I placed the steel tank near the cage, uncoiled the hose attachment, unscrewed the top, and dumped in the salts of strontium. Miss Barrison unwrapped the bottle of rosium oxide and loosened the cork. We examined this pearl-and-pink powder and shook it up so that it might run out quickly. Then Miss Barrison sat down, and presently became absorbed in a stenographic report of the proceedings up to date.
When Miss Barrison finished her report she handed me the bundle of papers. I stowed them away in my wallet, and we sat down together beside the tank.
Inside the cage Professor Farrago was seated, his spectacled eyes fixed on the row of pies. For a while, although realizing perfectly that our quarry was transparent and invisible, we unconsciously strained our eyes in quest of something stirring in the forest.
“I should think,” said I, in a low voice, “that the odor of the pies might draw at least one out of the odd dozen that came rubbing up against my window last night.”
“Hush! Listen!” she breathed. But we heard nothing save the snoring of the overfed dog at our feet.
“He’ll give us ample notice by butting into Miss Barrison’s skirts,” I observed. “No need of our watching, professor.”
The professor nodded. Presently he removed his spectacles and lay back against the bars, closing his eyes.
At first the forest silence seemed cheerful there in the flecked sunlight. The spotted wood-gnats gyrated merrily, chased by dragon-flies; the shy wood-birds hopped from branch to twig, peering at us in friendly inquiry; a lithe, gray squirrel, plumy tail undulating, rambled serenely around the cage, sniffing at the pastry within.
Suddenly, without apparent reason, the squirrel sprang to a tree-trunk, hung a moment on the bark, quivering all over, then dashed away into the jungle.
“Why did he act like that?” whispered Miss Barrison. And, after a moment: “How still it is! Where have the birds gone?”
In the ominous silence the dog began to whimper in his sleep and his hind legs kicked convulsively.
“He’s dreaming—” I began.
The words were almost driven down my throat by the dog, who, without a yelp of warning, hurled himself at Miss Barrison and alighted on my chest, fore paws around my neck.
I cast him scornfully from me, but he scrambled back, digging like a mole to get under us.
“The transparent creatures!” whispered Miss Barrison. “Look! See that pie move!”
I sprang to my feet just as the professor, jamming on his spectacles, leaned forward and slammed the cage door.
“I’ve got one!” he shouted, frantically. “There’s one in the cage! Turn on that hose!”
“Wait a second,” said Miss Barrison, calmly, uncorking the bottle and pouring a pearly stream of rosium oxide into the tank. “Quick! It’s fizzing! Screw on the top!”
In a second I had screwed the top fast, seized the hose, and directed a hissing cloud of vapor through the cage bars.
For a moment nothing was heard save the whistling rush of the perfumed spray escaping; a delicious odor of roses filled the air. Then, slowly, there in the sunshine, a misty something grew in the cage — a glistening, pearl-tinted phantom, imperceptibly taking shape in space — vague at first as a shred of lake vapor, then lengthening, rounding into flowing form, clearer, clearer.
“The Sphyx!” gasped the professor. “In the name of Heaven, play that hose!”
As he spoke the treacherous hose burst. A showery pillar of rose-colored vapor enveloped everything. Through the thickening fog for one brief instant a human form appeared like magic — a woman’s form, flawless, exquisite as a statue, pure as marble. Then the swimming vapor buried it, cage, pies, and all.
We ran frantically around, the cage in the obscurity, appealing for instructions and feeling for the bars. Once the professor’s muffled voice was heard demanding the wearing apparel, and I groped about and found it and stuffed it through the bars of the cage.
“Do you need help?” I shouted. There was no response. Staring around through the thickening vapor of rosium rolling in clouds from the overturned tank, I heard Miss Barrison’s voice calling:
“I can’t move! A transparent lady is holding me!”
Blindly I rushed about, arms outstretched, and the next moment struck the door of the cage so hard that the impact almost knocked me senseless. Clutching it to steady myself, it suddenly flew open. A rush of partly visible creatures passed me like a burst of pink flames, and in the midst, borne swiftly away on the crest of the outrush, the professor passed like a bolt shot from a catapult; and his last cry came wafted back to me from the forest as I swayed there, drunk with the stupefying perfume: “Don’t worry! I’m all right!”
I staggered out into the clearer air towards a figure seen dimly through swirling vapor.
“Are you hurt?” I stammered, clasping Miss Barrison in my arms.
“No — oh no,” she said, wringing her hands. “But the professor! I saw him! I could not scream; I could not move! They had him!”
“I saw him too,” I groaned. “There was not one trace of terror on his face. He was actually smiling.”
Overcome at the sublime courage of the man, we wept in each other’s arms.
True to our promise to Professor Farrago, we made the best of our way northward; and it was not a difficult journey by any means, the voyage in the launch across Okeechobee being perfectly simple and the trail to the nearest railroad station but a few easy miles from the landing-place.
Shocking as had been our experience, dreadful as was the calamity which had not only robbed me of a life-long friend, but had also bereaved the entire scientific world, I could not seem to feel that desperate and hopeless grief which the natural decease of a close friend might warrant. No; there remained a vague expectancy which so dominated my sorrow that at moments I became hopeful — nay, sanguine, that I should one day again behold my beloved superior in the flesh. There was something so happy in his last smile, something so artlessly pleased, that I was certain no fear of impending dissolution worried him as he disappeared into the uncharted depth of the unknown Everglades.
I think Miss Barrison agreed with me, too. She appeared to be more or less dazed, which was, of course, quite natural; and during our return voyage across Okeechobee and through the lagoons and forests beyond she was very silent.
When we reached the railroad at Portulacca, a thrifty lemon-growing ranch on the Volusia and Chinkapin Railway, the first thing I did was to present my dog to the station-agent — but I was obliged to give him five dollars before he consented to accept the dog.
However, Miss Barrison interviewed the station-master’s wife, a kindly, pitiful soul, who promised to be a good mistress to the creature. We both felt better after that was off our minds; we felt better still when the north-bound train rolled leisurely into the white glare of Portulacca, and presently rolled out again, quite as leisurely, bound, thank Heaven, for that abused aggregation of sinful boroughs called New York.
Except for one young man whom I encountered in the smoker, we had the train to ourselves, a circumstance which, curiously enough, appeared to increase Miss Barrison’s depression, and my own as a natural sequence. The circumstances of the taking off of Professor Farrago appeared to engross her thoughts so completely that it made me uneasy during our trip out from Little Sprite — in fact it was growing plainer to me every hour that in her brief acquaintance with that distinguished scientist she had become personally attached to him to an extent that began to worry me. Her personal indignation at the caged Sphyx flared out at unexpected intervals, and there could be no doubt that her unhappiness and resentment were becoming morbid.
I spent an hour or two in the smoking compartment, tenanted only by a single passenger and myself. He was an agreeable young man, although, in the natural acquaintanceship that we struck up, I regretted to learn that he was a writer of popular fiction, returning from Fort Worth, where he had been for the sole purpose of composing a poem on Florida.
I have always
, in common with other mentally balanced savants, despised writers of fiction. All scientists harbor a natural antipathy to romance in any form, and that antipathy becomes a deep horror if fiction dares to deal flippantly with the exact sciences, or if some degraded intellect assumes the warrantless liberty of using natural history as the vehicle for silly tales.
Never but once had I been tempted to romance in any form; never but once had sentiment interfered with a passionless transfer of scientific notes to the sanctuary of the unvarnished note-book or the cloister of the juiceless monograph. Nor have I the slightest approach to that superficial and doubtful quality known as literary skill. Once, however, as I sat alone in the middle of the floor, classifying my isopods, I was not only astonished but totally unprepared to find myself repeating aloud a verse that I myself had unconsciously fashioned:
“An isopod Is a work of God.”
Never before in all my life had I made a rhyme; and it worried me for weeks, ringing in my brain day and night, confusing me, interfering with my thoughts.
I said as much to the young man, who only laughed good-naturedly and replied that it was the Creator’s purpose to limit certain intellects, nobody knows why, and that it was apparent that mine had not escaped.
“There’s one thing, however,” he said, “that might be of some interest to you and come within the circumscribed scope of your intelligence.”
“And what is that?” I asked, tartly.
“A scientific experience of mine,” he said, with a careless laugh. “It’s so much stranger than fiction that even Professor Bruce Stoddard, of Columbia, hesitated to credit it.”
I looked at the young fellow suspiciously. His bland smile disarmed me, but I did not invite him to relate his experience, although he apparently needed only that encouragement to begin.
“Now, if I could tell it exactly as it occurred,” he observed, “and a stenographer could take it down, word for word, exactly as I relate it—”
“It would give me great pleasure to do so,” said a quiet voice at the door. We rose at once, removing the cigars from our lips; but Miss Barrison bade us continue smoking, and at a gesture from her we resumed our seats after she had installed herself by the window.
“Really,” she said, looking coldly at me, “I couldn’t endure the solitude any longer. Isn’t there anything to do on this tiresome train?”
“If you had your pad and pencil,” I began, maliciously, “you might take down a matter of interest—”
She looked frankly at the young man, who laughed in that pleasant, good-tempered manner of his, and offered to tell us of his alleged scientific experience if we thought it might amuse us sufficiently to vary the dull monotony of the journey north.
“Is it fiction?” I asked, point-blank.
“It is absolute truth,” he replied.
I rose and went off to find pad and pencil. When I returned Miss Barrison was laughing at a story which the young man had just finished.
“But,” he ended, gravely, “I have practically decided to renounce fiction as a means of livelihood and confine myself to simple, uninteresting statistics and facts.”
“I am very glad to hear you say that,” I exclaimed, warmly. He bowed, looked at Miss Barrison, and asked her when he might begin his story.
“Whenever you are ready,” replied Miss Barrison, smiling in a manner which I had not observed since the disappearance of Professor Farrago. I’ll admit that the young fellow was superficially attractive.
“Well, then,” he began, modestly, “having no technical ability concerning the affair in question, and having no knowledge of either comparative anatomy or zoology, I am perhaps unfitted to tell this story. But the story is true; the episode occurred under my own eyes — within a few hours’ sail of the Battery. And as I was one of the first persons to verify what has long been a theory among scientists, and, moreover, as the result of Professor Holroyd’s discovery is to be placed on exhibition in Madison Square Garden on the 20th of next month, I have decided to tell you, as simply as I am able, exactly what occurred.
“I first told the story on April 1, 1903, to the editors of the North American Review, The Popular Science Monthly, the Scientific American, Nature, Outing, and the Fossiliferous Magazine. All these gentlemen rejected it; some curtly informing me that fiction had no place in their columns. When I attempted to explain that it was not fiction, the editors of these periodicals either maintained a contemptuous silence, or bluntly notified me that my literary services and opinions were not desired. But finally, when several publishers offered to take the story as fiction, I cut short all negotiations and decided to publish it myself. Where I am known at all, it is my misfortune to be known as a writer of fiction. This makes it impossible for me to receive a hearing from a scientific audience. I regret it bitterly, because now, when it is too late, I am prepared to prove certain scientific matters of interest, and to produce the proofs. In this case, however, I am fortunate, for nobody can dispute the existence of a thing when the bodily proof is exhibited as evidence.
“This is the story; and if I tell it as I write fiction, it is because I do not know how to tell it otherwise.
“I was walking along the beach below Pine Inlet, on the south shore of Long Island. The railroad and telegraph station is at West Oyster Bay. Everybody who has travelled on the Long Island Railroad knows the station, but few, perhaps, know Pine Inlet. Duck-shooters, of course, are familiar with it; but as there are no hotels there, and nothing to see except salt meadow, salt creek, and a strip of dune and sand, the summer-squatting public may probably be unaware of its existence. The local name for the place is Pine Inlet; the maps give its name as Sand Point, I believe, but anybody at West Oyster Bay can direct you to it. Captain McPeek, who keeps the West Oyster Bay House, drives duck-shooters there in winter. It lies five miles southeast from West Oyster Bay.
“I had walked over that afternoon from Captain McPeek’s. There was a reason for my going to Pine Inlet — it embarrasses me to explain it, but the truth is I meditated writing an ode to the ocean. It was out of the question to write it in West Oyster Bay, with the whistle of locomotives in my ears. I knew that Pine Inlet was one of the loneliest places on the Atlantic coast; it is out of sight of everything except leagues of gray ocean. Rarely one might make out fishing-smacks drifting across the horizon. Summer squatters never visited it; sportsmen shunned it, except in winter. Therefore, as I was about to do a bit of poetry, I thought that Pine Inlet was the spot for the deed. So I went there.
“As I was strolling along the beach, biting my pencil reflectively, tremendously impressed by the solitude and the solemn thunder of the surf, a thought occurred to me — how unpleasant it would be if I suddenly stumbled on a summer boarder. As this joyless impossibility flitted across my mind, I rounded a bleak sand-dune.
“A girl stood directly in my path.
“She stared at me as though I had just crawled up out of the sea to bite her. I don’t know what my own expression resembled, but I have been given to understand it was idiotic.
“Now I perceived, after a few moments, that the young lady was frightened, and I knew I ought to say something civil. So I said, ‘Are there many mosquitoes here?’
“‘No,’ she replied, with a slight quiver in her voice; ‘I have only seen one, and it was biting somebody else.’
“The conversation seemed so futile, and the young lady appeared to be more nervous than before. I had an impulse to say, ‘Do not run; I have breakfasted,’ for she seemed to be meditating a flight into the breakers. What I did say was: ‘I did not know anybody was here. I do not intend to intrude. I come from Captain McPeek’s, and I am writing an ode to the ocean.’ After I had said this it seemed to ring in my ears like, ‘I come from Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James.’
“I glanced timidly at her.
“‘She’s thinking of the same thing,’ said I to myself.
“However, the young lady seemed to be a trifle reassured. I noti
ced she drew a sigh of relief and looked at my shoes. She looked so long that it made me suspicious, and I also examined my shoes. They seemed to be in a fair state of repair.
“‘I — I am sorry,’ she said, ‘but would you mind not walking on the beach?’
“This was sudden. I had intended to retire and leave the beach to her, but I did not fancy being driven away so abruptly.
“‘Dear me!’ she cried; ‘you don’t understand. I do not — I would not think for a moment of asking you to leave Pine Inlet. I merely ventured to request you to walk on the dunes. I am so afraid that your footprints may obliterate the impressions that my father is studying.’
“‘Oh!’ said I, looking about me as though I had been caught in the middle of a flower-bed; ‘really I did not notice any impressions. Impressions of what?’
“‘I don’t know,’ she said, smiling a little at my awkward pose. ‘If you step this way in a straight line you can do no damage.’
“I did as she bade me. I suppose my movements resembled the gait of a wet peacock. Possibly they recalled the delicate manœuvres of the kangaroo. Anyway, she laughed.
“This seriously annoyed me. I had been at a disadvantage; I walk well enough when let alone.
“‘You can scarcely expect,’ said I, ‘that a man absorbed in his own ideas could notice impressions on the sand. I trust I have obliterated nothing.’
“As I said this I looked back at the long line of footprints stretching away in prospective across the sand. They were my own. How large they looked! Was that what she was laughing at?
“‘I wish to explain,’ she said, gravely, looking at the point of her parasol. ‘I am very sorry to be obliged to warn you — to ask you to forego the pleasure of strolling on a beach that does not belong to me. Perhaps,’ she continued, in sudden alarm, ‘perhaps this beach belongs to you?’
“‘The beach? Oh no,’ I said.
“‘But — but you were going to write poems about it?’
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 214
