Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  XIII

  The letter that started me — I was going to say startled me, but only imaginative people are startled — the letter, then, that started me from Bronx Park to the South I print without the permission of my superior, Professor Farrago. I have not obtained his permission, for the somewhat exciting reason that nobody knows where he is. Publicity being now recognized as the annihilator of mysteries, a benevolent purpose alone inspires me to publish a letter so strange, so pathetically remarkable, in view of what has recently occurred.

  As I say, I had only just returned from Java with a valuable collection of undescribed isopods — an order of edriophthalmous crustaceans with seven free thoracic somites furnished with fourteen legs — and I beg my reader’s pardon, but my reader will see the necessity for the author’s absolute accuracy in insisting on detail, because the story that follows is a dangerous story for a scientist to tell, in view of the vast amount of nonsense and fiction in circulation masquerading as stories of scientific adventure.

  I was, therefore, anticipating a delightful summer’s work with pen and microscope, when on April 1st I received the following extraordinary letter from Professor Farrago:

  “In Camp, Little Sprite Lake,

  “Everglades, Florida, March 15, 1902.

  “My Dear Mr. Gilland, — On receipt of this communication you will immediately secure for me the following articles:

  “One complete outfit of woman’s clothing.

  “One camera.

  “One light steel cage, large enough for you to stand in.

  “One stenographer (male sex).

  “One five-pound steel tank, with siphon and hose attachment.

  “One rifle and ammunition.

  “Three ounces rosium oxyde.

  “One ounce chlorate strontium.

  “You will then, within twenty-four hours, set out with the stenographer and the supplies mentioned and join me in camp on Little Sprite Lake. This order is formal and admits of no delay. You will appreciate the necessity of absolute and unquestioning obedience when I tell you that I am practically on the brink of the most astonishing discovery recorded in natural history since Monsieur Zani discovered the purple-spotted zoombok in Nyanza; and that I depend upon you and your zeal and fidelity for success.

  “I dare not, lest my letter fall into unscrupulous hands, convey to you more than a hint of what lies before us in these uncharted solitudes of the Everglades.

  “You must read between the lines when I say that because one can see through a sheet of glass, the glass is none the less solid and palpable. One can see through it — if that is also seeing it; but one can nevertheless hold it and feel it and receive from it sensations of cold or heat according to its temperature.

  “Certain jellyfish are absolutely transparent when in the water, and one can only know of their presence by accidental contact, not by sight.

  “Have you ever thought that possibly there might exist larger and more highly organized creatures transparent to eyesight, yet palpable to touch?

  “Little Sprite Lake is the jumping-off place; beyond lie the Everglades, the outskirts of which are haunted by the Seminoles, the interior of which have never been visited by man, as far as we know.

  “As you are aware, no general survey of Florida has yet been made; there exist no maps of the Everglades south of Okeechobee; even Little Sprite Lake is but a vague blot on our maps. We know, of course, that south of the eleven thousand square miles of fresh water which is called Lake Okeechobee the Everglades form a vast, delta-like projection of thousands and thousands of square miles. Darkest Africa is no longer a mystery; but the Everglades to-day remain the sombre secret of our continent. And, to-day, this unknown expanse of swamps, barrens, forests, and lagoons is greater than in the days of De Soto, because the entire region has been slowly rising.

  “All this, my dear sir, you already know, and I ask your indulgence for recalling the facts to your memory. I do it for this reason — the search for what I am seeking may lead us to utter destruction; and therefore my formal orders to you should be modified to this extent: — do you volunteer? If you volunteer, my orders remain; if not, turn this letter over to Mr. Kingsley, who will find for me the companion I require.

  “In the event of your coming, you must break your journey at False Cape and ask for an old man named Slunk. He will give you a packet; you will give him a dollar, and drive on to Cape Canaveral, and you will do what is to be done there. From there to Fort Kissimmee, to Okeechobee, traversing the lake to the Rita River, where I have marked the trail to Little Sprite.

  “At Little Sprite I shall await you; beyond that point a merciful Providence alone can know what awaits us.

  “Yours fraternally,

  “Farrago.

  “P.S. — I think that you had better make your will, and suggest the same idea to the stenographer who is to accompany you. F.”

  And that was the letter I received while seated comfortably on the floor of my work-room, surrounded by innocent isopods, all patiently awaiting scientific investigation.

  And this is what I did: Within twenty-four hours I had assembled the supplies required — the cage, the woman’s clothing, tank, arms and ammunition, and the chemicals; I had secured accommodations, for that evening, on the Florida, Volusia, and Fort Lauderdale Railway as far as Citron City; and I had been interviewing stenographers all day long, the result of an innocently worded advertisement in the daily newspapers.

  It was now very close to the time when I must summon a cab and drive to the ferry; and yet I was still shy one stenographer.

  I had seen scores; they simply would not listen to the proposition. “Why does a gentleman in the backwoods of Florida want a stenographer?” they demanded; and as I had not the faintest idea, I could only say so. I think the majority interviewed concluded I had escaped from a State institution.

  As the time for departure approached I became desperate, urging and beseeching applicants to accompany me; but neither sympathy for my instant need nor desire for salary moved them.

  I waited until the last moment, hoping against hope. Then, with a groan of despair, I seized luggage and raincoat, made for the door and flung it open, only to find myself face to face with an attractive young girl, apparently on the point of pressing the electric button.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but I have a train to catch.”

  She was noticeably attractive in her storm-coat and pretty hat, and I really was sorry — so sorry that I added:

  “I have about twenty-seven seconds to place at your service before I go.”

  “Twenty will be sufficient,” she replied, pleasantly. “I saw your advertisement for a stenographer—”

  “We require a man,” I interposed, hastily.

  “Have you engaged him?”

  “N-no.”

  We looked at each other.

  “You wouldn’t accept, anyway,” I began.

  “How do you know?”

  “You wouldn’t leave town, would you?”

  “Yes, if you required it.”

  “What? Go to Florida?”

  “Y-yes — if I must.”

  “But think of the alligators! Think of the snakes — big, bitey snakes!”

  “Gracious!” she exclaimed, eyes growing bigger.

  “Indians, too! — unreconciled, sulky Seminoles! Fevers! Mud-puddles! Spiders! And only fifty dollars a week—”

  “I — I’ll go,” she stammered.

  “Go?” I repeated, grimly; “then you’ve exactly two and three-quarter seconds left for preparations.”

  Instinctively she raised her little gloved hand and patted her hair. “I’m ready,” she said, unsteadily.

  “One extra second to make your will,” I added, stunned by her self-possession.

  “I — I have nothing to leave — nobody to leave it to,” she said, smiling; “I am ready.”

  I took that extra second myself for a lightning course in reflection upon effects and consequences.
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  “It’s silly, it’s probably murder,” I said, “but you’re engaged! Now we must run for it!”

  And that is how I came to engage the services of Miss Helen Barrison as stenographer.

  XIV

  At noon on the second day I disembarked from the train at Citron City with all paraphernalia — cage, chemicals, arsenal, and stenographer; an accumulation of very dusty impedimenta — all but the stenographer. By three o’clock our hotel livery-rig was speeding along the beach at False Cape towards the tall lighthouse looming above the dunes.

  The abode of a gentleman named Slunk was my goal. I sat brooding in the rickety carriage, still dazed by the rapidity of my flight from New York; the stenographer sat beside me, blue eyes bright with excitement, fair hair blowing in the sea-wind.

  Our railway companionship had been of the slightest, also absolutely formal; for I was too absorbed in conjecturing the meaning of this journey to be more than absent-mindedly civil; and she, I fancy, had had time for repentance and perhaps for a little fright, though I could discover traces of neither.

  I remember she left the train at some city or other where we were held for an hour; and out of the car-window I saw her returning with a brand-new grip sack.

  She must have bought clothes, for she continued to remain cool and fresh in her summer shirt-waists and short outing skirt; and she looked immaculate now, sitting there beside me, the trace of a smile curving her red mouth.

  “I’m looking for a personage named Slunk,” I observed.

  After a moment’s silent consideration of the Atlantic Ocean she said, “When do my duties begin, Mr. Gilland?”

  “The Lord alone knows,” I replied, grimly. “Are you repenting of your bargain?”

  “I am quite happy,” she said, serenely.

  Remorse smote me that I had consented to engage this frail, pink-and-ivory biped for an enterprise which lay outside the suburbs of Manhattan. I glanced guiltily at my victim; she sat there, the incarnation of New York piquancy — a translated denizen of the metropolis — a slender spirit of the back offices of sky-scrapers. Why had I lured her hither? — here where the heavy, lavender-tinted breakers thundered on a lost coast; here where above the dune-jungles vultures soared, and snowy-headed eagles, hulking along the sands, tore dead fish and yelped at us as we passed.

  Strange waters, strange skies — a strange, lost land aquiver under an exotic sun; and there she sat with her wise eyes of a child, unconcerned, watching the world in perfect confidence.

  “May I pay a little compliment to your pluck?” I asked, amused.

  “Certainly,” she said, smiling as the maid of Manhattan alone knows how to smile — shyly, inquiringly — with a lingering hint of laughter in the curled lips’ corners. Then her sensitive features fell a trifle. “Not pluck,” she said, “but necessity; I had no chance to choose, no time to wait. My last dollar, Mr. Gilland, is in my purse!”

  With a gay little gesture she drew it from her shirt-front, then, smiling, sat turning it over and over in her lap.

  The sun fell on her hands, gilding the smooth skin with the first tint of sunburn. Under the corners of her eyes above the rounded cheeks a pink stain lay like the first ripening flush on a wild strawberry. That, too, was the mark left by the caress of wind and sun. I had had no idea she was so pretty.

  “I think we’ll enjoy this adventure,” I said; “don’t you?”

  “I try to make the best of things,” she said, gazing off into the horizon haze. “Look,” she added; “is that a man?”

  A spot far away on the beach caught my eye. At first I thought it was a pelican — and small wonder, too, for the dumpy, waddling, goose-necked individual who loomed up resembled a heavy bottomed bird more than a human being.

  “Do you suppose that could be Mr. Slunk?” asked the stenographer, as our vehicle drew nearer.

  He looked as though his name ought to be Slunk; he was digging coquina clams, and he dug with a pecking motion like a water-turkey mastering a mullet too big for it.

  His name was Slunk; he admitted it when I accused him. Our negro driver drew rein, and I descended to the sand and gazed on Mr. Slunk.

  He was, as I have said, not impressive, even with the tremendous background of sky and ocean.

  “I’ve come something over a thousand miles to see you,” I said, reluctant to admit that I had come as far to see such a specimen of human architecture.

  A weather-beaten grin stretched the skin that covered his face, and he shoved a hairy paw into the pockets of his overalls, digging deeply into profound depths. First he brought to light a twist of South Carolina tobacco, which he leisurely inserted in his mouth — not, apparently, for pleasure, but merely to get rid of it.

  The second object excavated from the overalls was a small packet addressed to me. This he handed to me; I gravely handed him a silver dollar; he went back to his clam-digging, and I entered the carriage and drove on. All had been carried out according to the letter of my instructions so far, and my spirits brightened.

  “If you don’t mind I’ll read my instructions,” I said, in high good-humor.

  “Pray do not hesitate,” she said, smiling in sympathy.

  So I opened the little packet and read:

  “Drive to Cape Canaveral along the beach. You will find a gang of men at work on a government breakwater. The superintendent is Mr. Rowan. Show him this letter.

  “Farrago.”

  Rather disappointed — for I had been expecting to find in the packet some key to the interesting mystery which had sent Professor Farrago into the Everglades — I thrust the missive into my pocket and resumed a study of the immediate landscape. It had not changed as we progressed: ocean, sand, low dunes crowned with impenetrable tangles of wild bay, sparkleberry, and live-oak, with here and there a weather-twisted palmetto sprawling, and here and there the battered blades of cactus and Spanish-bayonet thrust menacingly forward; and over all the vultures, sailing, sailing — some mere circling motes lost in the blue above, some sheering the earth so close that their swiftly sweeping shadows slanted continually across our road.

  “I detest a buzzard,” I said, aloud.

  “I thought they were crows,” she confessed.

  “Carrion-crows — yes.

  “‘The carrion-crows Sing, Caw! caw!’

  — only they don’t,” I added, my song putting me in good-humor once more. And I glanced askance at the pretty stenographer.

  “It is a pleasure to be employed by agreeable people,” she said, innocently.

  “Oh, I can be much more agreeable than that,” I said.

  “Is Professor Farrago — amusing?” she asked.

  “Well — oh, certainly — but not in — in the way I am.”

  Suddenly it flashed upon me that my superior was a confirmed hater of unmarried women. I had clean forgotten it; and now the full import of what I had done scared me silent.

  “Is anything the matter?” asked Miss Barrison.

  “No — not yet,” I said, ominously.

  How on earth could I have overlooked that well-known fact. The hurry and anxiety, the stress of instant preparation and departure, had clean driven it from my absent-minded head.

  Jogging on over the sand, I sat silent, cudgelling my brains for a solution of the disastrous predicament I had gotten into. I pictured the astonished rage of my superior — my probable dismissal from employment — perhaps the general overturning and smash-up of the entire expedition.

  A distant, dark object on the beach concentrated my distracted thoughts; it must be the breakwater at Cape Canaveral. And it was the breakwater, swarming with negro workmen, who were swinging great blocks of coquina into cemented beds, singing and whistling at their labor.

  I forgot my predicament when I saw a thin white man in sun-helmet and khaki directing the work from the beach; and as our horses plodded up, I stepped out and hailed him by name.

  “Yes, my name is Rowan,” he said, instantly, turning to meet me. His sharp, c
lear eyes included the vehicle and the stenographer, and he lifted his helmet, then looked squarely at me.

  “My name is Gilland,” I said, dropping my voice and stepping nearer. “I have just come from Bronx Park, New York.”

  He bowed, waiting for something more from me; so I presented my credentials.

  His formal manner changed at once. “Come over here and let us talk a bit,” he said, cordially — then hesitated, glancing at Miss Barrison— “if your wife would excuse us—”

  The pretty stenographer colored, and I dryly set Mr. Rowan right — which appeared to disturb him more than his mistake.

  “Pardon me, Mr. Gilland, but you do not propose to take this young girl into the Everglades, do you?”

  “That’s what I had proposed to do,” I said, brusquely.

  Perfectly aware that I resented his inquiry, he cast a perplexed and troubled glance at her, then slowly led the way to a great block of sun-warmed coquina, where he sat down, motioning me to do the same.

  “I see,” he said, “that you don’t know just where you are going or just what you are expected to do.”

  “No, I don’t,” I said.

  “Well, I’ll tell you, then. You are going into the devil’s own country to look for something that I fled five hundred miles to avoid.”

  “Is that so?” I said, uneasily.

  “That is so, Mr. Gilland.”

  “Oh! And what is this object that I am to look for and from which you fled five hundred miles?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know what you ran away from?”

  “No, sir. Perhaps if I had known I should have run a thousand miles.”

  We eyed one another.

  “You think, then, that I’d better send Miss Barrison back to New York?” I asked.

  “I certainly do. It may be murder to take her.”

  “Then I’ll do it!” I said, nervously. “Back she goes from the first railroad station.”