near to
and so far from our own, and he had gone thither by the only road
that mortal man may take. But whether he did indeed pass there
by that poor ghost's incantation, or whether he was stricken suddenly
by apoplexy in the midst of an idle tale--as the coroner's jury would
have us believe--is no matter for my judging; it is just one of those
inexplicable riddles that must remain unsolved until the final solution
of all things shall come. All I certainly know is that, in the very
moment, in the very instant, of concluding those passes, he changed,
and staggered, and fell down before us--dead!


"It isn't every one who's been a god," said the sunburnt man. "But
it's happened to me. Among other things."

I intimated my sense of his condescension.

"It don't leave much for ambition, does it?" said the sunburnt man.

"I was one of those men who were saved from the Ocean Pioneer.
Gummy! how time flies! It's twenty years ago. I doubt if you'll
remember anything of the Ocean Pioneer?"

The name was familiar, and I tried to recall when and where I had
read it. The Ocean Pioneer? "Something about gold dust," I said
vaguely, "but the precise--"

"That's it," he said. "In a beastly little channel she hadn't no
business in--dodging pirates. It was before they'd put the kybosh
on that business. And there'd been volcanoes or something and all
the rocks was wrong. There's places about by Soona where you fair
have to follow the rocks about to see where they're going next.
Down she went in twenty fathoms before you could have dealt for whist,
with fifty thousand pounds worth of gold aboard, it was said,
in one form or another."



"I remember the case now," I said. "There was something about salvage--"

But at the word salvage the sunburnt man exploded into language so
extraordinarily horrible that I stopped aghast. He came down to more
ordinary swearing, and pulled himself up abruptly. "Excuse me,"
he said, "but--salvage!"

He leant over towards me. "I was in that job," he said. "Tried to make
myself a rich man, and got made a god instead. I've got my feelings--

"It ain't all jam being a god," said the sunburnt man, and for some
time conversed by means of such pithy but unprogressive axioms.
At last he took up his tale again.

"There was me," said the sunburnt man, "and a seaman named Jacobs,
and Always, the mate of the Ocean Pioneer. And him it was that set
the whole thing going. I remember him now, when we was in the
jolly-boat, suggesting it all to our minds just by one sentence.
He was a wonderful hand at suggesting things. 'There was forty
thousand pounds,' he said, 'on that ship, and it's for me to say
just where she went down.' It didn't need much brains to tumble
to that. And he was the leader from the first to the last. He got
hold of the Sanderses and their brig; they were brothers, and
the brig was the Pride of Banya, and he it was bought the diving-dress--
a second-hand one with a compressed air apparatus instead of pumping.
He'd have done the diving too, if it hadn't made him sick going down.
And the salvage people were mucking about with a chart he'd cooked up,
as solemn as could be, at Starr Race, a hundred and twenty miles away.

"I can tell you we was a happy lot aboard that brig, jokes and drink
and bright hopes all the time. It all seemed so neat and clean
and straightforward, and what rough chaps call a 'cert.' And we
used to speculate how the other blessed lot, the proper salvagers,
who'd started two days before us, were getting on, until our sides
fairly ached. We all messed together in the Sanderses' cabin--it
was a curious crew, all officers and no men--and there stood the
diving-dress waiting its turn. Young Sanders was a humorous sort of
chap, and there certainly was something funny in the confounded
thing's great fat head and its stare, and he made us see it too.
'Jimmie Goggles,' he used to call it, and talk to it like a Christian.
Asked if he was married, and how Mrs. Goggles was, and all the little
Goggleses. Fit to make you split. And every blessed day all of us
used to drink the health of Jimmy Goggles in rum, and unscrew his eye
and pour a glass of rum in him, until, instead of that nasty
mackintosheriness, he smelt as nice in his inside as a cask of rum.
It was jolly times we had in those days, I can tell you--little
suspecting, poor chaps! what was a-coming.

"We weren't going to throw away our chances by any blessed hurry,
you know, and we spent a whole day sounding our way towards where
the Ocean Pioneer had gone down, right between two chunks of ropy
grey rock--lava rocks that rose nearly out of the water. We had
to lay off about half a mile to get a safe anchorage, and there was
a thundering row who should stop on board. And there she lay just
as she had gone down, so that you could see the top of the masts
that was still standing perfectly distinctly. The row ending in
all coming in the boat. I went down in the diving-dress on Friday
morning directly it was light.

"What a surprise it was! I can see it all now quite distinctly.
It was a queer-looking place, and the light was just coming. People
over here think every blessed place in the tropics is a flat shore
and palm trees and surf, bless 'em! This place, for instance,
wasn't a bit that way. Not common rocks they were, undermined
by waves; but great curved banks like ironwork cinder heaps,
with green slime below, and thorny shrubs and things just waving
upon them here and there, and the water glassy calm and clear,
and showing you a kind of dirty grey-black shine, with huge flaring
red-brown weeds spreading motionless, and crawling and darting
things going through it. And far away beyond the ditches and pools
and the heaps was a forest on the mountain flank, growing again after
the fires and cinder showers of the last eruption. And the other way
forest, too, and a kind of broken--what is it?--ambytheatre of black
and rusty cinders rising out of it all, and the sea in a kind of bay
in the middle.

"The dawn, I say, was just coming, and there wasn't much colour
about things, and not a human being but ourselves anywhere in sight
up or down the channel. Except the Pride of Banya, lying out beyond
a lump of rocks towards the line of the sea.

"Not a human being in sight," he repeated, and paused.

"I don't know where they came from, not a bit. And we were feeling
so safe that we were all alone that poor young Sanders was a-singing.
I was in Jimmy Goggles, all except the helmet. 'Easy,' says Always,
'there's her mast.' And after I'd had just one squint over the gunwale,
I caught up the bogey and almost tipped out as old Sanders brought
the boat round. When the windows were screwed and everything was
all right, I shut the valve from the air belt in order to help
my sinking, and jumped overboard, feet foremost--for we hadn't
a ladder. I left the boat pitching, and all of them staring down
into the water after me, as my head sank down into the weeds and
blackness that lay about the mast. I suppose nobody, not the most
cautious chap in the world, would have bothered about a lookout
at such a desolate place. It stunk of solitude.

"Of course you must understand that I was a greenhorn at diving.
None of us were divers. We'd had to muck about with the thing to get
the way of it, and this was the first time I'd been deep. It feels
damnable. Your ears hurt beastly. I don't know if you've ever hurt
yourself yawning or sneezing, but it takes you like that, only ten
times worse. And a pain over the eyebrows here--splitting--and a
feeling like influenza in the head. And it isn't all heaven in your
lungs and things. And going down feels like the beginning of a lift,
only it keeps on. And you can't turn your head to see what's above you,
and you can't get a fair squint at what's happening to your feet
without bending down something painful. And being deep it was dark,
let alone the blackness of the ashes and mud that formed the bottom.
It was like going down out of the dawn back into the night, so to speak.

"The mast came up like a ghost out of the black, and then a lot of
fishes, and then a lot of flapping red seaweed, and then whack I came
with a kind of dull bang on the deck of the Ocean Pioneer, and the
fishes that had been feeding on the dead rose about me like a swarm of
flies from road stuff in summer time. I turned on the compressed air
again--for the suit was a bit thick and mackintoshery after all, in
spite of the rum--and stood recovering myself. It struck coolish down
there, and that helped take off the stuffiness a bit.

"When I began to feel easier, I started looking about me. It was
an extraordinary sight. Even the light was extraordinary, a kind
of reddy-coloured twilight, on account of the streamers of seaweed
that floated up on either side of the ship. And far overhead just
a moony, deep green-blue. The deck of the ship, except for a slight
list to starboard, was level, and lay all dark and long between
the weeds, clear except where the masts had snapped when she rolled,
and vanishing into black night towards the forecastle. There wasn't
any dead on the decks, most were in the weeds alongside, I suppose;
but afterwards I found two skeletons lying in the passengers' cabins,
where death had come to them. It was curious to stand on that deck
and recognise it all, bit by bit; a place against the rail where I'd
been fond of smoking by starlight, and the corner where an old chap
from Sydney used to flirt with a widow we had aboard. A comfortable
couple they'd been, only a month ago, and now you couldn't have
got a meal for a baby crab off either of them.

"I've always had a bit of a philosophical turn, and I dare say I
spent the best part of five minutes in such thoughts before I went
below to find where the blessed dust was stored. It was slow work
hunting, feeling it was for the most part, pitchy dark, with confusing
blue gleams down the companion. And there were things moving about,
a dab at my glass once, and once a pinch at my leg. Crabs, I expect.
I kicked a lot of loose stuff that puzzled me, and stooped and
picked up something all knobs and spikes. What do you think?
Backbone! But I never had any particular feeling for bones. We
had talked the affair over pretty thoroughly, and Always knew just
where the stuff was stowed. I found it that trip. I lifted a box
one end an inch or more."

He broke off in his story. "I've lifted it," he said, "as near as
that! Forty thousand pounds worth of pure gold! Gold! I shouted
inside my helmet as a kind of cheer and hurt my ears. I was getting
confounded stuffy and tired by this time--I must have been down
twenty-five minutes or more--and I thought this was good enough.
I went up the companion again, and as my eyes came up flush with
the deck, a thundering great crab gave a kind of hysterical jump
and went scuttling off sideways. Quite a start it gave me. I stood
up clear on deck and shut the valve behind the helmet to let the air
accumulate to carry me up again--I noticed a kind of whacking
from above, as though they were hitting the water with an oar,
but I didn't look up. I fancied they were signalling me to come up.

"And then something shot down by me--something heavy, and stood
a-quiver in the planks. I looked, and there was a long knife I'd
seen young Sanders handling. Thinks I, he's dropped it, and I was
still calling him this kind of fool and that--for it might have hurt
me serious--when I began to lift and drive up towards the daylight.
Just about the level of the top spars of the Ocean Pioneer, whack!
I came against something sinking down, and a boot knocked in front
of my helmet. Then something else, struggling frightful. It was
a big weight atop of me, whatever it was, and moving and twisting
about. I'd have thought it a big octopus, or some such thing, if it
hadn't been for the boot. But octopuses don't wear boots. It was
all in a moment, of course. I felt myself sinking down again, and
I threw my arms about to keep steady, and the whole lot rolled
free of me and shot down as I went up--"

He paused.

"I saw young Sanders's face, over a naked black shoulder, and a spear
driven clean through his neck, and out of his mouth and neck what
looked like spirts of pink smoke in the water. And down they went
clutching one another, and turning over, and both too far gone
to leave go. And in another second my helmet came a whack, fit
to split, against the niggers' canoe. It was niggers! Two canoes full.

"It was lively times, I tell you! Overboard came Always with three
spears in him. There was the legs of three or four black chaps
kicking about me in the water. I couldn't see much, but I saw
the game was up at a glance, gave my valve a tremendous twist,
and went bubbling down again after poor Always, in as awful a state
of scare and astonishment as you can well imagine. I passed young
Sanders and the nigger going up again and struggling still a bit,
and in another moment I was standing in the dim again on the deck
of the Ocean Pioneer.

"'Gummy,' thinks I, 'here's a fix!' Niggers? At first I couldn't see
anything for it but Stifle below or Stabs above. I didn't properly
understand how much air there was to last me, but I didn't feel like
standing very much more of it down below. I was hot and frightfully
heady--quite apart from the blue funk I was in. We'd never repined
with these beastly natives, filthy Papuan beasts. It wasn't any good,
coming up where I was, but I had to do something. On the spur
of the moment, I clambered over the side of the brig and landed
among the weeds, and set off through the darkness as fast as I could.
I just stopped once and knelt, and twisted back my head in the helmet
and had a look up. It was a most extraordinary bright green-blue above,
and the two canoes and the boat floating there very small and distant
like a kind of twisted H. And it made me feel sick to squint up at it,
and think what the pitching and swaying of the three meant.

"It was just about the most horrible ten minutes I ever had, blundering
about in that darkness, pressure something awful, like being buried
in sand, pain across the chest, sick with funk, and breathing nothing
as it seemed but the smell of rum and mackintosh. Gummy! After a bit,
I found myself going up a steepish sort of slope. I had another
squint to see if anything was visible of the canoes and boats,
and then kept on. I stopped with my head a foot from the surface,
and tried to see where I was going, but, of course, nothing was
to be seen but the reflection of the bottom. Then out I dashed like
knocking my head through a mirror. Directly I got my eyes out of
the water, I saw I'd come up a kind of beach near the forest. I had a
look round, but the natives and the brig were both hidden by a big,
hummucky heap of twisted lava, the born fool in me suggested a run
for the woods. I didn't take the helmet off, but eased open one of
the windows, and, after a bit of a pant, went on out of the water.
You'd hardly imagine how clean and light the air tasted.

"Of course, with four inches of lead in your boot soles, and your
head in a copper knob the size of a football, and been thirty-five
minutes under water, you don't break any records running. I ran like
a ploughboy going to work. And half way to the trees I saw a dozen
niggers or more, coming out in a gaping, astonished sort of way
to meet me.

"I just stopped dead, and cursed myself for all the fools out of
London. I had about as much chance of cutting back to the water as
a turned turtle. I just screwed up my window again to leave my hands
free, and waited for them. There wasn't anything else for me to do.

"But they didn't come on very much. I began to suspect why. 'Jimmy
Goggles,' I says, 'it's your beauty does it.' I was inclined to be a
little light-headed, I think, with all these dangers about and the
change in the pressure of the blessed air. 'Who're ye staring at?' I
said, as if the savages could hear me. 'What d'ye take me for? I'm
hanged if I don't give you something to stare at,' I said, and with
that I screwed up the escape valve and turned on the compressed air
from the belt, until I was swelled out like a blown frog. Regular
imposing it must have been. I'm blessed if they'd come on a step;
and presently one and then another went down on their hands and knees.
They didn't know what to make of me, and they was doing the extra
polite, which was very wise and reasonable of them. I had half a mind
to edge back seaward and cut and run, but it seemed too hopeless. A
step back and they'd have been after me. And out of sheer desperation
I began to march towards them up the beach, with slow, heavy steps,
and waving my blown-out arms about, in a dignified manner. And inside
of me I was singing as small as a tomtit.

"But there's nothing like a striking appearance to help a man over a
difficulty,--I've found that before and since. People like ourselves,
who're up to diving-dresses by the time we're seven, can scarcely
imagine the effect of one on a simple-minded savage. One or two
of these niggers cut and run, the others started in a great hurry
trying to knock their brains out on the ground. And on I went as
slow and solemn and silly-looking and artful as a jobbing plumber.
It was evident they took me for something immense.

"Then up jumped one and began pointing, making extraordinary gestures
to me as he did so, and all the others began sharing their attention
between me and something out at sea. 'What's the matter now?' I said.
I turned slowly on account of my dignity, and there I saw, coming
round a point, the poor old Pride of Banya towed by a couple of canoes.
The sight fairly made me sick. But they evidently expected some
recognition, so I waved my arms in a striking sort of non-committal
manner. And then I turned and stalked on towards the trees again.
At that time I was praying like mad, I remember, over and over again:
'Lord help me through with it! Lord help me through with it!' It's
only fools who know nothing of dangers can afford to laugh at praying.

"But these niggers weren't going to let me walk through and away
like that. They started a kind of bowing dance about me, and sort of
pressed me to take a pathway that lay through the trees. It was
clear to me they didn't take me for a British citizen, whatever
else they thought of me, and for my own part I was never less anxious
to own up to the old country.

"You'd hardly believe it, perhaps, unless you're familiar with
savages, but these poor misguided, ignorant creatures took me
straight to their kind of joss place to present me to the blessed
old black stone there. By this time I was beginning to sort of realise
the depth of their ignorance, and directly I set eyes on this deity
I took my cue. I started a baritone howl, 'wow-wow,' very long
on one note, and began waving my arms about a lot, and then very
slowly and ceremoniously turned their image over on its side and
sat down on it. I wanted to sit down badly, for diving-dresses ain't
much wear in the tropics. Or, to put it different like, they're
a sight too much. It took away their breath, I could see, my sitting
on their joss, but in less time than a minute they made up their
minds and were hard at work worshipping me. And I can tell you
I felt a bit relieved to see things turning out so well, in spite
of the weight on my shoulders and feet.

"But what made me anxious was what the chaps in the canoes might
think when they came back. If they'd seen me in the boat before
I went down, and without the helmet on--for they might have been
spying and hiding since over night--they would very likely take
a different view from the others. I was in a deuce of a stew about
that for hours, as it seemed, until the shindy of the arrival began.

"But they took it down--the whole blessed village took it down.
At the cost of sitting up stiff and stern, as much like those sitting
Egyptian images one sees as I could manage, for pretty nearly
twelve hours, I should guess at least, on end, I got over it. You'd
hardly think what it meant in that heat and stink. I don't think
any of them dreamt of the man inside. I was just a wonderful leathery
great joss that had come up with luck out of the water. But the fatigue!
the heat! the beastly closeness! the mackintosheriness and the rum!
and the fuss! They lit a stinking fire on a kind of lava slab there
was before me, and brought in a lot of gory muck--the worst parts
of what they were feasting on outside, the Beasts--and burnt it
all in my honour. I was getting a bit hungry, but I understand now
how gods manage to do without eating, what with the smell of burnt
offerings about them. And they brought in a lot of the stuff they'd
got off the brig and, among other stuff, what I was a bit relieved
to see, the kind of pneumatic pump that was used for the compressed
air affair, and then a lot of chaps and girls came in and danced
about me something disgraceful. It's extraordinary the different ways
different people have of showing respect. If I'd had a hatchet handy
I'd have gone for the lot of them--they made me feel that wild.
All this time I sat as stiff as company, not knowing anything better
to do. And at last, when nightfall came, and the wattle joss-house
place got a bit too shadowy for their taste--all these here savages
are afraid of the dark, you know--and I started a sort of 'Moo' noise,
they built big bonfires outside and left me alone in peace in the
darkness of my hut, free to unscrew my windows a bit and think
things over, and feel just as bad as I liked. And, Lord! I was sick.

"I was weak and hungry, and my mind kept on behaving like a beetle
on a pin, tremendous activity and nothing done at the end of it.
Come round just where it was before. There was sorrowing for the other
chaps, beastly drunkards certainly, but not deserving such a fate,
and young Sanders with the spear through his neck wouldn't go out
of my mind. There was the treasure down there in the Ocean Pioneer,
and how one might get it and hide it somewhere safer, and get away
and come back for it. And there was the puzzle where to get anything
to eat. I tell you I was fair rambling. I was afraid to ask by signs
for food, for fear of behaving too human, and so there I sat and
hungered until very near the dawn. Then the village got a bit quiet,
and I couldn't stand it any longer, and I went out and got some stuff
like artichokes in a bowl and some sour milk. What was left of these
I put away among the other offerings, just to give them a hint
of my tastes. And in the morning they came to worship, and found
me sitting up stiff and respectable on their previous god, just as
they'd left me overnight. I'd got my back against the central pillar
of the hut, and, practically, I was asleep. And that's how I became
a god among the heathen--a false god no doubt, and blasphemous,
but one can't always pick and choose.

"Now, I don't want to crack myself up as a god beyond my merits,
but I must confess that while I was god to these people they was
extraordinary successful. I don't say there's anything in it,
mind you. They won a battle with another tribe--I got a lot of
offerings I didn't want through it--they had wonderful fishing,
and their crop of pourra was exceptional fine. And they counted
the capture of the brig among the benefits I brought 'em. I must
say I don't think that was a poor record for a perfectly new hand.
And, though perhaps you'd scarcely credit it, I was the tribal god
of those beastly savages for pretty nearly four months. . . .

"What else could I do, man? But I didn't wear that diving-dress
all the time. I made 'em rig me up a sort of holy of holies, and
a deuce of a time I had too, making them understand what it was
I wanted them to do. That indeed was the great difficulty--making
them understand my wishes. I couldn't let myself down by talking their
lingo badly--even if I'd been able to speak at all--and I couldn't
go flapping a lot of gestures at them. So I drew pictures in sand
and sat down beside them and hooted like one o'clock. Sometimes
they did the things I wanted all right, and sometimes they did them
all wrong. They was always very willing, certainly. All the while
I was puzzling how I was to get the confounded business settled.
Every night before the dawn I used to march out in full rig and go off
to a place where I could see the channel in which the Ocean Pioneer
lay sunk, and once even, one moonlight night, I tried to walk out
to her, but the weeds and rocks and dark clean beat me. I didn't get
back till full day, and then I found all those silly niggers out on
the beach praying their sea-god to return to them. I was that vexed
and tired, messing and tumbling about, and coming up and going down
again, I could have punched their silly heads all round when they
started rejoicing. I'm hanged if I like so much ceremony.

"And then came the missionary. That missionary! It was in the afternoon,
and I was sitting in state in my outer temple place, sitting on
that old black stone of theirs when he came. I heard a row outside
and jabbering, and then his voice speaking to an interpreter.
'They worship stocks and stones,' he said, and I knew what was up,
in a flash. I had one of my windows out for comfort, and I sang out
straight away on the spur of the moment. 'Stocks and stones!' I says.
'You come inside,' I says, 'and I'll punch your blooming head.'
There was a kind of silence and more jabbering, and in he came,
Bible in hand, after the manner of them--a little sandy chap in specks
and a pith helmet. I flatter myself that me sitting there in
the shadows, with my copper head and my big goggles, struck him
a bit of a heap at first. 'Well,' I says, 'how's the trade in calico?'
for I don't hold with missionaries.

"I had a lark with that missionary. He was a raw hand, and quite
outclassed with a man like me. He gasped out who was I, and I told
him to read the inscription at my feet if he wanted to know. Down
he goes to read, and his interpreter, being of course as superstitious
as any of them, took it as an act of worship and plumped down like
a shot. All my people gave a howl of triumph, and there wasn't
any more business to be done in my village after that journey,
not by the likes of him.

"But, of course, I was a fool to choke him off like that. If I'd had
any sense I should have told him straight away of the treasure
and taken him into Co. I've no doubt he'd have come into Co. A child,
with a few hours to think it over, could have seen the connection
between my diving-dress and the loss of the Ocean Pioneer. A week
after he left I went out one morning and saw the Motherhood, the
salver's ship from Starr Race, towing up the channel and sounding.
The whole blessed game was up, and all my trouble thrown away. Gummy!
How wild I felt! And guying it in that stinking silly dress! Four

The sunburnt man's story degenerated again. "Think of it," he said,
when he emerged to linguistic purity once more. "Forty thousand
pounds worth of gold."

"Did the little missionary come back?" I asked.

"Oh, yes! Bless him! And he pledged his reputation there was a man
inside the god, and started out to see as much with tremendous
ceremony. But there wasn't--he got sold again. I always did hate
scenes and explanations, and long before he came I was out of it
all--going home to Banya along the coast, hiding in bushes by day,
and thieving food from the villages by night. Only weapon, a spear.
No clothes, no money. Nothing. My face was my fortune, as the saying
is. And just a squeak of eight thousand pounds of gold--fifth share.
But the natives cut up rusty, thank goodness, because they thought
it was him had driven their luck away."


Certainly, if ever a man found a guinea when he was looking for a pin
it is my good friend Professor Gibberne. I have heard before of
investigators overshooting the mark, but never quite to the extent
that he has done. He has really, this time at any rate, without any
touch of exaggeration in the phrase, found something to revolutionise
human life. And that when he was simply seeking an all-round nervous
stimulant to bring languid people up to the stresses of these pushful
days. I have tasted the stuff now several times, and I cannot do
better than describe the effect the thing had on me. That there are
astonishing experiences in store for all in search of new sensations
will become apparent enough.

Professor Gibberne, as many people know, is my neighbour in Folkestone.
Unless my memory plays me a trick, his portrait at various ages
has already appeared in The Strand Magazine--I think late in 1899;
but I am unable to look it up because I have lent that volume to
some one who has never sent it back. The reader may, perhaps,
recall the high forehead and the singularly long black eyebrows
that give such a Mephistophelian touch to his face. He occupies one
of those pleasant little detached houses in the mixed style that
make the western end of the Upper Sandgate Road so interesting.
His is the one with the Flemish gables and the Moorish portico,
and it is in the little room with the mullioned bay window that
he works when he is down here, and in which of an evening we have
so often smoked and talked together. He is a mighty jester, but,
besides, he likes to talk to me about his work; he is one of those
men who find a help and stimulus in talking, and so I have been
able to follow the conception of the New Accelerator right up from
a very early stage. Of course, the greater portion of his experimental
work is not done in Folkestone, but in Gower Street, in the fine
new laboratory next to the hospital that he has been the first to use.

As every one knows, or at least as all intelligent people know,
the special department in which Gibberne has gained so great
and deserved a reputation among physiologists is the action of drugs
upon the nervous system. Upon soporifics, sedatives, and anaesthetics
he is, I am told, unequalled. He is also a chemist of considerable
eminence, and I suppose in the subtle and complex jungle of riddles
that centres about the ganglion cell and the axis fibre there are
little cleared places of his making, little glades of illumination,
that, until he sees fit to publish his results, are still inaccessible
to every other living man. And in the last few years he has been
particularly assiduous upon this question of nervous stimulants,
and already, before the discovery of the New Accelerator, very
successful with them. Medical science has to thank him for at least
three distinct and absolutely safe invigorators of unrivalled value
to practising men. In cases of exhaustion the preparation known
as Gibberne's B Syrup has, I suppose, saved more lives already
than any lifeboat round the coast.

"But none of these little things begin to satisfy me yet," he told
me nearly a year ago. "Either they increase the central energy
without affecting the nerves or they simply increase the available
energy by lowering the nervous conductivity; and all of them are
unequal and local in their operation. One wakes up the heart and
viscera and leaves the brain stupefied, one gets at the brain
champagne fashion and does nothing good for the solar plexus, and
what I want--and what, if it's an earthly possibility, I mean to have--
is a stimulant that stimulates all round, that wakes you up for
a time from the crown of your head to the tip of your great toe,
and makes you go two--or even three--to everybody else's one. Eh?
That's the thing I'm after."

"It would tire a man," I said.

"Not a doubt of it. And you'd eat double or treble--and all that.
But just think what the thing would mean. Imagine yourself with
a little phial like this"--he held up a little bottle of green glass
and marked his points with it--"and in this precious phial is
the power to think twice as fast, move twice as quickly, do twice
as much work in a given time as you could otherwise do."

"But is such a thing possible?"

"I believe so. If it isn't, I've wasted my time for a year. These
various preparations of the hypophosphites, for example, seem
to show that something of the sort . . . Even if it was only one
and a half times as fast it would do."

"It WOULD do," I said.

"If you were a statesman in a corner, for example, time rushing up
against you, something urgent to be done, eh?"

"He could dose his private secretary," I said.

"And gain--double time. And think if YOU, for example, wanted
to finish a book."

"Usually," I said, "I wish I'd never begun 'em."

"Or a doctor, driven to death, wants to sit down and think out
a case. Or a barrister--or a man cramming for an examination."

"Worth a guinea a drop," said I, "and more to men like that."

"And in a duel, again," said Gibberne, "where it all depends on
your quickness in pulling the trigger."

"Or in fencing," I echoed.

"You see," said Gibberne, "if I get it as an all-round thing it will
really do you no harm at all--except perhaps to an infinitesimal
degree it brings you nearer old age. You will just have lived twice
to other people's once--"

"I suppose," I meditated, "in a duel--it would be fair?"

"That's a question for the seconds," said Gibberne.

I harked back further. "And you really think such a thing IS
possible?" I said.

"As possible," said Gibberne, and glanced at something that went
throbbing by the window, "as a motor-bus. As a matter of fact--"

He paused and smiled at me deeply, and tapped slowly on the edge
of his desk with the green phial. "I think I know the stuff. . . .
Already I've got something coming." The nervous smile upon his
face betrayed the gravity of his revelation. He rarely talked of
his actual experimental work unless things were very near the end.
"And it may be, it may be--I shouldn't be surprised--it may even
do the thing at a greater rate than twice."

"It will be rather a big thing," I hazarded.

"It will be, I think, rather a big thing."

But I don't think he quite knew what a big thing it was to be, for
all that.

I remember we had several talks about the stuff after that. "The New
Accelerator" he called it, and his tone about it grew more confident
on each occasion. Sometimes he talked nervously of unexpected
physiological results its use might have, and then he would get
a little unhappy; at others he was frankly mercenary, and we debated
long and anxiously how the preparation might be turned to commercial
account. "It's a good thing," said Gibberne, "a tremendous thing.
I know I'm giving the world something, and I think it only reasonable
we should expect the world to pay. The dignity of science is all
very well, but I think somehow I must have the monopoly of the stuff
for, say, ten years. I don't see why ALL the fun in life should go
to the dealers in ham."

My own interest in the coming drug certainly did not wane in the time.
I have always had a queer little twist towards metaphysics in my
mind. I have always been given to paradoxes about space and time,
and it seemed to me that Gibberne was really preparing no less
than the absolute acceleration of life. Suppose a man repeatedly
dosed with such a preparation: he would live an active and record
life indeed, but he would be an adult at eleven, middle-aged at
twenty-five, and by thirty well on the road to senile decay. It seemed
to me that so far Gibberne was only going to do for any one who
took his drug exactly what Nature has done for the Jews and Orientals,
who are men in their teens and aged by fifty, and quicker in thought
and act than we are all the time. The marvel of drugs has always
been great to my mind; you can madden a man, calm a man, make him
incredibly strong and alert or a helpless log, quicken this passion
and allay that, all by means of drugs, and here was a new miracle
to be added to this strange armoury of phials the doctors use!
But Gibberne was far too eager upon his technical points to enter
very keenly into my aspect of the question.

It was the 7th or 8th of August when he told me the distillation
that would decide his failure or success for a time was going forward
as we talked, and it was on the 10th that he told me the thing was
done and the New Accelerator a tangible reality in the world. I met
him as I was going up the Sandgate Hill towards Folkestone--I think

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