The man stared at her in pop-eyed astonishment. That a fair-haired young lady of the Occident should speak idiomatic Hindustani, even to a liberal use of the intimate insults without which no unfriendly conversation is complete in that tongue, astonished him almost as much as the girl’s deft handling of her kris had done a few minutes before.
“It is true,” he acknowledged, with a fatalistic writhing of his shoulders. “Of what avail to lie to one who possesses the beauty of the moonflower and the wisdom of the serpent? It is even as you have said.”
Rosalie preened herself like a satisfied bird. “You do well to call me moonflower, who was known by that name for many years,” she announced.
“Uncle Harvey,” she resumed her rather shaky English as she addressed the Professor, though she was perfectly aware he spoke Hindustani as well as she did, “I think they will make no mistake when they hang this fellow. He is one dam’ bad egg.”
ADVENTURE, by Clark Ashton Smith
Let us leave the hateful town
With its stale, forgotten lies;
Far beneath renewing skies,
Where the piny slope goes down,
All with April love and laughter—
None to leer and none to frown—
We shall pass and follow after
Shattered lace of waters spun
On a steep and stony loom
Down the depths of laurel-gloom.
Finding there a world re-made
In the fern-embowered shade,
Weaving bright oblivion
Still from frailest blossom-trove,
We shall mix our wilding love
With the woodland and the sun.
*****
Let us loiter, hand in hand,
Hearing but the heart’s command,
Half our steps by kisses stayed,
Prove the spring-enchanted glade;
Breast to breast and limb to limb,
Seize our happiness and bind it—
Lose the pulse of time and find it,
Free as vagrant seraphim.
Ever leave regret and rue
To the dutiful and jealous
Fools that are not near to tell us
All the things we should not do.
*****
Though the bedded ferns be broken,
And dishevelled blossoms lie
On the rumpled moss for token
Of the day’s mad errantry—
Still the tacit pines will keep
Darkly in their sighing sleep
All the sweet and perilous story;
And the oaks and willows hoary
For unheeding ears will tell
Only things ineffable;
And the later eyes that look
On the pool-delaying brook,
Shall not see within its glass
Two that came to kiss and pass.
DOUBLE-SHUFFLE, by Edwin Baird
Sammy the tramp owned a discontent—a perplexing, irritating discontent. At a sloppy table in his favorite Chicago saloon he sat and scowled and essayed self-analysis. But it was no use. His distemper eluded diagnosis.
He lowered his head, glared sullenly at his glass, and in a low voice swore so vividly that his pot-companion, sitting opposite, was moved to a pipe of tobacco and compassionate utterance.
“Why, Sammy,” he asked with brotherly concern, “what’s bitin’ you, pal? I declare, you’re a cross between a mildewed squash and G. Bernard Shaw eatin’ pickles and lemons. Come, why so pensive—”
“Aw, freeze up,” growled Sammy, “and have another drink,” he added penitently.
He motioned to the bartender and from a pocket of his patched and grimy trousers plucked a wad of ragged money the size of his wrist. This occasioned no riot. Since it was on dit in lower Clark Street circles that an uncompromising switch-engine had recently sent Sammy to a St. Louis hospital, that a compromising claim agent had given him three hundred dollars, and that about one hundred and fifty dollars of this sum yet remained with him, the barroom foregathering evinced no surprise at the plethoric display.
But a trembling, whisky-crazed wretch, who had just entered, noticed, and his watery eyes glistened with a feverish anticipation. With timorous humility he sidled to the table, sat down, and looked meekly, pleadingly at the wealthy one.
Silently Sammy pushed back his chair and rose. Irately he pointed to the door.
“Get out o’ here!” he roared. “You and your greasy leer. Get out, you—you—rat! Quick, or I’ll bounce this booze-jug off your knob.”
He seized the bottle from the returning bartender. The intruder hastily departed, upsetting two or three chairs en route. Sox surveyed his comrade in meek wonder.
“Sammy,” he began timidly after the excitement had subsided, “what—”
“I’ll tell you what!” blazed Sammy, leaning across the table with right fist clenched. “I’m sick of this”—he waved his left hand around the smutty barroom. “I’m sick of associatin’ with pigs like you; I’m sick of not seein’ and knowin’ nobody but a lot of ragged guys who don’t do nothin’ but soak up cheap booze and sleep and cuss. I’m sick of it all—see?”
He glanced contemptuously at his auditor, then moved his chair round and turned his back.
Somewhere below the unwashed surface of Sox’s poltroonery smoldered a spark of spunk. It flared up now defiantly.
“And who are you,” he cried hotly, “to talk about ragged pigs! What’re you, I’d like to know. You’re a fine-lookin’ swell, ain’t you! Huh!” He spat vigorously. “A fine-lookin’ swell! You look like a last year’s scarecrow daubed wit’ mud—”
He stopped, awed by his own temerity and the fact that Sammy had risen and was standing over him threateningly.
But the next second the malcontent had turned away and was striding toward the swinging doors. Near the end of the bar a group of frowsy men hailed and surrounded him jovially, but drew back as he made no response and let him pass in peace.
Several blocks down the street he stopped and sardonically eyed his reflection in a full-length mirror of a corner haberdasher’s. Not a very prepossessing reflection, modish reader, as you shall see.
From top to bottom thus: Hat of a derby species and an obsolete vintage, cracked and rusty its crown, and from its disjointed brim straggles of unkempt hair curling up over ears caked with the grime of many cities; the face as seamed and swollen as a twelve-cent chuck steak and thickly covered with a dark-red beard hacked to a convenient length with a pocket-knife; the eyes, faintly suggesting a bygone pride and intelligence, bloodshot from many potations; in lieu of linen, a greasy undershirt, insufficiently concealed by a buttonless waistcoat, faded and soiled beyond surmisal of its original pattern; the coat of a different hue; the trousers of another still; and woefully shielding his naked feet, shoes ragged and torn and precariously held together by wire and bits of twine.
Not in many years had Sammy seen a mirror larger than his hand, and now that he deliberately viewed himself from tattered tile to battered boot, an intense self-disgust welled up within him and he despised and loathed himself. He wheeled round suddenly, looked up and down the street, and strode savagely toward a brilliantly lighted hostelry in the next block.
A minute later Sammy the tramp, who for the greater part of his twenty-six years of life had shunned bathtubs as though they were vats swarming with rattlesnakes, was descending a marble staircase at the top of which blazed this sign:
TURKISH BATHS
An hour later, having meanwhile dispatched a messenger and twenty dollars to the corner haberdashery, he got into a barber’s chair and ordered everything from shoe-shine to shampoo. From the barbershop he went to a unique establishment in State Street, where, on short notice, one could be supplied with all the proper habiliments for evening wear. Silk hat, gloves, pumps, full-dress, all could be supplied while you waited—one hour.
So, after this space had elapsed
, there stepped from this swift-aid-to-the-hurried firm a gentleman eminently correct in every detail, even to Inverness cape, gold-headed cane, and Turkish cigarette. His face was not unlike that of the average man of the world; its marks of dissipation had been softened, if not eradicated, by the barber’s massage; the mouth and chin were firm and well-shaped; his fingers carefully manicured; his hair freshly trimmed. And in a pocket of his white pique waistcoat was a crumpled ten-dollar bill—all he had in the world.
Probably not the keenest of his associates could have pierced the masquerade and discerned beneath its elegance Sammy the tramp.
As he stood there, drawing on his gloves with a leisurely air, a shambling object, shivering in rags, dropped from the hurrying street throng, slouched dejectedly a few feet away, then shuffled over and touched his arm
“Can’t you help us a bit, sir?” whined the object piteously. “S’help me, I’m starvin’, sir. I ain’t eat nothin’ in forty-eight hours—” The rest was lost in a meaningless mumble.
Without hesitation Sammy reached for the crumpled tenner. But quite as quickly changed his mind and interviewed his new watch.
Then he buttoned his coat, switched his cane up under his arm, and nodded to the beggar.
“Come on,” he said. “We’ll dine together.”
CHAPTER II
At about the same moment Sammy was swearing at Sox in the saloon, one of two young men sitting in the library of a handsome home two miles away was acting rather uncivilly toward the other. His name was Hathaway Allison, and he belonged to a family rich enough to hire a professional genealogist to trace its lineage back to a tadpole.
“Are you asleep, Hathaway?” politely inquired his guest, who had repeated another question three times without eliciting even a monosyllabic response. “If you are, just say so, and I’ll quietly withdraw and leave you to your slumbers. I’m not exactly fond of hanging round where I’m not wanted, you know.”
Young Allison fidgeted impatiently and looked up with a little frown of annoyance.
“Oh, chop it, Bobby. No, I don’t know anything about—about what you asked me about.”
A servant entered and lighted the lamps. As the thickening dusk vanished before the soft light, Bobby gave a little gasp of astonishment and leaned forward, staring wonderingly at his friend’s face.
“Well, great Dowie!” he exclaimed as soon as the servant had gone. “What’re you doing to your face? I’ll bet you haven’t shaved in a week.”
“You lose,” said Allison quickly. “Three weeks.”
“And your hair! Hathaway, have you boycotted the barbers, or what?”
Hathaway laughed nervously, snipped the end from a cigar, lighted it, took three or four puffs, flung it in the fire, then rose and locked all the doors.
He returned to his seat and his puzzled visitor, and for several seconds sat with brows knitted thoughtfully, tapping his fingers on the arms of his chair.
“Bobby,” he said suddenly, “I think I’m going to tell you something—something I’ve kept secret a great many years. But I can’t keep it any longer, and I’ve got to tell somebody, and it may as well be you.”
“’Twas a dark and stormy night,’” reminded Bobby reprovingly. “But go ahead.”
“Some stage thunder and lightning or a little sobby music,” agreed Allison good-naturedly, “would not be inappropriate. For what I am about to reveal, Bobby, is as theatric as it is sensational; and I assure you it is sensational as a twenty-cent melodrama. Of course, I may rely upon your absolute secrecy. It won’t get past you.”
He paused.
“Go on, please.”
“Bobby”—his voice lowered, he leaned over and looked his hearer steadily, solemnly in the eye—“Bobby, my name is not Hathaway Allison.”
Bobby moved uneasily.
“The man and woman whom everybody thinks are my father and mother are not related to me in any way whatsoever.”
Bobby stood up impatiently.
“What the deuce is the matter with you today, Hathaway? You’re as creepy as a ghost professor. Go chop those whiskers off and cheer up. You look worse than a Kansas politician after a grasshopper plague.”
“No, Bobby, the whiskers stay. Shaggy hair, too. I’m going back, Bobby—back where I belong. And”—he brought his clenched fist heavily down upon his knee—“I’m going back tonight.”
“What’re you talking about? Going back where?”
Allison settled himself comfortably and lighted a cigarette.
“Well, Bobby, it’ll sound melodramatic, as I said before; but I’ll condense and cut the pathos. At the precocious age of six or thereabouts, the real Hathaway Allison was lost, strayed, or stolen. I believe there was quite a turmoil at the time. But possibly you’ve heard of the case—have you?”
“Of course. Mother’s told me a dozen times. Wasn’t there a mole, or a strawberry mark, or something or other—”
“There was a scar—a deep, bright red scar—in the shape of a ‘V’ on the right forearm. But to get on with the story. As you know, a frantic search was started; fabulous rewards offered; detectives the world over did their worst. All to no purpose. Several years passed and the topic was forgotten.
“Then suddenly there was a great flourish and a beating of tom-toms, and it was announced to the world that Hathaway Allison was found. Congratulations, poor relations, neighbors, and reporters swarmed in. The newspapers raved, the populace cheered, all was happiness. The poor kid was exhibited, kissed, hugged, and photographed in twenty different attitudes.”
The speaker paused abruptly, crossed to the window, stood looking out at turbulent Lake Michigan. After a minute or so he resumed his seat, and in a voice curiously altered, went on: “And the odd part of it all, Bobby, is that Hathaway Allison never was found. Never has been found, and, I am inclined to believe, never will be found.”
“Then how the—”
“The day of the hullaballoo there toddled into the kitchen of this house a poor, ragged youngster of nine or ten and asked for food. It seemed he was a sort of mascot of a gang of tramps, who sent him out to beg.
“The Allisons had been heart-broken since the loss of their child; little Hathaway and the embryo vagabond were not dissimilar in appearance; eyes and hair were almost alike. You may guess the rest.”
He cleared his throat, shrugged his shoulders, and ended briefly: “Well, I was the kid, that’s all.”
Bobby’s harsh laugh broke the ensuing silence.
“Well, Well! Why all this emotion? You’re not the only adopted son in Chicago. The town’s full of’em.”
“Yes, I know; but—oh, I’m tired of all this”—he gestured round the luxurious room. “I know it sounds eccentric, but I’m tired of it, all the same—wealth and all that goes with it. I guess it’s in the blood.
“Along about this time of the spring I usually get the ‘call.’ Heretofore I’ve always turned a deaf ear. But this time I’m going to answer. They’re in Europe now. And I’m going away tonight.”
Bobby snorted derisively and picked up his hat and gloves.
“Now, Hathaway, forget all this rubbish and put on your things and come with me to a barbershop. Afterward we’ll have dinner together. My car’s outside, you know. Come on.”
But Hathaway smiled and shook his head.
“No use, my boy. I’m through.”
“Bosh! You’re not a second Count Tolstoy, I hope. Are you coming?”
“No.”
“Very well. Goodnight.”
“I guess it’s good-by, Bobby.”
“See you at the club tomorrow,” called Bobby from the hall. “Good night.”
When his guest had gone, Allison went to his room, closed the door, and took from the wardrobe a suitcase, which he opened upon the bed. It contained a pair of rusty shoes, rustier trousers, frayed waistcoat and threadbare coat, and a sooty cap much too large.
With racing heart an
d trembling fingers, he stripped to his undergarments and donned the base attire. Afterward he knotted a faded bandana round his neck, pulled the cap low upon his brow, and surveyed himself in the mirror.
Though obviously pleased with the effect, he stuffed the cap in a pocket, donned a derby, and cloaked his rags in a long overcoat before leaving the house, thus occasioning no undue curiosity among the servants.
Several blocks away he disappeared down a dark alley.
When some while later a dusty and seedy-looking tramp carrying a large newspaper bundle walked along the Rush Street bridge, the sharpest pair of eyes among Hathaway Allison’s acquaintances would have given him scarcely more than a passing glance.
In the center of the bridge he stopped, glanced quickly round, and stealthily consigned his burden to the black water below. Then he made for State Street, and was swallowed up in the bustling, scrambling, six-o’clock crowds.
Presently, like a rambling derelict, he drifted out of the rushing stream into the harbor of a large doorway.
A sudden impulse had come over him. He would put his disguise to the test.
Affecting a woebegone attitude, he eyed furtively from beneath the weathered visor of his cap a well-dressed man of about his own age who stood a few feet away drawing on his gloves.
At length he slouched over to the prosperous-looking one, laid a pleading hand on his broadclothed arm, and muttered a supplication for alms.
CHAPTER III
The diners had reached the coffee-cigars-conversational stage of dinner, and chatty discourse was meet.
At his benefactor’s request, the shabby one held forth at length on the life of the road. He poured forth in a jargon wondrous to hear. He considered it the vernacular of trampdom.
He enthused over vagabondage; he painted it in glowing colors; he indulged in remarkable superlatives; and when at last he had finished he was amazed at his power of imagination.
Adventure Tales, Volume 4 Page 4
