The Bram Stoker Megapack

by Wildside Press

  “Why are you crying?” said Ruffin, the bully boy.

  “I am not crying,” said Tineboy, and he cried away faster than ever.

  The Teacher went on with the story.

  “The Alphabet Doctor tried to cheer poor 7.”

  “’Hear, hear!’ said he.”

  “7 stopped crying and looked at him. ‘No,’ said he, ‘you should say “speak, speak,” it is I that should say “hear, hear.”’”

  “’Certainly,’ said the Doctor, ‘you would say that if you were sane; but then, you see, you are not sane, and being mad you say what you should not say.’”

  “’That is false,’ said 7.”

  “’I understand,’ said the Doctor, ‘but do not stop to argue the point. If you were sane you would say “that is true,” but you do say “that is false,” meaning that you agree with me.’”

  “7 looked pleased at being so understood.

  “’No,’ said he—meaning ‘yes.’”

  “’Then,’ continued the Doctor, ‘if you say “speak, speak,” when a sane man would say “hear, hear,” of course, I should say “hear, hear,” when I mean “speak, speak,” because I am talking to a madman.’”

  “’No, no,’ said 7—meaning, ‘yes, yes.’”

  “’Go on with your speech,’ said the Doctor.”

  “’No 7 took out his handkerchief and wept.”

  “’Ladies and Gentlemen,’ he went on, ‘once more I must plead the cause of the poor ill-used number—that is me—this orphan number—this number without kin—’”

  Here Tineboy interrupted the Teacher, “How had he no skin?”

  “Kin, my child. Kin, not skin,” said the Teacher.

  “What is the difference between kin and skin?” asked Tineboy.

  “There will be but a small difference,” said the Teacher, “between this cane and your skin if you interrupt.” So Tineboy was quiet.

  “Well,” said the teacher, “poor 7 went on—’I implore your pity for this forlorn number. Oh, you boys and girls, think of a poor desolate number, who has no home, no friends, no father, mother, brother, sister, uncle, aunt, nephew, niece, son, daughter, or cousin, and is desolate and alone.’”

  Tineboy here set up a terrible howl.

  “What are you crying for?” said the Teacher.

  “I want poor old 7 to be more happy. I will give him some of my lunch and a share of my bed.”

  The Teacher turned to the Monitor.

  “Tineboy is a good child,” he said, “let him for the next week learn 7 times 0 up, and perhaps that will comfort him.”

  The Raven, sitting in the window, winked his eye to himself and hopped about with a suppressed merry croak, shook his wings, and seemed hugging himself and laughing. Then he hopped softly away, and stole up and hid on the top of the book-case.

  The Schoolmaster went on with his story.

  “Well, children, after a while poor 7 got better and promised that he would get unmad. Before the Doctor went home again all the Alphabet and Number Children came and shook poor Number 7’s hand, and promised that they would be more kind to him in future.”

  “Now, children, what do you think of the story?”

  They all said that they liked it, that it was beautiful, and that they too would try to be more kind to poor 7 for the future. At last Ruffin the bully boy said:

  “I don’t believe it. And if it is true I wish he had died; we would be better without him.”

  “Would we?” asked the teacher, “how?”

  “Because we would not be troubled with him,” said Ruffin.

  As he said it there was a sort of queer croak heard from the Raven, but nobody minded, except Tineboy, who said:—

  “Mr. Daw, you and I love poor 7, at all events.”

  The Raven hated Ruffin because he always threw stones at him, and he had tried to pull the feathers out of his tail, and when Ruffin spoke, his croak seemed to mean, ‘’Just you wait.” When no one was looking Mr. Daw stole up and hid in the rafters.

  Then presently school broke up, and Tineboy went home; but he was not able to find Mr. Daw. He thought he was lost, and was very miserable, and went to bed crying.

  In the meantime, when the school was locked up empty, Mr. Daw came down from the rafters very, very quietly—hobbled over to the door, and putting his head down, listened; then he flew and scrambled up on the handle of the door, and looked out through the keyhole. There was nothing to see and nothing to hear.

  Then he got up on the Master’s desk, flapped his wings, and began to crow like a cock, only very softly, for fear he should be heard.

  Presently he went over all the room, flying up to the big sheets of multiplication table, and turning over the pages of the books with his claws, and picking up SOMETHING with his sharp beak.

  One would hardly believe it, but he was stealing all the Number Sevens in the place; he picked the Seven off the clock, rubbed it off the slates, and brushed it with his wings off the blackboard.

  Mr. Daw knew that if once you can get the whole of any number out of a schoolroom no one else can use it without asking your leave.

  Whilst he was picking out all the Sevens he was swelling out very much; and when he had got them all he was exactly Seven times his natural size.

  He was not able to do this all at once. It took him the whole night, and when he got back to his corner in the rafters it was nearly time for school to open.

  He was now so big that he was only just able to squeeze into the corner and no more.

  The school time came, but there was no Master, and there were no Scholars. A whole hour passed; and then the Master came, and the Ushers, and all the Boys and Girls.

  When they were all in the Master said—

  “You are all very late.”

  “Please, sir, we could not help it,” they all answered together.

  “Why could you not help it?”

  They all answered at once—

  “I wasn’t called in time.”

  “What time are you called at every morning?”

  They all seemed about to speak, but all were silent.

  “Why don’t you answer?” asked the Teacher.

  They made motions will their mouths like speaking, but no one said anything.

  The Raven up in his corner croaked a quiet laugh all to himself.

  “Why don’t you answer?” asked the Teacher again. “If I have not my question answered at once, I shall keep you all in.”

  “Please, sir, we can’t,” said one.

  “Why not?”

  ‘’Because”—

  Here Tineboy interrupted, “Why were you so late Sir?”

  “Well, my boy, I am sorry to say I was late; but the fact is, my servant did not knock at my door at the usual hour.”

  “What hour, sir?” asked Tineboy.

  The Teacher seemed as if he was going to speak, but stopped.

  “This is very queer,” he said, after a long pause.

  Ruffin said, in a sort of swaggering way, “We are not late at all. You are here and we are here—that is all.”

  “No, it is not all,” said the Teacher. “Ten is the hour, and it is now eleven—we have lost an hour.”

  “How have we lost it?” asked one of the Scholars.

  “Well, that is what puzzles me. We must only wait a little and see.”

  Here Tineboy said suddenly, “Perhaps some one stole it!”

  “Stole what?” said the scholars.

  “I don’t know,” said Tineboy.

  They all laughed.

  “You need not laugh, something is stolen; look at my lesson!” said Tineboy, and he held up the book. Here is what they saw—

  – 1 are –

  – 2 ″ 14

  – 3 ″ 21

  – 4 ″ 28

  – 5 ″ 35

  – 6 ″ 42

  – – ″ 49

  – 8 ″ 56

  – 9 ″ 63

  – 10 ″ – 0

  All t
he Scholars crowded round Tineboy to look at the book. Ruffin did not, for he was looking at the school clock.

  “The clock has lost something,” said he, and sure enough it did not look all right.

  The Teacher looked up—for he was leaning with his head on his desk, groaning.

  “What is wrong with it?” he asked.

  “Something is missing.”

  “There is a number out; there are only eleven figures,” said the Teacher.

  “No, no,” said the Scholars.

  “Count them out, Ruffin,” said the Master.

  “1 2 3 4 5 6 8 9 10 11 12.”

  “Quite right,” said the Teacher, “you see there are twelve. No there are not—yes there are—no—yes—no, yes—what is it all about?” and he looked round the room, and then leaned his head on the desk again and groaned.

  In the meantime the Raven had crept along the rafters till he had got over the Teacher’s desk; and then he got a good heavy Seven and dropped it right on the little bald spot on the top of the Teacher’s head. It bounded off the head and fell on the desk before him. The instant the Teacher saw it he knew what was wanting all the time. He covered over the Seven with a piece of blotting Paper. He then called up Ruffin.

  “Ruffin, you told me that something was missing—are you sure?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Very well. Do you remember that you said yesterday, that you wished a certain Number had died in a madhouse?”

  “Yes, I do; and I wish it still.”

  “Well, that Number has been stolen by some one during the night.”

  “Hurrah!” said Ruffin, and he threw his book up to the ceiling. It hit poor Mr. Daw, who had another Seven in his beak ready to drop it, and knocked the Seven down. It fell into Tineboy’s cap, which he held in his hand. He took it out, and stooped and petted it.

  “Poor 7,” said Tineboy.

  “Give me the Number,” said Ruffin.

  “I shan’t. It belongs to me.”

  “Then I’ll make you,” said Ruffin; and he caught hold of Tineboy—even before the Master’s face.

  “Let me go. I’ll not give you my poor Seven,” said Tineboy, and he began to scream and cry.

  “Ruffin, stand out,” said the Master.

  Ruffin did so.

  “Seven times seven?” asked the Master.

  Ruffin did not answer. He could not, for he had not got a Seven.

  “I know,” said Tineboy.

  “Oh, yes,” said Ruffin, with a sneer; “he knows because he has a Number.’’

  “Forty-nine,” said Tineboy.

  “Right,” said the Master; “go up, Tineboy.”

  So Tineboy went up to the top of the class, and Ruffin went down.

  “Seven times forty-nine?” asked the Master.

  They were all silent.

  “Come, answer!” said the Master.

  “What is it, yourself?” said Tineboy.

  “Well, my boy, I am sorry to say I cannot say. Dear me, it is very queer,” and the Master put down his head on the desk again, and groaned louder than ever.

  Just then Mr. Daw took another seven and dropped it down on the floor before Tineboy.

  “Three hundred and forty-three,” said Tineboy, quickly; for he could answer as he had another Seven.

  The Teacher looked up and laughed loudly.

  “Hurrah, hurrah!” said he.

  When the third Seven fell the Raven began to swell.

  He got seven times as big as he was, so that he began to lift the slates off the roof.

  The Scholars all looked up; Ruffin had his mouth open, and Mr. Daw, anxious to get rid of the Sevens, dropped one into it.

  “Two thousand three hundred and one,” Ruffin spluttered out.

  Mr. Daw dropped another Seven into his mouth, and he spluttered out again worse than ever, “Sixteen thousand eight hundred and seven.”

  The Raven began hurling Sevens at him as fast as he could; and each time he threw one he grew smaller and smaller, till he got to just his natural size.

  Ruffin kept spluttering out and gasping numbers as hard as ever he could, till he grew black in the face and fell down in a fit just as he had come to “Seventy-nine thousand seven hundred and ninety-two billion, two hundred and sixty-six thousand two hundred and ninety-seven million six hundred and twelve thousand and one.”

  Suddenly Tineboy woke up, and found that he had been dreaming with his head down.

  LIES AND LILIES

  Claribel lived in peace and happiness with her father and mother, from the time she was a little baby till when, at ten years old, she went to school.

  Her parents were good, kind people, who loved truth and tried ever to walk in the paths of the just. They taught Claribel all good things, and her mother, Fridolina, used to bring her when every day she went to visit and comfort the sick.

  When Claribel went to school, she was even happier, for not only had she her home as it was ever, but there were many new friends also who were of her own age and whom she came to know and love. The school-mistress was very good and very nice and very old, with beautiful white hair and a sweet gentle face that never looked hard or stern, except when some one told a lie. Then the smile would fade from her face; and it was like the change in the sky when the sun has gone down, and she would look grave, and cry silently. If the child who had been wicked came and confessed the fault and promised never never to tell a lie again, the smile would come back like sunshine. But if the child persisted in the lie her face would look stern, and afterwards the stern look would be in the memory of the liar, even when she was not there.

  Every day she told all the children of the beauty of Truth and how a lie was so black and terrible a thing. She would also tell them stories from the Great Book; and one that she loved, and that they loved too, was of the Beautiful City where the good people shall live hereafter.

  The children never tired of hearing of that City, like a jasper stone clear as crystal, with its twelve gates with names written thereon, and they used to ask the Mistress questions about the Angel who measured the City with a golden reed. Always towards the end of the story, the Mistresse’s voice would become very grave, and a hush would steal over the children and they would draw closer together in awe as she told them that outside that beautiful city were for ever condemned to stand “whosoever loveth and maketh a lie.”

  Then the good Mistress would tell them what a terrible thing it would be to stand there without, and lose all the beauty and eternal glory that lay within. And all for a fault which no human being need ever commit—for telling a lie. People are not very much angry even when a fault has been done, when the truth is told at once; but if a fault is made worse by a lie then everyone is justly angry. If men and women, even fathers and mothers who love their little children very tenderly, are angry, how much more will God be angry against whom the sin of a lie is made.

  Claribel loved this story and often cried as she thought of the poor people who will have to stand without the Beautiful City for ever, but she never thought that she would tell a lie herself. Indeed, she never did till temptation came. When people think themselves very good they are in danger of sin, for if we are not ever on the watch against evil we surely do some wrong thing; and as Claribel feared no evil, she was easily led into sin.

  The children were all at their sums. A few of them knew their arithmetic and got out their answers and proved them; but some could not get out the answer right, and others stuck and could not get out any answer at all. A couple of naughty ones did not even try to get out the answers, but drew pictures on their slates and wrote their names. Claribel tried to do her sum, but she could not remember 9 times 7, and instead of beginning at “twice one are two” and going on up, she grew idle and lazy and gave up the sum and drew the beginnings of pictures and gave them up too. She looked up at the window thinking of something to draw and saw on the lower panes coloured flowers painted there so as to prevent the children looking at the people out
side during lesson time. Claribel fixed on one of these flowers, a lily, and began to draw it.

  Skooro saw her looking up and began his evil work. In order to help her to do what she ought not to do he took the shape of a lily and lay on the slate very faintly, so that she had only to draw round his edges and then there was a lily drawn. Now it is not a wrong thing to draw a lily, and if Claribel had drawn it well at a proper time she would have got praise; but a good thing may become a bad thing if it is wrongly done—and so it was with Claribel’s lily.

  Presently the Mistress asked for the slates. When Claribel brought hers up she knew that she had done wrong and was sorry; but she was only sorry because she was afraid of being punished. When the Mistress asked for the answer she hung down her head and said she could not get it.

  “Did you try?” asked the Mistress.

  “Yes,” she answered, feeling that she had tried for a while.

  “Did you idle?” she was asked, “Did you do anything but your sum?” Then she knew that she would get into trouble for idling if she told it; and so forgetting all about the Jasper City and those who are doomed to stand without its beautiful gates, she answered that she had done nothing else but sums. The mistress took her word—for she had always been truthful—and said :

  “You were puzzled, I suppose, dear child; let me help you,” and she kindly showed her how to work the sum.

  As she was going back to her seat, Claribel hung her head, for she knew that she had told a lie, and although it need now never he found out, she was sorrowful, and felt as if she were standing outside the shining City. Even then if she had rushed up to the mistress and said:

  “I have done wrong; but I will be a better child again,” all would have been well; but she did not, and every minute that passed made such a thing harder to do.

  Soon after school was over, and Claribel went sadly home. She did not care to play, for she had told a lie, and her heart was heavy.

  When bed-time came she lay down weary, but could not sleep; and she cried very bitterly, for she could not pray. She was sorry that she had told a lie, and she thought it rather hard that her sorrow was not enough to make her happy again; but her conscience said—

  “Will you confess to-morrow?” But she thought that it would not be necessary, for the sin was over and she had not done harm to anyone. But all the time she knew that she was wrong. Had the mistress spoken of this, she would have said—