by Bill Peschel
“He concentrates his thoughts. Doctor Nikola evidently intends to make the queen think he is Captain Kettle and then to marry her, enter the royal hut, and dig up the philosopher’s stone. How is this to be prevented? There is only one certain way.
“He steps from behind the rock, a revolver in his hand. Aiming carefully, he fires. Again the stars pale, and the winds moan. By the side of Captain Kettle falls Doctor Nikola, a bullet in his heart.
“Horror fills Mr. Jacobs’s Skipper. He is used to smuggling, bigamy, and other legitimate Limehouse crimes but not to murder. His eyes roll. His wooden leg trembles with suppressed emotion.
“Once more there is a transformation scene. Sherlock Holmes takes unto himself the wig, beard, and clothes and becomes Captain Kettle. He is a little too tall, and the trousers are consequently a little short. But, apart from this, the likeness is so good that even the holy James might be deceived.
“Immediately he has completed the change he leaves the beach. The villager meets him, addresses him as Captain Kettle, and asks for a reply to the queen’s proposal. With his usual promptitude, Sherlock Holmes grasps the situation. ‘Tell her that I say yes,’ he cries. ‘Tell her that I will marry her this very day—this very hour.’
“The queen smiles coyly when she hears of this eagerness. She resolves, however, to gratify it. First, she gives directions to her cooks to prepare a great feast. Then she sends an escort of soldiers to conduct Captain Kettle to the sacred grove where all marriages are solemnised. Then, accompanied by the island priest, she herself sets out.
“The news spreads fast. When the queen, the priest, and Sherlock Holmes enter the sacred grove they are greeted with shouts and music. Nearly all the villagers have come to see the marriage. On every side are some, carrying torches, tom-toms, rice, or old shoes.
“Rudolf Rassendyll, also, is within the grove. His face is set in melancholy. He leans against a cypress tree and sighs. He loves this queen more passionately than he has ever loved queens before. Alas! He loves in vain. She is not for him.
“Silence is proclaimed, and the shouts and music end. The priest clears his throat and begins the service. First, in accordance with the island laws, he gives notice of the proposed marriage. Then he states that he will consider any objections or suggestions submitted to him within five minutes.
“Slowly the minutes pass. The queen gazes fondly at Sherlock Holmes. In the dull light his disguise is sufficient. She notices that he seems somewhat tall and his trousers somewhat short but attributes it to his nervousness. She doubts not that he is, in truth, Captain Kettle.
“Halfway through the fifth minute, cries of astonishment come from the north part of the grove. The queen and Sherlock Holmes turn to discover the cause, the former angry, the latter anxious. Some of the villagers standing near blow torches into flame and hold them on high.
“Suddenly, into the circle of light staggers Mr. Jacobs’s Skipper. The queen shrieks and faints in the arms of Rudolf Rassendyll, who has run to her from the cypress tree. Sherlock Holmes reels like a Scotland Yard detective who has mislaid a clue. They have discovered the cause of the cries of astonishment. Riding pickaback on Mr. Jacobs’s Skipper is Captain Kettle, his face pale and stern, his hand clenched on a revolver.”
Again Blanco Watson paused.
“Impossible!” I exclaimed, “he was killed.”
“No, only wounded. The fact is that after Sherlock Holmes had gone, Mr. Jacobs’s Skipper crossed the beach. He saw that Doctor Nikola was dead, but that Captain Kettle, although insensible, still breathed. As quickly as possible he bound up his wound and restored him.
“When Captain Kettle heard of the transformation scenes, he guessed the truth. ‘By James,’ he muttered, ‘I will shoot him like an acorn.’ Assisted by Mr. Jacobs’s Skipper, he dressed himself in some of the clothes lying near. Then he tried to walk, but found that he could not because of the weakness consequent on his wound.
“Seeing his difficulty, Mr. Jacob’s Skipper very kindly offered him a back. He accepted and rode into the village. There he learned of what was doing. ‘Go on! Go on!’ he cried. Mr. Jacobs’s Skipper obeyed. In a very short time, the two reached the sacred grove and confronted Sherlock Holmes.”
“What then?” I asked.
“Captain Kettle covers Sherlock Holmes with the revolver. ‘Like an acorn; like an acorn,’ he mutters. Yet he hesitates to fire. His weakness and the flickering of the torches make it possible that he might miss. Besides, there is no actual blood feud between them.
“Sherlock Holmes sees the hesitation. He thinks: May he not escape? And may he not obtain the philosopher’s stone after all? The royal hut is empty. The guards who usually stand about it have come to see the marriage. Yes, now, now, is the time to enter and to dig.
“‘Farewell,’ he shouts and leaps among the trees. ‘Stop him!’ shouts Captain Kettle. ‘Stop him!’ repeats the priest. But the villagers do not heed. They are concerned for their queen and crowd around her as she lies in Rudolf Rassendyll’s arms. Unmolested, Sherlock Holmes speeds on towards the royal hut.
“Moments pass. Then, again, cries of astonishment come from the north part of the grove. And, again, torches are blown into flame and held on high. And, again, someone staggers into the circle of light.
“This time it is Stalky, breathless and trembling. He and the Co., who join him immediately afterwards, have evidently run far and fast. They struggle to speak and simultaneously succeed. ‘To the boats!’ they shriek, ‘the island is sinking. To the boats! To the boats!’
“All who hear turn pale. An accident, unfortunately only too common among the coral islands of the Pacific, has happened. Some defect in the plans of the polyp architect or in the material used by the polyp builders has asserted itself. The foundations of the island have given way.
“The northern half has already sunk. Stalky & Co. were on the top of a tree, birdnesting by starlight, at the time. They saw it, they explain, shiver like a jelly-fish, turn over like a turtle and then sink. The southern half must follow soon.
“‘To the boats! To the boats!’ Rudolf Rassendyll with the queen in his arms, Mr. Jacobs’s Skipper with Captain Kettle on his back, and Stalky & Co. hurry towards The Naughty Mermaid, and the villagers towards their canoes. ‘To the boats! To the boats!’
“Sighs of relief fill the air. The Naughty Mermaid and the canoes are afloat. Rudolf Rassendyll, the queen, and all the other people have escaped. Yet, no, not all. In the royal hut is Sherlock Holmes, digging for the philosopher’s stone.
“The moon rises, and the doomed half island becomes white and beautiful. Captain Kettle produces pencil and paper and writes poetry. Rudolf Rassendyll whispers earnestly to the queen, who has recovered from the faint. Stalky & Co. and Mr. Jacob’s Skipper lean against the funnel and talk about the weather.
“Hark! the muffled sound of breaking and splitting. The last of the foundations have gone. In agony, the half island shivers. No more shall it look upon the moon and the stars. No more shall it be fanned by the sweet night winds. No more, no more, no more!
“Hark! A shriek. All on board The Naughty Mermaid leap to their feet. Sherlock Holmes it was who shrieked. They see him standing outside the royal hut. He has triumphed, and he has failed. The philosopher’s stone flashes in his hand. But he and it must die.
“The half island begins to turn. He drops the stone and strives to climb. Steeper and steeper becomes the slope. Again, he shrieks, wildly, hopelessly. The half island turns and sinks. Below it are Sherlock Holmes and the philosopher’s stone. Above it are the waters of the Pacific.
“There is little more to tell. The Naughty Mermaid steams towards London. During the voyage, the queen learns that Captain Kettle writes poetry, and that, consequently, he is not worthy of her love. She immediately transfers it to Rudolf Rassendyll. He is delighted. And so is Captain Kettle.
“The Naughty Mermaid reaches London. Stalky & Co. find that their respective grandfathers have died and
left them immense fortunes, and that they need not go back to school. Mr. Jacobs’s Skipper describes his adventures in the newspaper with the largest circulation in the world, and, in recognition of them is elected a Fellow of The Royal Geographical Society.
“Rudolf Rassendyll and the queen are married at a fashionable West End church and receive numerous costly presents. Captain Kettle constitutes himself the heir of Doctor Nikola, and sells The Naughty Mermaid for a sum which ensures him an honourable and independent old age. In a word, the romance ends happily as a romance must if it wishes to be popular.”
Blanco Watson smiled as if satisfied with himself.
“And you think that that would be the book of 1900?” I asked.
“I do,” he replied.
“And what should be the title?”
“Ah! Yes, the title. You want something striking and yet not too striking—so that he who runs may read, and yet so that he who reads may not run.”
“And what do you suggest?”
“Write the romance,” he replied. “Then ask me again. In the meantime I will think.”
The Adventures of Padlock Bones
Sol Cohen
This unusual example of dialect humor appeared in the March 16 and 23 issues of The Jewish Messenger newspaper in New York City. Alas, Sol Cohen is a common name and, apart from being a Chicago journalist, nothing more could be learned about him.
I.
Padlock was lying on his luxuriant couch as I entered his apartments. His soft brown half-closed eyes were peering through their long, silken lashes at the stately bust of Minerva stationed over his book shelves, as if mutely beseeching that erudite goddess for assistance in some problem, the solution of which was to work dire disaster to the guilty wretch or wretches involved. He was puffing leisurely at his diamond jewelled pipe, the gift of a Chicago alderman, as he lazily offered me a soft, white hand, and said in his delightfully ennuied style:
“You’re just in time to help me out of a rather perplexing problem which was called to my attention by a letter received a half hour ago. First, however, you might try a glass of this blend to join that poor stuff you’ve been drinking, Hotson; and you will continue to eat onions, too, though they’re hard to digest and not altogether in good form.”
I took the glass, marvelling at the ease with which he detected my indulgence in onions and whiskey.
“Hotson, Hotson,” he continued, “when will you learn to avoid the muddy thoroughfares and desist from going about without rubbers, umbrella, or mackintosh in these heavy London rains?”
Wonderful man! Seeing naught but my drenched clothes and spattered shoes, and yet so readily knowing that I had come all the way to his apartments without rubbers, storm coat, or umbrella.
Padlock pointed to a paper on the table.
“This note informs me that a young gentleman has disappeared from his habitation in Birchington Road in a most unaccountable manner—a most unaccountable manner,” he repeated as he lifted his beautiful Steiner violin from its case and gazed fondly at it. He was silent for a moment, and then whistling the Paris version of the overture to “Tannhauser” with full orchestral effect, he arose and walked nervously about the room.
“Hotson,” he said, “can you spare me a few hours in this matter? It very much resembles the abduction of the one hundred and third mother-in-law of the Mormon bishop, which attracted such attention in Utah some years ago, and yet it is quite different—quite different. You recall the matter, Hotson?”
“Indeed I do,” I replied, “and also the costly presents and bribes he offered you when you deliberately accused him of himself being the abductor of the old lady.”
Padlock smiled.
“I couldn’t blame the bishop much, Hotson,” he said, as he ran over the strings with his wonderful pizzicatos and arpeggios. “This marrying habit causes many miseries, many miseries, without reckoning mothers-in-law. You take a wife, Hotson, because you’re lonesome; you leave her—for the same reason. Marriage! Bah! Ask the first dog you meet whether he’d rather be a married man. I’ll wager you’ll not hear him say ‘yes.’ And the wife, Hotson—the wife; she finds time hanging heavy on her hands, and what does she do? She hunts for an affinity, Hotson, an affinity; two souls with but a single thought, two hearts to beat the one—and that one is the husband.”
With this he relapsed into silence and gazed at Minerva as though admiring her for never having had an affinity, as far as is known up to the moment of going to press. I never cared to say much when Bones touched upon the subject of matrimony with his frightful cynicism and withering sarcasm. I shall always believe that there was some fearful romance in his own life; that some heartless woman had turned him cruelly away.
“The idea of the world being created in six days!” he continued. “Why, the creation of the woman that the average man could get along with is worth two weeks’ labor alone.”
He paced nervously up and down the room with clenched fists and feverish eye. I had never seen him so wrought up since he solved the mystery of the Maharajah of Bundalcoor’s hypnotized blind pig, for which, as the public well knows, he was rewarded with two carloads of sausage and the decorations and insignia of the Maharajah’s own order of the Mystic Bazzassass Grand Council No. 1.
“But to get back to our story, Hotson—as the servant girl remarked when she started for the seventh floor—read me the cases of Mysterious Disappearances from Volume IX., Series X., which you will find beside you on the table.”
I commenced reading from the book indicated, and had completed the episode of the twisted pretzel mystery which aroused such enormous excitement in Buda-Pesth several years ago, when footsteps were heard in the hallway.
“I vish to haf some conversationings mit Broffessor Bones,” said a shrill tenor voice.
“Stop!” said Bones; “a man outside wants to see me.”
I could not repress a look of admiration for my friend’s wonderful powers of intuition.
“Bones! Bones! Beiner! Ich vill mit ihm sprechen,” came again from the hallway.
“A German individual,” said Bones, quick as a flash. “You are amazed at my so readily detecting these matters, Hotson,” he exclaimed in his quiet, unassuming way. “One can, by systematically observing the tones, keys, pitches, dialects, brogues, vocalisms, provincialisms, mannerisms, characteristics, idiosyncrasies, etc., determine very readily the sex, age, nationality, and general condition of the person whose voice he hears. Thus, with my study and experience, I have comparatively no difficulty in distinguishing the surly barkings of a dog from the light and innocent laughter of a little child, nor the ravings of the victim of the gold cure from the soft and tender protestations of the moonlight lover. So, too,” he continued, waxing warm on the subject, “the German dialect can be distinguished from the Irish brogue, the French patois from our own English coster tongue, and the deaf and dumb voice from the sonorous manifestations of a barker for a dime museum.”
During this time Bones, in spite of his acute hearing, was entirely oblivious to the continued knocking on the outside, but now he opened the door and admitted a short, slender, nervous little gentleman with blonde hair, eyes, and moustache. His hat and clothes which were light in color were rendered more so by being covered with flour.
“You vas Broffessor Bones, der derdective?” he exclaimed.
“I am, sir, and you are the German baker whose note I received this morning,” answered Bones.
“How dit you know dot I vas German? Dey all call me Irisher,” asked he, with a silly smile.
“That’s what I am a detective for,” answered Bones with dignity.
“Vell, broffessor,” he continued, “I haf desires for some conversationings towarts you, ver I can explanations make arount it.” He looked at me as though I might be unwelcome. “May pe ye shoult not be so much togedder,” he added timidly.
“Proceed with your story; what you tell me my friend must also hear,” said Bones.
“Vell, gent
lemen, I am looking for a liddle poy vat is not ver he ought to is; he has apducted himself avay from ver he vas pefore he vasn’t.”
“You mean he has absconded,” said Bones.
“Yah,” he remarked, “dot is der explonashun vat from my own face outpreaks; he has apskinded. Aber ven I get him, I vill pull from his face de odder vay his nose off.”
“When did this occur?” asked Bones.
“Dis vas no cur; dis vas a poy,” protested the baker.
“I mean, when did it happen?”
“It hippened apout five o’clock.”
“Five o’clock when?” impatiently demanded Bones.
“In three veeks it vill be purty near four veeks dot he is nod in sighd.”
“You mean that he is gone a week?” smiled Bones.
“Yah, he vent avay not so strong I coult whip him dough he vas only half my size,” valiantly retorted the man of bread.
“How old did you say he was?”
“He vas amongst fourteen. I need him so much, unt den I vas marritett going to gitten unt vas on my honey—son going avay.”
“There are other poisons, but he saved you from one,” muttered Bones. Then, burying his face in his hands for a moment, a slight tremor seemed to convulse his delicate but wiry frame; he groaned, mumbled, and writhed about as if in deep agony; suddenly jumping up, he shouted at the startled baker as he shook his slender finger in his face:
“Answer my questions now and nothing else; did the boy ever speak of any sweetheart or lady love?”
“Dit he efer speak of a sveet heart or lady luf? Ha, ha! Vy, my dear sir, he coultn’t sp—”
“Curses on it, man! Answer my question, ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ or get out of here!” screamed Bones, livid with rage and trembling like a leaf.
The baker, frightened half to death, sank down on his chair, squarely on his little flour-bespattered hat, and gasped: “No, sir, he didetett nod.”
