The Golden Age of Science Fiction Novels Vol 02

by Anthology

  He stopped short and slapped his thigh.

  "English!" he exclaimed. "'Tain't America, that's dead sure. Then it's England. England in 1598," he continued, scratching his head. "Let's see. Who in Sam Hill was runnin' things in 1598? Richard Coor de Lion--Henry Eight--no--or was it Joan of Arc? Be darned ef I know!"

  He looked about him again and selected a neighboring house which he thought promised information.

  He went to the front door and knocked. There was no reply, despite many attempts to arouse the inmates.

  "Might ha' known," he muttered, and started around the house, where he found a side door half hidden beneath the projection of an upper story.

  Here his efforts were rewarded at last by the appearance of a very old woman in a peaked hat and coif, apparently on the point of going out.

  "Looks like a witch in the story-books," he thought, but his spoken comment was more polite.

  "Good-mornin', ma'am," he said. "Would you be so kind as to tell me the name of this town?"

  "This be Newington," she replied, in a high, cracked voice.

  "Newington," he replied, with a nod and a smile intended to express complete enlightenment. "Ah, yes--Newington. Quite a town!"

  "Is that all you'd be askin', young man?" said the old woman, a little suspiciously, eying his strange garb.

  "Why, yes--no--that is, can you tell me how far it is to London?" This was the only English city of which he had any knowledge, so he naturally sought to identify his locality by reference to it.

  "Lunnun," said the woman. "Oh, it'll be a matter of a mile or better!"

  Droop was startled, but highly pleased. Here was luck indeed.

  "Thank you, ma'am," he said. "Good-mornin'," and with a cheerful nod, he made off.

  The fact is that this information opened up a new field of enterprise and hope. At once there leaped into his mind an improved revival of his original plan. If he could have made a fortune with his great inventions in 1876, what might he not accomplish by the same means in 1598! He pictured to himself the delight of the ancient worthies when they heard the rag-time airs and minstrel jokes produced by his phonograph.

  "By hockey!" he exclaimed, in irrepressible delight, "I'll make their gol darned eyes pop out!"

  As he marched up and down in the deserted garden, hidden by the friendly brick wall, he bitterly regretted that he had limited himself to so few modern inventions.

  "Ef I'd only known I was comin' this fur back!" he exclaimed, as he talked to himself that he might feel less lonely. "Ef I'd only known, I could hev brought a heap of other things jest's well as not. Might hev taught 'em 'bout telegraphin' an' telephones. Could ha' given 'em steam-engines an' parlor matches. By ginger!" he exclaimed, "I b'lieve I've got some parlor matches. Great Jehosaphat! Won't I get rich!"

  But at this a new difficulty presented itself to his mind. He foresaw no trouble in procuring patents for his inventions, but how about the capital for their exploitation? Presumably this was quite as necessary here in England as it would have been in America in 1876. Unfortunately, his original plan was impossible of fulfilment. Rebecca had failed him as a capitalist. Besides, she and Phoebe had both completely disappeared.

  It was long before he saw his way out of this difficulty, but by dint of persistent pondering he finally lit upon a plan.

  He had brought with him a camera, several hundred plates, and a complete developing and printing outfit. He determined to set up as a professional photographer. His living would cost him nothing, as the Panchronicon was well stored with provisions. To judge by his surroundings, his privacy would probably be respected. Then, by setting up as a photographer he would at least earn a small amount of current coin and perhaps attract some rich and powerful backer by the novelty and excellence of his process. On this chance he relied for procuring the capital which was undoubtedly necessary for his purpose.

  By noon of the next day he had begun operations, having taken two or three views of familiar scenes in the neighborhood, which he affixed as samples to a large cardboard sign on which he had printed, in large type:

  ---------------------------------------------------------------- | | | AMERICAN PHOTOGRAPHER | | | | THE ONLY ONE IN EXISTENCE | | | | Step up and have your picture taken | | | ----------------------------------------------------------------

  This sign he nailed to a tree near the road which he made his headquarters. He preferred to keep the location and nature of his abode a secret, and so spent his days under his tree or sitting in the porch of some neighboring house, for he was not long in making friends, and his marvellous tales made him very popular.

  It was difficult for him to fix a price at first, not being acquainted with the coin of the realm, but he put his whole mind to the acquisition of reliable information on this point, and his native shrewdness brought him success.

  He found that it was wisest for every reason to let it be believed that the pictures were produced by hand. The camera, he explained, was a mere aid to accuracy of observation and memory in reproduction of what he saw through it. Thus he was able to command much higher prices for the excellence and perfection of his work and, had he but known it, further avoided suspicion of witchcraft which would probably have attached to him had he let it be known that the camera really produced the picture.

  In the course of his daily gossip with neighbors and with the customers, rustic and urban, who were attracted by his fame, he soon learned that "Good Queen Bess" ruled the land, and his speech gradually took on a tinge of the Elizabethan manner and vocabulary which, mingling with his native New England idioms, produced a very picturesque effect.

  It was a warm night some weeks after Droop had "hung out his shingle" as a professional photographer that he sat in the main room of the Panchronicon, reading for perhaps the twentieth time Phoebe's famous book on Bacon and Shakespeare, which she had left behind. The other books on hand he found too dry, and he whiled away his idle hours with this invaluable historic work, feeling that its tone was in harmony with his recent experiences.

  So to-night he was reading with the shutters tightly closed to prevent attracting the gaze of outsiders. No one had yet discovered his residence, and he had flattered himself that it would remain permanently a secret.

  His surprise and consternation were great, therefore, when he was suddenly disturbed in his reading by a gentle knocking on the door at the foot of the stairs.

  "Great Jonah!" he exclaimed, closing his book and cocking his head to listen. "Now, who--wonder ef it's Cousin Rebecca or Phoebe!"

  The knock was repeated.

  "Why, 'f course 'tis!" he said. "Couldn't be anybody else. Funny they never come back sooner!"

  He laid his book upon the table and started down the stairs just as the knocking was heard for the third time.

  "Comin'--comin'!" he cried. "Save the pieces!"

  He threw open the door and started back in alarm as there entered a strange man wrapped in a black cloak, which he held so as to completely hide his features.

  The new-comer sprang into the little hallway and hastily closed the door behind him.

  "Close in the light, friend," he said.

  Then, glancing about him, he ascended the stairs and entered the main room above.

  Droop followed him closely, rubbing his hand through his hair in perplexity. This intrusion threatened to spoil his plans. It would never do to have the neighbors swarming around the Panchronicon.

  The stranger threw off his cloak on entering the upper room and turned to face his host.

  "I owe you sincere acknowledgment of thanks, good sir," he said, gravely.

  He appeared to be about thirty-five years of age, a man of medium stature, dark of hair and eyes, with a pale, intellectual face and a close-clipped beard. His entire apparel was black, save for his well-starched ruff of moderate depth and the lace ruffles at his wrists.

  "Wal, I dunno," Droop retorted. "Marry, an I hed known as thou wast not an acquaintance----"

  "You wo
uld not have given me admittance?"

  The calm, dark eyes gazed with disconcerting steadiness into Droop's face.

  "Oh--well--I ain't sayin'----"

  "I hope I have not intruded to your hurt or serious confusion, friend," said the stranger, glancing about him. "To tell the very truth, your hospitable shelter hath offered itself in the hour of need."

  "What--doth it raineth--eh?"

  "Oh, no!"

  "What can I do fer ye? Take a seat," said Droop, as the stranger dropped into a chair. "Thou knowest, forsooth, that I don't take photygraphs at night--marry, no!"

  "Are you, then, the new limner who makes pictures by aid of the box and glass?"

  "Yea--that's what I am," said Droop.

  "I was ignorant of the location of your dwelling. Indeed, it is pure accident--a trick of Fortune that hath brought me to your door to-night."

  Droop seated himself and directed an interrogative gaze at his visitor.

  "My name's Droop--Copernicus Droop," he said. "An' you----"

  "My name is Francis Bacon, Master Droop--your servitor," he bowed slightly.

  Droop started up stiff and straight in his chair.

  "Francis Bacon!" he exclaimed. "What! Not the one as wrote Shakespeare?"

  "Shakespeare--Shakespeare!" said the stranger, in a slow, puzzled tone. "I do admit having made some humble essays in writing--certain modest commentaries upon human motives and relations--but, in good sooth, the title you have named, Master Droop, is unknown to me. Shakespeare--Shakespeare. Pray, sir, is it a homily or an essay?"

  "Why, ye see, et's--as fur's I know it's a man--a sorter poet or genius or play-writin' man," said Droop, somewhat confused.

  "A man--a poet--a genius?" Bacon repeated, gravely. "Then, prithee, friend, how meant you in saying you thought me him who had written Shakespeare? Can a man--a poet--be written?"

  "Nay--verily--in good sooth--marry, no!" stuttered Droop. "What they mean is thet 'twas you wrote the things Shakespeare put his name to--you did, didn't you?"

  "Ahem!" said the stranger, with dubious slowness. "A poet--a genius, you say? And I understand that I am reputed to have been the true author of--eh?"

  "Yes, indeed--yea--la!" exclaimed Droop, now sadly confused.

  "Might I ask the name of some work imputed to me, and which this--this Shake--eh----"

  "Shakespeare."

  "Ay, this Shakespeare hath impudently claimed for his own credit and reputation?"

  "Well--why--suffer me--jest wait a minute," said Droop. He clutched the book he had been reading and opened it at random. "Here," he said. "'Love's Labor's Lost,' for instance."

  "What!" exclaimed Bacon, starting indignantly to his feet. "'Tis but a sennight I saw this same dull nonsense played by the Lord Chamberlain's players. 'Love's Labor's--" he broke off and repressed his choler with some effort. Then in a slow, grave voice he continued: "Why, sir, you have been sadly abused. Surely the few essays I have made in the field of letters may stand my warrant that I should not so demean myself as is implied in this repute of me. Pray tell me, sir, who are they that so besmirch my reputation as to impute to my poor authority the pitiful lines of this rascal player?"

  "Why, in very truth--marry, it's in that book. It was printed in Chicago."

  Bacon glanced contemptuously at the volume without deigning to open it.

  "And prithee, Master Droop, where may Chicago be?"

  "Why it was in--no! I mean it will be--oh, darn it all! Chicago's in Illinois."

  "Illinois--yes--and Illinois?" Bacon's dark eyes were turned in grave question upon his companion.

  "Why, that's in America, ye know."

  "Oh!" said Bacon. Then, with a sigh of great relief: "Ah!" he exclaimed.

  "Yea, verily--in sooth--or--or thereabouts," said Droop, not knowing what to say.

  "Ah, in America! A land of heathen savages--red-skinned hunters of men. Yes--yes! 'Twere not impossible such persons might so misapprehend my powers. 'Twould lie well within their shallow incapacities, methinks, to impute to Francis Bacon, Barrister of Gray's Inn, Member of Parliament for Melcombe, Reversionary Clerk of the Star Chamber, the friend of the Earl of Essex--to impute to me, I say, these frothings of a villain player--this Shake--eh? What?"

  "Shakespeare."

  "Ay."

  Bacon paced placidly up and down for a few moments, while Droop followed him apologetically with his eyes. Evidently this was a most important personage. It behooved him to conciliate such a power as this. Who could tell! Perhaps this friend of the Earl of Essex might be the capitalist for whom he was in search.

  For some time Master Bacon paced back and forth in silence, evidently wrapped in his own thoughts. In the meantime Droop's hopes rose higher and higher, and at length he could no longer contain himself.

  "Why, Master Bacon," he said, "I'm clean surprised--yea, marry, am I--that anybody could hev ben sech a fool--a--eh? Well, a loon--what?--as to hev said you wrote Shakespeare. You're a man o' science--that's what you are. You don't concern yourself with no trumpery poetry. I can see that stickin' out."

  Bacon was startled and examined himself hurriedly.

  "What!" he exclaimed, "what is sticking out, friend?"

  "Oh, I was jest sayin' it in the sense of the word!" said Droop, apologetically. "What I mean is, it's clear that you're not a triflin' poet, but a man of science--eh?"

  "Why, no. I do claim some capacity in the diviner flights of lyric letters, friend. You are not to despise poetry. Nay--rather contemn those who bring scorn to the name of poet--vain writers for filthy pence--fellows like this same Shakespeare."

  "Yes--that's what I meant," said Droop, anxious to come to the point. "But your high-water mark is science--philosophy--all that. Now, you're somethin' of a capitalist, too, I surmise."

  He paused expectant.

  "A what, friend?"

  "Why, you're in some Trust er other, ain't ye?--Member of Congress--I mean Parlyment--friend of Lord What's-'is-name--Clerk of the Star--suthin' or other. Guess you're pretty middlin' rich, ain't ye?"

  Bacon's face grew long at these words, and he seated himself in evident melancholy.

  "Why, to speak truth, friend," he said, "I find myself at this moment in serious straits. Indeed, 'tis an affair of a debt that hath driven me thus to your door."

  "A debt!" said Droop, his heart sinking.

  "Ay. The plain truth is, that at this moment I am followed by two bailiffs--bearers of an execution of arrest upon my person. 'Twas to evade these fellows that I entered this deserted garden, leaving my horse without. 'Tis for this cause I am here. Now, Master Droop, you know the whole truth."

  "Great Jonah!" said Droop, helplessly. "But didn't you say you had friends?"

  "None better, Master Droop. My uncle is Lord Burleigh--Lord High Treasurer to her Gracious Majesty. My patron is the Earl of Essex----"

  "Why don't they give ye a lift?"

  Bacon's face grew graver.

  "Essex is away," he said. "On his return my necessities will be speedily relieved. As for mine uncle, to him have I applied; but his lordship lives in the sunshine of her Majesty's smiles, and he cannot be too sudden in aid of Francis Bacon for fear of losing the Queen's favor else."

  "Why so?"

  "A long tale of politics, friend. A speech made by me in Parliament in opposing monopolies."

  "Oh!" said Droop, dismally. "You're down on monopolies, air ye?"

  Bacon turned a wary eye upon his companion.

  "Why ask you this?" he said.

  "Why, only to--" He paused. "To say sooth," he continued, with sudden resolution, "I want to get a monopoly myself--two or three of 'em. I've got some A1 inventions here, an' I want to get 'em patented. I thought, perhaps, you or your friends might help me."

  "Ah!" Bacon exclaimed, with awakening interest. "You seek my influence in furtherance of these designs. Do I apprehend you?"

  "That's jest it," said Droop.

  "And what would be the--ahem--the recognition which--
--"

  "Why, you'd git a quarter interest in the hull business," said Droop, hopefully. "That is, provided you've got the inflooence, ye know."

  "Too slight--too slight for Francis Bacon, Master Droop."

  Copernicus thought rapidly for a minute or two. Then he pretended indifference.

  "Oh, very good!" he said. "I'll take up with Sir Thomas Thingumbob--What's-'is-name."

  Bacon pretended to accept the decision and changed the subject.

  "Now permit me to approach the theme of my immediate need," he said. "These bailiffs without--they must be evaded. May I have your assistance, friend, in this matter?"

  "Why--what can I do?"

  "Pray observe me with all attention," Bacon began. "These my habiliments are of the latest fashion and of rich texture. Your habit is, if I may so speak, of inferior fashion and substance. I will exchange my habit for yours on this condition--that you mount my horse forthwith and ride away. The moon is bright and you will be pursued at once by these scurvy bailiffs. Lead them astray, Master Droop, to the southward, whilst I slip away to London in your attire, wherein I feel sure no man will recognize me. Once in London, there is a friend of mine--one Master Isaac Burton--who is hourly expected and from whom I count upon having some advances to stand me in present stead. What say you? Will you accept new clothing and rich--for old and worn?"

  Droop approached his visitor and slowly examined his clothing, gravely feeling the stuff between thumb and finger and even putting his hand inside the doublet to feel the lining. Bacon's outraged dignity struggled within him with the sense of his necessity. Finally, just as he was about to give violent expression to his impatience, Droop stepped back and took in the general effect with one eye closed and his head cocked on one side.

  "Jest turn round, will ye?" he said, with a whirling movement of the hand, "an' let me see how it looks in the back?"

  Biting his lips, the furious barrister turned about and walked away.

  "Needs must where the devil drives," he muttered.

  Droop shook his head dismally.

  "Marry, come up!" he exclaimed. "I guess I can't make the bargain, friend Bacon."

  "But why?"

  "I don't like the cut o' them clothes. I'd look rideec'lous in 'em. Besides, the's too much risk in it, Bacon, my boy," he said, familiarly, throwing himself into the arm-chair and stretching out his legs comfortably. "Ef the knaves was to catch me an' find out the trick I'd played 'em, why, sure as a gun, they'd put me in the lock-up an' try me fer stealin' your duds--your habiliments."