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A House-Boat on the Styx by John Kendrick Bangs

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to the lines put in his mouth. There is nothing I'd like better than
to manage a theatre in this place, but think of the riots we'd have!
Suppose, for an instant, that I wrote a play about Bonaparte! He'd
have a box, and when the rest of you spooks called for the author at
the end of the third act, if he didn't happen to like the play he'd
greet me with a salvo of artillery instead of applause."

"He wouldn't if you made him out a great conqueror from start to
finish," said Tennyson.

"No doubt," returned Shakespeare, sadly; "but in that event
Wellington would be in the other stage-box, and I'd get the greeting
from him."

"Why come out at all?" asked Johnson.

"Why come out at all?" echoed Shakespeare. "What fun is there in
writing a play if you can't come out and show yourself at the first
night? That's the author's reward. If it wasn't for the first-night
business, though, all would be plain sailing."

"Then why don't you begin it the second night?" drawled Ward.

"How the deuce could you?" put in Carlyle.

"A most extraordinary proposition," sneered Johnson.

"Yes," said Ward; "but wait a week--you'll see the point then."

"There isn't any doubt in my mind," said Shakespeare, reverting to
his original proposition, "that the only perfectly satisfactory life
is under a system not yet adopted in either world--the one we have
quitted or this. There we had hard work in which our mortal
limitations hampered us grievously; here we have the freedom of the
immortal with no hard work; in other words, now that we feel like
fighting-cocks, there isn't any fighting to be done. The great life
in my estimation, would be to return to earth and battle with mortal
problems, but equipped mentally and physically with immortal
weapons."

"Some people don't know when they are well off," said Beau Brummel.
"This strikes me as being an ideal life. There are no tailors bills
to pay--we are ourselves nothing but memories, and a memory can
clothe himself in the shadow of his former grandeur--I clothe myself
in the remembrance of my departed clothes, and as my memory is good I
flatter myself I'm the best-dressed man here. The fact that there
are ghosts of departed unpaid bills haunting my bedside at night
doesn't bother me in the least, because the bailiffs that in the old
life lent terror to an overdue account, thanks to our beneficent
system here, are kept in the less agreeable sections of Hades. I
used to regret that bailiffs were such low people, but now I rejoice
at it. If they had been of a different order they might have proven
unpleasant here."

"You are right, my dear Brummel," interposed Munchausen. "This life
is far preferable to that in the other sphere. Any of you gentlemen
who happen to have had the pleasure of reading my memoirs must have
been struck with the tremendous difficulties that encumbered my
progress. If I wished for a rare liqueur for my luncheon, a liqueur
served only at the table of an Oriental potentate, more jealous of it
than of his one thousand queens, I had to raise armies, charter
ships, and wage warfare in which feats of incredible valor had to be
performed by myself alone and unaided to secure the desired
thimbleful. I have destroyed empires for a bon-bon at great expense
of nervous energy."

"That's very likely true," said Carlyle. "I should think your feats
of strength would have wrecked your imagination in time."

"Not so," said Munchausen. "On the contrary, continuous exercise
served only to make it stronger. But, as I was going to say, in this
life we have none of these fearful obstacles--it is a life of
leisure; and if I want a bird and a cold bottle at any time, instead
of placing my life in peril and jeopardizing the peace of all mankind
to get it, I have only to summon before me the memory of some
previous bird and cold bottle, dine thereon like a well-ordered
citizen, and smoke the spirit of the best cigar my imagination can
conjure up."

"You miss my point," said Shakespeare. "I don't say this life is
worse or better than the other we used to live. What I do say is
that a combination of both would suit me. In short, I'd like to live
here and go to the other world every day to business, like a suburban
resident who sleeps in the country and makes his living in the city.
For instance, why shouldn't I dwell here and go to London every day,
hire an office there, and put out a sign something like this:

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
DRAMATIST
Plays written while you wait

I guess I'd find plenty to do."

"Guess again," said Tennyson. "My dear boy, you forget one thing.
YOU ARE OUT OF DATE. People don't go to the theatres to hear YOU,
they go to see the people who DO you."

"That is true," said Ward. "And they do do you, my beloved William.
It's a wonder to me you are not dizzy turning over in your grave the
way they do you."

"Can it be that I can ever be out of date?" asked Shakespeare. "I
know, of course, that I have to be adapted at times; but to be wholly
out of date strikes me as a hard fate."

"You're not out of date," interposed Carlyle; "the date is out of
you. There is a great demand for Shakespeare in these days, but
there isn't any stuff."

"Then I should succeed," said Shakespeare.

"No, I don't think so," returned Carlyle. "You couldn't stand the
pace. The world revolves faster to-day than it did in your time--men
write three or four plays at once. This is what you might call a
Type-writer Age, and to keep up with the procession you'd have to
work as you never worked before."

"That is true," observed Tennyson. "You'd have to learn to be
ambidextrous, so that you could keep two type-writing machines going
at once; and, to be perfectly frank with you, I cannot even conjure
up in my fancy a picture of you knocking out a tragedy with the right
hand on one machine, while your left hand is fashioning a farce-
comedy on another."

"He might do as a great many modern writers do," said Ward; "go in
for the Paper-doll Drama. Cut the whole thing out with a pair of
scissors. As the poet might have said if he'd been clever enough:

Oh, bring me the scissors,
And bring me the glue,
And a couple of dozen old plays.
I'll cut out and paste
A drama for you
That'll run for quite sixty-two days.

Oh, bring me a dress
Made of satin and lace,
And a book--say Joe Miller's--of wit;
And I'll make the old dramatists
Blue in the face
With the play that I'll turn out for it.

So bring me the scissors,
And bring me the paste,
And a dozen fine old comedies;
A fine line of dresses,
And popular taste
I'll make a strong effort to please.

"You draw a very blue picture, it seems to me," said Shakespeare,
sadly.

"Well, it's true," said Carlyle. "The world isn't at all what it
used to be in any one respect, and you fellows who made great
reputations centuries ago wouldn't have even the ghost of a show now.
I don't believe Homer could get a poem accepted by a modern magazine,
and while the comic papers are still printing Diogenes' jokes the old
gentleman couldn't make enough out of them in these days to pay taxes
on his tub, let alone earning his bread."

"That is exactly so," said Tennyson. "I'd be willing to wager too
that, in the line of personal prowess, even D'Artagnan and Athos and
Porthos and Aramis couldn't stand London for one day."

"Or New York either," said Mr. Barnum, who had been an interested
listener. "A New York policeman could have managed that quartet with
one hand."

"Then," said Shakespeare, "in the opinion of you gentlemen, we old-
time lions would appear to modern eyes to be more or less stuffed?"

"That's about the size of it," said Carlyle.

"But you'd draw," said Barnum, his face lighting up with pleasure.
"You'd drive a five-legged calf to suicide from envy. If I could
take you and Caesar, and Napoleon Bonaparte and Nero over for one
circus season we'd drive the mint out of business."

"There's your chance, William," said Ward. "You write a play for
Bonaparte and Caesar, and let Nero take his fiddle and be the
orchestra. Under Barnum's management you'd get enough activity in
one season to last you through all eternity."

"You can count on me," said Barnum, rising. "Let me know when you've
got your plan laid out. I'd stay and make a contract with you now,
but Adam has promised to give me points on the management of wild
animals without cages, so I can't wait. By-by."

"Humph!" said Shakespeare, as the eminent showman passed out.
"That's a gay proposition. When monkeys move in polite society
William Shakespeare will make a side-show of himself for a circus."

"They do now," said Thackeray, quietly.

Which merely proved that Shakespeare did not mean what he said; for
in spite of Thackeray's insinuation as to the monkeys and polite
society, he has not yet accepted the Barnum proposition, though there
can be no doubt of its value from the point of view of a circus
manager.

CHAPTER IX: AS TO COOKERY AND SCULPTURE

Robert Burns and Homer were seated at a small table in the dining-
room of the house-boat, discussing everything in general and the
shade of a very excellent luncheon in particular.

"We are in great luck to-day," said Burns, as he cut a ruddy duck in
twain. "This bird is done just right."

"I agree with you," returned Homer, drawing his chair a trifle closer
to the table. "Compared to the one we had here last Thursday, this
is a feast for the gods. I wonder who it was that cooked this fowl
originally?"

"I give it up; but I suspect it was done by some man who knew his
business," said Burns, with a smack of his lips. "It's a pity, I
think, my dear Homer, that there is no means by which a cook may
become immortal. Cooking is as much of an art as is the writing of
poetry, and just as there are immortal poets so there should be
immortal cooks. See what an advantage the poet has--he writes
something, it goes out and reaches the inmost soul of the man who
reads it, and it is signed. His work is known because he puts his
name to it; but this poor devil of a cook--where is he? He has done
his work as well as the poet ever did his, it has reached the inmost
soul of the mortal who originally ate it, but he cannot get the glory
of it because he cannot put his name to it. If the cook could sign
his work it would be different."

"You have hit upon a great truth," said Homer, nodding, as he
sometimes was wont to do. "And yet I fear that, ingenious as we are,
we cannot devise a plan to remedy the matter. I do not know about
you, but I should myself much object if my birds and my flapjacks,
and other things, digestible and otherwise, that I eat here were
served with the cook's name written upon them. An omelette is
sometimes a picture--"

"I've seen omelettes that looked like one of Turner's sunsets,"
acquiesced Burns.

"Precisely; and when Turner puts down in one corner of his canvas,
'Turner, fecit,' you do not object, but if the cook did that with the
omelette you wouldn't like it."

"No," said Burns; "but he might fasten a tag to it, with his name
written upon that."

"That is so," said Homer; "but the result in the end would be the
same. The tags would get lost, or perhaps a careless waiter,
dropping a tray full of dainties, would get the tags of a good and
bad cook mixed in trying to restore the contents of the tray to their
previous condition. The tag system would fail."

"There is but one other way that I can think of," said Burns, "and
that would do no good now unless we can convey our ideas into the
other world; that is, for a great poet to lend his genius to the
great cook, and make the latter's name immortal by putting it into a
poem. Say, for instance, that you had eaten a fine bit of terrapin,
done to the most exquisite point--you could have asked the cook's
name, and written an apostrophe to her. Something like this, for
instance:

Oh, Dinah Rudd! oh, Dinah Rudd!
Thou art a cook of bluest blood!
Nowhere within
This world of sin
Have I e'er tasted better terrapin.

Do you see?"

"I do; but even then, my dear fellow, the cook would fall short of
true fame. Her excellence would be a mere matter of hearsay
evidence," said Homer.

"Not if you went on to describe, in a keenly analytical manner, the
virtues of that particular bit of terrapin," said Burns. "Draw so
vivid a picture of the dish that the reader himself would taste that
terrapin even as you tasted it."

"You have hit it!" cried Homer, enthusiastically. "It is a grand
plan; but how to introduce it--that is the question."

"We can haunt some modern poet, and give him the idea in that way,"
suggested Burns. "He will see the novelty of it, and will possibly
disseminate the idea as we wish it to be disseminated."

"Done!" said Homer. "I'll begin right away. I feel like haunting
to-night. I'm getting to be a pretty old ghost, but I'll never lose
my love of haunting."

At this point, as Homer spoke, a fine-looking spirit entered the
room, and took a seat at the head of the long table at which the
regular club dinner was nightly served.

"Why, bless me!" said Homer, his face lighting up with pleasure.
"Why, Phidias, is that you?"

"I think so," said the new-comer, wearily; "at any rate, it's all
that's left of me."

"Come over here and lunch with us," said Homer. "You know Burns,
don't you?"

"Haven't the pleasure," said Phidias.

The poet and the sculptor were introduced, after which Phidias seated
himself at Homer's side.

"Are you any relation to Burns the poet?" the former asked,
addressing the Scotchman.

"I AM Burns the poet," replied the other.

"You don't look much like your statues," said Phidias, scanning his
face critically.

"No, thank the Fates!" said Burns, warmly. "If I did, I'd commit
suicide."

"Why don't you sue the sculptors for libel?" asked Phidias.

"You speak with a great deal of feeling, Phidias," said Homer,
gravely. "Have they done anything to hurt you?"

"They have," said Phidias. "I have just returned from a tour of the
world. I have seen the things they call sculpture in these
degenerate days, and I must confess--who shouldn't, perhaps--that I
could have done better work with a baseball-bat for a chisel and
putty for the raw material."

"I think I could do good work with a baseball-bat too," said Burns;
"but as for the raw material, give me the heads of the men who have
sculped me to work on. I'd leave them so that they'd look like some
of your Parthenon frieze figures with the noses gone."

"You are a vindictive creature," said Homer. "These men you
criticise, and whose heads you wish to sculp with a baseball-bat,
have done more for you than you ever did for them. Every statue of
you these men have made is a standing advertisement of your books,
and it hasn't cost you a penny. There isn't a doubt in my mind that
if it were not for those statues countless people would go to their
graves supposing that the great Scottish Burns were little rivulets,
and not a poet. What difference does it make to you if they haven't
made an Adonis of you? You never set them an example by making one
of yourself. If there's deception anywhere, it isn't you that is
deceived; it is the mortals. And who cares about them or their
opinions?"

"I never thought of it in that way," said Burns. "I hate
caricatures--that is, caricatures of myself. I enjoy caricatures of
other people, but--"

"You have a great deal of the mortal left in you, considering that
you pose as an immortal," said Homer, interrupting the speaker.

"Well, so have I," said Phidias, resolved to stand by Burns in the
argument, "and I'm sorry for the man who hasn't. I was a mortal
once, and I'm glad of it. I had a good time, and I don't care who
knows it. When I look about me and see Jupiter, the arch-snob of
creation, and Mars, a little tin warrior who couldn't have fought a
soldier like Napoleon, with all his alleged divinity, I thank the
Fates that they enabled me to achieve immortality through mortal
effort. Hang hereditary greatness, I say. These men were born
immortals. You and I worked for it and got it. We know what it
cost. It was ours because we earned it, and not because we were born
to it. Eh, Burns?"

The Scotchman nodded assent, and the Greek sculptor went on.

"I am not vindictive myself, Homer," he said. "Nobody has hurt me,
and, on the whole, I don't think sculpture is in such a bad way,
after all. There's a shoemaker I wot of in the mortal realms who can
turn the prettiest last you ever saw; and I encountered a carver in a
London eating-house last month who turned out a slice of beef that
was cut as artistically as I could have done it myself. What I
object to chiefly is the tendency of the times. This is an
electrical age, and men in my old profession aren't content to turn
out one chef-d'oeuvre in a lifetime. They take orders by the gross.
I waited upon inspiration. To-day the sculptor waits upon custom,
and an artist will make a bust of anybody in any material desired as
long as he is sure of getting his pay afterwards. I saw a life-size
statue of the inventor of a new kind of lard the other day, and what
do you suppose the material was? Gold? Not by a great deal. Ivory?
Marble, even? Not a bit of it. He was done in lard, sir. I have
seen a woman's head done in butter, too, and it makes me distinctly
weary to think that my art should be brought so low."

"You did your best work in Greece," chuckled Homer.

"A bad joke, my dear Homer," retorted Phidias. "I thought sculpture
was getting down to a pretty low ebb when I had to fashion friezes
out of marble; but marble is more precious than rubies alongside of
butter and lard."

"Each has its uses," said Homer. "I'd rather have butter on my bread
than marble, but I must confess that for sculpture it is very poor
stuff, as you say."

"It is indeed," said Phidias. "For practice it's all right to use
butter, but for exhibition purposes--bah!"

Here Phidias, to show his contempt for butter as raw material in
sculpture, seized a wooden toothpick, and with it modelled a
beautiful head of Minerva out of the pat that stood upon the small
plate at his side, and before Burns could interfere had spread the
chaste figure as thinly as he could upon a piece of bread, which he
tossed to the shade of a hungry dog that stood yelping on the river-
bank.

"Heavens!" cried Burns. "Imperious Caesar dead and turned to bricks
is as nothing to a Minerva carved by Phidias used to stay the hunger
of a ravening cur."

"Well, it's the way I feel," said Phidias, savagely.

"I think you are a trifle foolish to be so eternally vexed about it,"
said Homer, soothingly. "Of course you feel badly, but, after all,
what's the use? You must know that the mortals would pay more for
one of your statues than they would for a specimen of any modern
sculptor's art; yes, even if yours were modelled in wine-jelly and
the other fellow's in pure gold. So why repine?"

"You'd feel the same way if poets did a similarly vulgar thing,"
retorted Phidias; "you know you would. If you should hear of a poet
to-day writing a poem on a thin layer of lard or butter, you would
yourself be the first to call a halt."

"No, I shouldn't," said Homer, quietly; "in fact, I wish the poets
would do that. We'd have fewer bad poems to read; and that's the way
you should look at it. I venture to say that if this modern plan of
making busts and friezes in butter had been adopted at an earlier
period, the public places in our great cities and our national
Walhallas would seem less like repositories of comic art, since the
first critical rays of a warm sun would have reduced the carven
atrocities therein to a spot on the pavement. The butter school of
sculpture has its advantages, my boy, and you should be crowning the
inventor of the system with laurel, and not heaping coals of fire
upon his brow."

"That," said Burns, "is, after all, the solid truth, Phidias. Take
the brass caricatures of me, for instance. Where would they be now
if they had been cast in lard instead of in bronze?"

Phidias was silent a moment.

"Well," he said, finally, as the value of the plan dawned upon his
mind, "from that point of view I don't know but what you are right,
after all; and, to show that I have spoken in no vindictive spirit,
let me propose a toast. Here's to the Butter Sculptors. May their
butter never give out."

The toast was drained to the dregs, and Phidias went home feeling a
little better.

CHAPTER X: STORY-TELLERS' NIGHT

It was Story-tellers' Night at the houseboat, and the best talkers of
Hades were impressed into the service. Doctor Johnson was made
chairman of the evening.

"Put him in the chair," said Raleigh. "That's the only way to keep
him from telling a story himself. If he starts in on a tale he'll
make it a serial sure as fate, but if you make him the medium through
which other story-tellers are introduced to the club he'll be finely
epigrammatic. He can be very short and sharp when he's talking about
somebody else. Personality is his forte."

"Great scheme," said Diogenes, who was chairman of the entertainment
committee. "The nights over here are long, but if Johnson started on
a story they'd have to reach twice around eternity and halfway back
to give him time to finish all he had to say."

"He's not very witty, in my judgment," said Carlyle, who since his
arrival in the other world has manifested some jealousy of Solomon
and Doctor Johnson.

"That's true enough," said Raleigh; "but he's strong, and he's bound
to say something that will put the audience in sympathy with the man
that he introduces, and that's half the success of a Story-tellers'
Night. I've told stories myself. If your audience doesn't
sympathize with you you'd be better off at home putting the baby to
bed."

And so it happened. Doctor Johnson was made chairman, and the
evening came. The Doctor was in great form. A list of the story-
tellers had been sent him in advance, and he was prepared. The
audience was about as select a one as can be found in Hades. The
doors were thrown open to the friends of the members, and the smoke-
furnace had been filled with a very superior quality of Arcadian
mixture which Scott had brought back from a haunting-trip to the home
of "The Little Minister," at Thrums.

"Friends and fellow-spooks," the Doctor began, when all were seated
on the visionary camp-stools--which, by the way, are far superior to
those in use in a world of realities, because they do not creak in
the midst of a fine point demanding absolute silence for
appreciation--"I do not know why I have been chosen to preside over
this gathering of phantoms; it is the province of the presiding
officer on occasions of this sort to say pleasant things, which he
does not necessarily endorse, about the sundry persons who are to do
the story-telling. Now, I suppose you all know me pretty well by
this time. If there is anybody who doesn't, I'll be glad to have him
presented after the formal work of the evening is over, and if I
don't like him I'll tell him so. You know that if I can be counted
upon for any one thing it is candor, and if I hurt the feelings of
any of these individuals whom I introduce to-night, I want them
distinctly to understand that it is not because I love them less, but
that I love truth more. With this--ah--blanket apology, as it were,
to cover all possible emergencies that may arise during the evening,
I will begin. The first speaker on the programme, I regret to
observe, is my friend Goldsmith. Affairs of this kind ought to begin
with a snap, and while Oliver is a most excellent writer, as a
speaker he is a pebbleless Demosthenes. If I had had the arrangement
of the programme I should have had Goldsmith tell his story while the
rest of us were down-stairs at supper. However, we must abide by our
programme, which is unconscionably long, for otherwise we will never
get through it. Those of you who agree with me as to the pleasure of
listening to my friend Goldsmith will do well to join me in the
grill-room while he is speaking, where, I understand, there is a very
fine line of punches ready to be served. Modest Noll, will you
kindly inflict yourself upon the gathering, and send me word when you
get through, if you ever do, so that I may return and present number
two to the assembly, whoever or whatever he may be?"

With these words the Doctor retired, and poor Goldsmith, pale with
fear, rose up to speak. It was evident that he was quite as doubtful
of his ability as a talker as was Johnson.

"I'm not much of a talker, or, as some say, speaker," he said.
"Talking is not my forte, as Doctor Johnson has told you, and I am
therefore not much at it. Speaking is not in my line. I cannot
speak or talk, as it were, because I am not particularly ready at the
making of a speech, due partly to the fact that I am not much of a
talker anyhow, and seldom if ever speak. I will therefore not bore
you by attempting to speak, since a speech by one who like myself is,
as you are possibly aware, not a fluent nor indeed in any sense an
eloquent speaker, is apt to be a bore to those who will be kind
enough to listen to my remarks, but will read instead the first five
chapters of the Vicar of Wakefield."

"Who suggested any such night as this, anyhow?" growled Carlyle.
"Five chapters of the Vicar of Wakefield for a starter! Lord save
us, we'll need a Vicar of Sleepfield if he's allowed to do this!"

"I move we adjourn," said Darwin.

"Can't something be done to keep these younger members quiet?" asked
Solomon, frowning upon Carlyle and Darwin.

"Yes," said Douglas Jerrold. "Let Goldsmith go on. He'll have them
asleep in ten minutes."

Meanwhile, Goldsmith was plodding earnestly through his stint,
utterly and happily oblivious of the effect he was having upon his
audience.

"This is awful," whispered Wellington to Bonaparte.

"Worse than Waterloo," replied the ex-Emperor, with a grin; "but we
can stop it in a minute. Artemas Ward told me once how a camp-
meeting he attended in the West broke up to go outside and see a dog-
fight. Can't you and I pretend to quarrel? A personal assault by
you on me will wake these people up and discombobulate Goldsmith.
Say the word--only don't hit too hard."

"I'm with you," said Wellington. Whereupon, with a great show of
heat, he roared out, "You? Never! I'm more afraid of a boy with a
bean-snapper that I ever was of you!" and followed up his remark by
pulling Bonaparte's camp-chair from under him, and letting the
conqueror of Austerlitz fall to the floor with a thud which I have
since heard described as dull and sickening.

The effect was instantaneous. Compared to a personal encounter
between the two great figures of Waterloo, a reading from his own
works by Goldsmith seemed lacking in the elements essential to the
holding of an audience. Consequently, attention was centred in the
belligerent warriors, and, by some odd mistake, when a peace-loving
member of the assemblage, realizing the indecorousness of the
incident, cried out, "Put him out! put him out!" the attendants
rushed in, and, taking poor Goldsmith by his collar, hustled him out
through the door, across the deck, and tossed him ashore without
reference to the gang-plank. This accomplished, a personal
explanation of their course was made by the quarrelling generals,
and, peace having been restored, a committee was sent in search of
Goldsmith with suitable apologies. The good and kindly soul
returned, but having lost his book in the melee, much to his own
gratification, as well as to that of the audience, he was permitted
to rest in quiet the balance of the evening.

"Is he through?" said Johnson, poking his head in at the door when
order was restored.

"Yes, sir," said Boswell; "that is to say, he has retired permanently
from the field. He didn't finish, though."

"Fellow-spooks," began Johnson once more, "now that you have been
delighted with the honeyed eloquence of the last speaker, it is my
privilege to present to you that eminent fabulist Baron Munchausen,
the greatest unrealist of all time, who will give you an exhibition
of his paradoxical power of lying while standing."

The applause which greeted the Baron was deafening. He was, beyond
all doubt, one of the most popular members of the club.

"Speaking of whales," said he, leaning gracefully against the table.

"Nobody has mentioned 'em," said Johnson.

"True," retorted the Baron; "but you always suggest them by your
apparently unquenchable thirst for spouting--speaking of whales, my
friend Jonah, as well as the rest of you, may be interested to know
that I once had an experience similar to his own, and, strange to
say, with the identical whale."

Jonah arose from his seat in the back of the room. "I do not wish to
be unpleasant," he said, with a strong effort to be calm, "but I wish
to ask if Judge Blackstone is in the room."

"I am," said the Judge, rising. "What can I do for you?"

"I desire to apply for an injunction restraining the Baron from using
my whale in his story. That whale, your honor, is copyrighted," said
Jonah. "If I had any other claim to the affection of mankind than
the one which is based on my experience with that leviathan, I would
willingly permit the Baron to introduce him into his story; but that
whale, your honor, is my stock in trade--he is my all."

"I think Jonah's point is well taken," said Blackstone, turning to
the Baron. "It would be a distinct hardship, I think, if the
plaintiff in this action were to be deprived of the exclusive use of
his sole accessory. The injunction prayed for is therefore granted.
The court would suggest, however, that the Baron continue with his
story, using another whale for the purpose."

"It is impossible," said Munchausen, gloomily. "The whole point of
the story depends upon its having been Jonah's whale. Under the
circumstances, the only thing I can do is to sit down. I regret the
narrowness of mind exhibited by my friend Jonah, but I must respect
the decision of the court."

"I must take exception to the Baron's allusion to my narrowness of
mind," said Jonah, with some show of heat. "I am simply defending my
rights, and I intend to continue to do so if the whole world unites
in considering my mind a mere slot scarcely wide enough for the
insertion of a nickel. That whale was my discovery, and the personal
discomfort I endured in perfecting my experience was such that I
resolved to rest my reputation upon his broad proportions only--to
sink or swim with him--and I cannot at this late day permit another
to crowd me out of his exclusive use."

Jonah sat down and fanned himself, and the Baron, with a look of
disgust on his face, left the room.

"Up to his old tricks," he growled as he went. "He queers everything
he goes into. If I'd known he was a member of this club I'd never
have joined."

"We do not appear to be progressing very rapidly," said Doctor
Johnson, rising. "So far we have made two efforts to have stories
told, and have met with disaster each time. I don't know but what
you are to be congratulated, however, on your escape. Very few of
you, I observe, have as yet fallen asleep. The next number on the
programme, I see, is Boswell, who was to have entertained you with a
few reminiscences; I say was to have done so, because he is not to do
so."

"I'm ready," said Boswell, rising.

"No doubt," retorted Johnson, severely, "but I am not. You are a man
with one subject--myself. I admit it's a good subject, but you are
not the man to treat of it--here. You may suffice for mortals, but
here it is different. I can speak for myself. You can go out and
sit on the banks of the Vitriol Reservoir and lecture to the imps if
you want to, but when it comes to reminiscences of me I'm on deck
myself, and I flatter myself I remember what I said and did more
accurately than you do. Therefore, gentlemen, instead of listening
to Boswell at this point, you will kindly excuse him and listen to
me. Ahem! When I was a boy--"

"Excuse me," said Solomon, rising; "about how long is this--ah--this
entertaining discourse of yours to continue?"

"Until I get through," returned Johnson, wrathfully.

"Are you aware, sir, that I am on the programme?" asked Solomon.

"I am," said the Doctor. "With that in mind, for the sake of our
fellow-spooks who are present, I am very much inclined to keep on
forever. When I was a boy--"

Carlyle rose up at this point.

"I should like to ask," he said, mildly, "if this is supposed to be
an audience of children? I, for one, have no wish to listen to the
juvenile stories of Doctor Johnson. Furthermore, I have come here
particularly to-night to hear Boswell. I want to compare him with
Froude. I therefore protest against--"

"There is a roof to this house-boat," said Doctor Johnson. "If Mr.
Carlyle will retire to the roof with Boswell I have no doubt he can
be accommodated. As for Solomon's interruption, I can afford to pass
that over with the silent contempt it deserves, though I may add with
propriety that I consider his most famous proverbs the most absurd
bits of hack-work I ever encountered; and as for that story about
dividing a baby between two mothers by splitting it in two, it was
grossly inhuman unless the baby was twins. When I was a boy--"

As the Doctor proceeded, Carlyle and Solomon, accompanied by the now
angry Boswell, left the room, and my account of the Story-tellers'
Night must perforce stop; because, though I have never heretofore
confessed it, all my information concerning the house-boat on the
Styx has been derived from the memoranda of Boswell. It may be
interesting to the reader to learn, however, that, according to
Boswell's account, the Story-tellers' Night was never finished; but
whether this means that it broke up immediately afterwards in a riot,
or that Doctor Johnson is still at work detailing his reminiscences,
I am not aware, and I cannot at the moment of writing ascertain, for
Boswell, when I have the pleasure of meeting him, invariably avoids
the subject.

CHAPTER XI: AS TO SAURIANS AND OTHERS

It was Noah who spoke.

"I'm glad," he said, "that when I embarked at the time of the heavy
rains that did so much damage in the old days, there weren't any dogs
like that fellow Cerberus about. If I'd had to feed a lot of three-
headed beasts like him the Ark would have run short of provisions
inside of ten days."

"That's very likely true," observed Mr. Barnum; "but I must confess,
my dear Noah, that you showed a lamentable lack of the showman's
instinct when you selected the animals you did. A more commonplace
lot of beasts were never gathered together, and while Adam is held
responsible for the introduction of sin into the world, I attribute
most of my offences to none other than yourself."

The members of the club drew their chairs a little closer. The
conversation had opened a trifle spicily, and, furthermore, they had
retained enough of their mortality to be interested in animal
stories. Adam, who had managed to settle his back dues and
delinquent house-charges, and once more acquired the privileges of
the club, nodded his head gratefully at Mr. Barnum.

"I'm glad to find some one," said he, "who places the responsibility
for trouble where it belongs. I'm round-shouldered with the blame
I've had to bear. I didn't invent sin any more than I invented the
telephone, and I think it's rather rough on a fellow who lived a
quiet, retiring, pastoral life, minding his own business and staying
home nights, to be held up to public reprobation for as long a time
as I have."

"It'll be all right in time," said Raleigh; "just wait--be patient,
and your vindication will come. Nobody thought much of the plays
Bacon and I wrote for Shakespeare until Shakespeare 'd been dead a
century."

"Humph!" said Adam, gloomily. "Wait! What have I been doing all
this time? I've waited all the time there's been so far, and until
Mr. Barnum spoke as he did I haven't observed the slightest
inclination on the part of anybody to rehabilitate my lost
reputation. Nor do I see exactly how it's to come about even if I do
wait."

"You might apply for an investigating committee to look into the
charges," suggested an American politician, just over. "Get your
friends on it, and you'll be all right."

"Better let sleeping dogs lie," said Blackstone.

"I intend to," said Adam. "The fact is, I hate to give any further
publicity to the matter. Even if I did bring the case into court and
sue for libel, I've only got one witness to prove my innocence, and
that's my wife. I'm not going to drag her into it. She's got
nervous prostration over her position as it is, and this would make
it worse. Queen Elizabeth and the rest of these snobs in society
won't invite her to any of their functions because they say she
hadn't any grandfather; and even if she were received by them, she'd
be uncomfortable going about. It isn't pleasant for a woman to feel
that every one knows she's the oldest woman in the room."

"Well, take my word for it," said Raleigh, kindly. "It'll all come
out all right. You know the old saying, 'History repeats itself.'
Some day you will be living back in Eden again, and if you are only
careful to make an exact record of all you do, and have a notary
present, before whom you can make an affidavit as to the facts, you
will be able to demonstrate your innocence."

"I was only condemned on hearsay evidence, anyhow," said Adam,
ruefully.

"Nonsense; you were caught red-handed," said Noah; "my grandfather
told me so. And now that I've got a chance to slip in a word
edgewise, I'd like mightily to have you explain your statement, Mr.
Barnum, that I am responsible for your errors. That is a serious
charge to bring against a man of my reputation."

"I mean simply this: that to make a show interesting," said Mr.
Barnum, "a man has got to provide interesting materials, that's all.
I do not mean to say a word that is in any way derogatory to your
morality. You were a surprisingly good man for a sea-captain, and
with the exception of that one occasion when you--ah--you allowed
yourself to be stranded on the bar, if I may so put it, I know of
nothing to be said against you as a moral, temperate person."

"That was only an accident," said Noah, reddening. "You can't expect
a man six hundred odd years of age--"

"Certainly not," said Raleigh, soothingly, "and nobody thinks less of
you for it. Considering how you must have hated the sight of water,
the wonder of it is that it didn't become a fixed habit. Let us hear
what it is that Mr. Barnum does criticise in you."

"His taste, that's all," said Mr. Barnum. "I contend that, compared
to the animals he might have had, the ones he did have were as ant-
hills to Alps. There were more magnificent zoos allowed to die out
through Noah's lack of judgment than one likes to think of. Take the
Proterosaurus, for instance. Where on earth do we find his equal to-
day?"

"You ought to be mighty glad you can't find one like him," put in
Adam. "If you'd spent a week in the Garden of Eden with me, with
lizards eight feet long dropping out of the trees on to your lap
while you were trying to take a Sunday-afternoon nap, you'd be
willing to dispense with things of that sort for the balance of your
natural life. If you want to get an idea of that experience let
somebody drop a calf on you some afternoon."

"I am not saying anything about that," returned Barnum. "It would be
unpleasant to have an elephant drop on one after the fashion of which
you speak, but I am glad the elephant was saved just the same. I
haven't advocated the Proterosaurus as a Sunday-afternoon surprise,
but as an attraction for a show. I still maintain that a lizard as
big as a cow would prove a lodestone, the drawing powers of which the
pocket-money of the small boy would be utterly unable to resist.
Then there was the Iguanadon. He'd have brought a fortune to the
box-office--"

"Which you'd have immediately lost," retorted Noah, "paying rent.
When you get a reptile of his size, that reaches thirty feet up into
the air when he stands on his hind-legs, the ordinary circus wagon of
commerce can't be made to hold him, and your menagerie-room has to
have ceilings so high that every penny he brought to the box-office
would be spent storing him."

"Mischievous, too," said Adam, "that Iguanadon. You couldn't keep
anything out of his reach. We used to forbid animals of his kind to
enter the garden, but that didn't bother him; he'd stand up on his
hind-legs and reach over and steal anything he'd happen to want."

"I could have used him for a fire-escape," said Mr. Barnum; "and as
for my inability to provide him with quarters, I'd have met that
problem after a short while. I've always lamented the absence, too,
of the Megalosaurus--"

"Which simply shows how ignorant you are," retorted Noah. "Why, my
dear fellow, it would have taken the whole of an ordinary zoo such as
yours to give the Megalosaurus a lunch. Those fellows would eat a
rhinoceros as easily as you'd crack a peanut. I did have a couple of
Megalosaurians on my boat for just twenty-four hours, and then I
chucked them both overboard. If I'd kept them ten days longer they'd
have eaten every blessed beast I had with me, and your Zoo wouldn't
have had anything else but Megalosaurians."

"Papa is right about that, Mr. Barnum," said Shem. "The whole
Saurian tribe was a fearful nuisance. About four hundred years
before the flood I had a pet Creosaurus that I kept in our barn. He
was a cunning little devil--full of tricks, and all that; but we
never could keep a cow or a horse on the place while he was about.
They'd mysteriously disappear, and we never knew what became of 'em
until one morning we surprised Fido in--"

"Surprised who?" asked Doctor Johnson, scornfully.

"Fido," returned Shem. "'That was my Creosaurus's name."

"Lord save us! Fido!" cried Johnson. "What a name for a
Creosaurus!"

"Well, what of it?" asked Shem, angrily. "You wouldn't have us call
a mastodon like that Fanny, would you, or Tatters?"

"Go on," said Johnson; "I've nothing to say."

"Shall I send for a physician?" put in Boswell, looking anxiously at
his chief, the situation was so extraordinary.

Solomon and Carlyle giggled; and the Doctor having politely requested
Boswell to go to a warmer section of the country, Shem resumed.

"I caught him in the act of swallowing five cows and Ham's favorite
trotter, sulky and all."

Baron Munchausen rose up and left the room.

"If they're going to lie I'm going to get out," he said, as he passed
through the room.

"What became of Fido?" asked Boswell.

"The sulky killed him," returned Shem, innocently. "He couldn't
digest the wheels."

Noah looked approvingly at his son, and, turning to Barnum, observed,
quietly:

"What he says is true, and I will go further and say that it is my
belief that you would have found the show business impossible if I
had taken that sort of creature aboard. You'd have got mightily
discouraged after your Antediluvians had chewed up a few dozen steam
calliopes, and eaten every other able-bodied exhibit you had managed
to secure. I'd have tried to save a couple of Discosaurians if I
hadn't supposed they were able to take care of themselves. A
combination of sea-serpent and dragon, with a neck twenty-two feet
long, it seemed to me, ought to have been able to ride out any storm
or fall of rain; but there I was wrong, and I am free to admit my
error. It never occurred to me that the sea-serpents were in any
danger, so I let them alone, with the result that I never saw but one
other, and he was only an illusion due to that unhappy use of
stimulants to which, with shocking bad taste, you have chosen to
refer."

"I didn't mean to call up unpleasant memories," said Barnum. "I
never believed you got half-seas over, anyhow; but, to return to our
muttons, why didn't you hand down a few varieties of the Therium
family to posterity? There were the Dinotherium and the Megatherium,
either one of which would have knocked spots out of any leopard that
ever was made, and along side of which even my woolly horse would
have paled into insignificance. That's what I can't understand in
your selections; with Megatheriums to burn, why save leopards and
panthers and other such every-day creatures?"

"What kind of a boat do you suppose I had?" cried Noah. "Do you
imagine for a moment that she was four miles on the water-line, with
a mile and three-quarters beam? If I'd had a pair of Dinotheriums in
the stern of that Ark, she'd have tipped up fore and aft, until she'd
have looked like a telegraph-pole in the water, and if I'd put 'em
amidships they'd have had to be wedged in so tightly they couldn't
move to keep the vessel trim. I didn't go to sea, my friend, for the
purpose of being tipped over in mid-ocean every time one of my cargo
wanted to shift his weight from one leg to the other."

"It was bad enough with the elephants, wasn't it, papa?" said Shem.

"Yes, indeed, my son," returned the patriarch. "It was bad enough
with the elephants. We had to shift our ballast half a dozen times a
day to keep the boat from travelling on her beam ends, the elephants
moved about so much; and when we came to the question of provender,
it took up about nine-tenths of our hold to store hay and peanuts
enough to keep them alive and good-tempered. On the whole, I think
it's rather late in the day, considering the trouble I took to save
anything but myself and my family, to be criticised as I now am. You
ought to be much obliged to me for saving any animals at all. Most
people in my position would have built a yacht for themselves and
family, and let everything else slide."

"That is quite true," observed Raleigh, with a pacificatory nod at
Noah. "You were eminently unselfish, and while, with Mr. Barnum, I
exceedingly regret that the Saurians and Therii and other tribes were
left on the pier when you sailed, I nevertheless think that you
showed most excellent judgment at the time."

"He was the only man who had any at all, for that matter," suggested
Shem, "and it required all his courage to show it. Everybody was
guying him. Sinners stood around the yard all day and every day,
criticising the model; one scoffer pretended he thought her a canal-
boat, and asked how deep the flood was likely to be on the tow-path,
and whether we intended to use mules in shallow water and giraffes in
deep; another asked what time allowance we expected to get in a
fifteen-mile run, and hinted that a year and two months per mile
struck him as being the proper thing--"

"It was far from pleasant," said Noah, tapping his fingers together
reflectively. "I don't want to go through it again, and if, as
Raleigh suggests, history is likely to repeat herself, I'll sublet
the contract to Barnum here, and let him get the chaff."

"It was all right in the end, though, dad," said Shem. "We had the
great laugh on 'hoi polloi' the second day out."

"We did, indeed," said Noah. "When we told 'em we only carried
first-class passengers and had no room for emigrants, they began to
see that the Ark wasn't such an old tub, after all; and a good ninety
per cent. of them would have given ten dollars for a little of that
time allowance they'd been talking to us about for several
centuries."

Noah lapsed into a musing silence, and Barnum rose to leave.

"I still wish you'd saved a Discosaurus," he said. "A creature with
a neck twenty-two feet long would have been a gold mine to me. He
could have been trained to stand in the ring, and by stretching out
his neck bite the little boys who sneak in under the tent and occupy
seats on the top row."

"Well, for your sake," said Noah, with a smile, "I'm very sorry; but
for my own, I'm quite satisfied with the general results."

And they all agreed that the patriarch had every reason to be pleased
with himself.

CHAPTER XII: THE HOUSE-BOAT DISAPPEARS

Queen Elizabeth, attended by Ophelia and Xanthippe, was walking along
the river-bank. It was a beautiful autumn day, although, owing to
certain climatic peculiarities of Hades, it seemed more like
midsummer. The mercury in the club thermometer was nervously
clicking against the top of the crystal tube, and poor Cerberus was
having all he could do with his three mouths snapping up the
pestiferous little shades of by-gone gnats that seemed to take an
almost unholy pleasure in alighting upon his various noses and ears.

Ophelia was doing most of the talking.

"I am sure I have never wished to ride one of them," she said,
positively. "In the first place, I do not see where the pleasure of
it comes in, and, in the second, it seems to me as if skirts must be
dangerous. If they should catch in one of the pedals, where would I
be?"

"In the hospital shortly, methinks," said Queen Elizabeth.

"Well, I shouldn't wear skirts," snapped Xanthippe. "If a man's wife
can't borrow some of her husband's clothing to reduce her peril to a
minimum, what is the use of having a husband? When I take to the
bicycle, which, in spite of all Socrates can say, I fully intend to
do, I shall have a man's wheel, and I shall wear Socrates' old dress-
clothes. If Hades doesn't like it, Hades may suffer."

"I don't see how Socrates' clothes will help you," observed Ophelia.
"He wore skirts himself, just like all the other old Greeks. His
toga would be quite as apt to catch in the gear as your skirts."

Xanthippe looked puzzled for a moment. It was evident that she had
not thought of the point which Ophelia had brought up--strong-minded
ladies of her kind are apt sometimes to overlook important links in
such chains of evidence as they feel called upon to use in binding
themselves to their rights.

"The women of your day were relieved of that dress problem, at any
rate," laughed Queen Elizabeth.

"The women of my day," retorted Xanthippe, "in matters of dress were
the equals of their husbands--in my family particularly; now they
have lost their rights, and are made to confine themselves still to
garments like those of yore, while man has arrogated to himself the
sole and exclusive use of sane habiliments. However, that is apart
from the question. I was saying that I shall have a man's wheel, and
shall wear Socrates' old dress-clothes to ride it in, if Socrates has
to go out and buy an old dress-suit for the purpose."

The Queen arched her brows and looked inquiringly at Xanthippe for a
moment.

"A magnificent old maid was lost to the world when you married," she
said. "Feeling as you do about men, my dear Xanthippe, I don't see
why you ever took a husband."

"Humph!" retorted Xanthippe. "Of course you don't. You didn't need
a husband. You were born with something to govern. I wasn't."

"How about your temper?" suggested Ophelia, meekly.

Xanthippe sniffed frigidly at this remark.

"I never should have gone crazy over a man if I'd remained unmarried
forty thousand years," she retorted, severely. "I married Socrates
because I loved him and admired his sculpture; but when he gave up
sculpture and became a thinker he simply tried me beyond all
endurance, he was so thoughtless, with the result that, having
ventured once or twice to show my natural resentment, I have been
handed down to posterity as a shrew. I've never complained, and I
don't complain now; but when a woman is married to a philosopher who
is so taken up with his studies that when he rises in the morning he
doesn't look what he is doing, and goes off to his business in his
wife's clothes, I think she is entitled to a certain amount of
sympathy."

"And yet you wish to wear his," persisted Ophelia.

"Turn about is fair-play," said Xanthippe. "I've suffered so much on
his account that on the principle of averages he deserves to have a
little drop of bitters in his nectar."

"You are simply the victim of man's deceit," said Elizabeth, wishing
to mollify the now angry Xanthippe, who was on the verge of tears.
"I understood men, fortunately, and so never married. I knew my
father, and even if I hadn't been a wise enough child to know him, I
should not have wed, because he married enough to last one family for
several years."

"You must have had a hard time refusing all those lovely men,
though," sighed Ophelia. "Of course, Sir Walter wasn't as handsome
as my dear Hamlet, but he was very fetching."

"I cannot deny that," said Elizabeth, "and I didn't really have the
heart to say no when he asked me; but I did tell him that if he
married me I should not become Mrs. Raleigh, but that he should
become King Elizabeth. He fled to Virginia on the next steamer. My
diplomacy rid me of a very unpleasant duty."

Chatting thus, the three famous spirits passed slowly along the path
until they came to the sheltered nook in which the house-boat lay at
anchor.

"There's a case in point," said Xanthippe, as the house-boat loomed
up before them. "All that luxury is for men; we women are not
permitted to cross the gangplank. Our husbands and brothers and
friends go there; the door closes on them, and they are as completely
lost to us as though they never existed. We don't know what goes on
in there. Socrates tells me that their amusements are of a most
innocent nature, but how do I know what he means by that?
Furthermore, it keeps him from home, while I have to stay at home and
be entertained by my sons, whom the Encyclopaedia Britannica rightly
calls dull and fatuous. In other words, club life for him, and
dulness and fatuity for me."

"I think myself they're rather queer about letting women into that
boat," said Queen Elizabeth. "But it isn't Sir Walter's fault. He
told me he tried to have them establish a Ladies' Day, and that they
agreed to do so, but have since resisted all his efforts to have a
date set for the function."

"It would be great fun to steal in there now, wouldn't it," giggled
Ophelia. "There doesn't seem to be anybody about to prevent our
doing so."

"That's true," said Xanthippe. "All the windows are closed, as if
there wasn't a soul there. I've half a mind to take a peep in at the
house."

"I am with you," said Elizabeth, her face lighting up with pleasure.
It was a great novelty, and an unpleasant one to her, to find some
place where she could not go. "Let's do it," she added.

So the three women tiptoed softly up the gang-plank, and, silently
boarding the house-boat, peeped in at the windows. What they saw
merely whetted their curiosity.

"I must see more," cried Elizabeth, rushing around to the door, which
opened at her touch. Xanthippe and Ophelia followed close on her
heels, and shortly they found themselves, open-mouthed in wondering
admiration, in the billiard-room of the floating palace, and Richard,
the ghost of the best billiard-room attendant in or out of Hades,
stood before them.

"Excuse me," he said, very much upset by the sudden apparition of the
ladies. "I'm very sorry, but ladies are not admitted here."

"We are equally sorry," retorted Elizabeth, assuming her most
imperious manner, "that your masters have seen fit to prohibit our
being here; but, now that we are here, we intend to make the most of
the opportunity, particularly as there seem to be no members about.
What has become of them all?"

Richard smiled broadly. "I don't know where they are," he replied;
but it was evident that he was not telling the exact truth.

"Oh, come, my boy," said the Queen, kindly, "you do know. Sir Walter
told me you knew everything. Where are they?"

"Well, if you must know, ma'am," returned Richard, captivated by the
Queen's manner, "they've all gone down the river to see a prize-fight
between Goliath and Samson."

"See there!" cried Xanthippe. "That's what this club makes possible.
Socrates told me he was coming here to take luncheon with Carlyle,
and they've both of 'em gone off to a disgusting prize-fight!"

"Yes, ma'am, they have," said Richard; "and if Goliath wins, I don't
think Mr. Socrates will get home this evening."

"Betting, eh?" said Xanthippe, scornfully.

"Yes, ma'am," returned Richard.

"More club!" cried Xanthippe.

"Oh no, ma'am," said Richard. "Betting is not allowed in the club;
they're very strict about that. But the shore is only ten feet off,
ma'am, and the gentlemen always go ashore and make their bets."

During this little colloquy Elizabeth and Ophelia were wandering
about, admiring everything they saw.

"I do wish Lucretia Borgia and Calpurnia could see this. I wonder if
the Caesars are on the telephone," Elizabeth said. Investigation
showed that both the Borgias and the Caesars were on the wire, and in
short order the two ladies had been made acquainted with the state of
affairs at the house-boat; and as they were both quite as anxious to
see the interior of the much-talked-of club-house as the others, they
were not long in arriving. Furthermore, they brought with them half
a dozen more ladies, among whom were Desdemona and Cleopatra, and
then began the most extraordinary session the house-boat ever knew.
A meeting was called, with Elizabeth in the chair, and all the best
ladies of the Stygian realms were elected members. Xanthippe, amid
the greatest applause, moved that every male member of the
organization be expelled for conduct unworthy of a gentleman in
attending a prize-fight, and encouraging two such horrible creatures
as Goliath and Samson in their nefarious pursuits. Desdemona
seconded the motion, and it was carried without a dissenting voice,
although Mrs. Caesar, with becoming dignity, merely smiled approval,
not caring to take part too actively in the proceedings.

The men having thus been disposed of in a summary fashion, Richard
was elected Janitor in Charon's place, and the club was entirely
reorganized, with Cleopatra as permanent President. The meeting then
adjourned, and the invaders set about enjoying their newly acquired
privileges. The smoking-room was thronged for a few moments, but
owing to the extraordinary strength of the tobacco which the faithful
Richard shovelled into the furnace, it developed no enduring
popularity, Xanthippe, with a suddenly acquired pallor, being the
first to renounce the pastime as revolting.

So fast and furious was the enjoyment of these thirsty souls, so long
deprived of their rights, that night came on without their observing
it, and with the night was brought the great peril into which they
were thrown, and from which at the moment of writing they had not
been extricated, and which, to my regret, has cut me off for the
present from any further information connected with the Associated
Shades and their beautiful lounging-place. Had they not been so
intent upon the inner beauties of the House-boat on the Styx they
might have observed approaching, under the shadow of the westerly
shore, a long, rakish craft propelled by oars, which dipped softly
and silently and with trained precision in the now jet-black waters
of the Styx. Manning the oars were a dozen evil-visaged ruffians,
while in the stern of the approaching vessel there sat a grim-faced,
weather-beaten spirit, armed to the teeth, his coat sleeves bearing
the skull and cross-bones, the insignia of piracy.

This boat, stealing up the river like a thief in the night, contained
Captain Kidd and his pirate crew, and their mission was a mission of
vengeance. To put the matter briefly and plainly, Captain Kidd was
smarting under the indignity which the club had recently put upon
him. He had been unanimously blackballed, even his proposer and
seconder, who had been browbeaten into nominating him for membership,
voting against him.

"I may be a pirate," he cried, when he heard what the club had done,
"but I have feelings, and the Associated Shades will repent their
action. The time will come when they'll find that I have their club-
house, and they have--its debts."

It was for this purpose that the great terror of the seas had come
upon this, the first favorable opportunity. Kidd knew that the
house-boat was unguarded; his spies had told him that the members had
every one gone to the fight, and he resolved that the time had come
to act. He did not know that the Fates had helped to make his
vengeance all the more terrible and withering by putting the most
attractive and fashionable ladies of the Stygian country likewise in
his power; but so it was, and they, poor souls, while this fiend,
relentless and cruel, was slowly approaching, sang on and danced on
in blissful unconsciousness of their peril.

In less than five minutes from the time when his sinister-craft
rounded the bend Kidd and his crew had boarded the house-boat, cut
her loose from her moorings, and in ten minutes she had sailed away
into the great unknown, and with her went some of the most precious
gems in the social diadem of Hades.

The rest of my story is soon told. The whole country was aroused
when the crime was discovered, but up to the date of this narrative
no word has been received of the missing craft and her precious
cargo. Raleigh and Caesar have had the seas scoured in search of
her, Hamlet has offered his kingdom for her return, but unavailingly;
and the men of Hades were cast into a gloom from which there seems to
be no relief.

Socrates alone was unaffected.

"They'll come back some day, my dear Raleigh," he said, as the knight
buried his face, weeping, in his hands. "So why repine? I'll never
lose my Xanthippe--permanently, that is. I know that, for I am a
philosopher, and I know there is no such thing as luck. And we can
start another club."

"Very likely," sighed Raleigh, wiping his eyes. "I don't mind the
club so much, but to think of those poor women--"

"Oh, they're all right," returned Socrates, with a laugh. "Caesar's
wife is along, and you can't dispute the fact that she's a good
chaperon. Give the ladies a chance. They've been after our club for
years; now let 'em have it, and let us hope that they like it. Order
me up a hemlock sour, and let's drink to their enjoyment of club
life."

Which was done, and I, in spirit, drank with them, for I sincerely
hope that the "New Women" of Hades are having a good time.

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