“An’ with all that dodgin’ an’ duckin’ of them there rocks the cave-girls got away; an’ I seen ’em an’ the other cave-ladies scurryin’ into little caves — one whisked into this hole, another scuttled into that — bing! all over!
“All I could think of was to light a cigar an’ blow the smoke in after the best-lookin’ cave-girl. But I couldn’t smoke her out, an’ I hadn’t time to starve her out. So that’s all I know about this here pree-historic an’ extinc’ race o’ vanishin’ cave-ladies.”
As his simple and illiterate narrative advanced I became proportionally excited; and, when he ended, I sprang to my feet in an uncontrollable access of scientific enthusiasm:
“Was she really pretty?” I asked.
“Listen, she was that peachy—”
“Enough!” I cried. “Science expects every man to do his duty! Are your films ready to record a scene without precedent in the scientific annals of creation?”
“They sure is!”
“Then place your camera and your person in a strategic position. This is a magnificent spot for an ambush! Come over beside me!”
He came across to where I had taken cover among the ferns behind the parapet of coquina, and with a thrill of pardonable joy I watched him unlimber his photographic artillery and place it in battery where my every posture and action would be recorded for posterity if a cave-lady came down to the water-hole to drink.
“It were futile,” I explained to him in a guarded voice, “for me to attempt to cajole her as you attempted it. Neither playful nor moral suasion could avail, for it is certain that no cave-lady understands English.”
“I thought o’ that, too,” he remarked. “I said, ‘Blub-blub! muck-a-muck!’ to ’em when they started to run, but it didn’t do no good.”
I smiled: “Doubtless,” said I, “the spoken language of the cave-dweller is made up of similarly primitive exclamations, and you were quite right in attempting to communicate with the cave-ladies and establish a cordial entente. Professor Garner has done so among the Simian population of Gaboon. Your attempt is most creditable and I shall make it part of my record.
“But the main idea is to capture a living specimen of cave-lady, and corroborate every detail of that pursuit and capture upon the films.
“And believe me, Mr. Mink,” I added, my voice trembling with emotion, “no Academician is likely to go to sleep when I illustrate my address with such pictures as you are now about to take!”
“The police might pull the show,” he suggested.
“No,” said I, “Science is already immune; art is becoming so. Only nature need fear the violence of prejudice; and doubtless she will continue to wear pantalettes and common-sense nighties as long as our great republic endures.”
I unslung my field-glasses, adjusted them and took a penetrating squint at the hillside above.
Nothing stirred up there except a buzzard or two wheeling on tip-curled pinions above the palms.
Presently Mink inquired whether I had “lamped” anything, and I replied that I had not.
“They may be snoozin’ in their caves,” he suggested. “But don’t you fret, old top; you’ll get what’s comin’ to you and I’ll get mine.”
“About that check—” I began and hesitated.
“Sure. What about it?”
“I suppose I’m to give it to you when the first cave-woman appears.”
“That’s what!”
I pondered the matter for a while in silence. I could see no risk in paying him this draft on sight.
“All right,” I said. “Bring on your cave-dwellers.”
Hour succeeded hour, but no cave-dwellers came down to the pool to drink. We ate luncheon — a bit of cold duck, some koonti-bread, and a dish of palm-cabbage. I smoked an inexpensive cigar; Mink lit a more pretentious one. Afterward he played on his concertina at my suggestion on the chance that the music might lure a cave-girl down the hill. Nymphs were sometimes caught that way, and modern science seems to be reverting more and more closely to the simpler truths of the classics which, in our ignorance and arrogance, we once dismissed as fables unworthy of scientific notice.
“He played on his concertina ... on the chance that the music might lure a cave-girl down the hill.”
However this Broadway faun piped in vain: no white-footed dryad came stealing through the ferns to gaze, perhaps to dance to the concertina’s plaintive melodies.
So after a while he put his concertina into his pocket, cocked his derby hat on one side, gathered his little bandy legs under his person, and squatted there in silence, chewing the wet and bitter end of his extinct cigar.
Toward mid-afternoon I unslung my field-glasses again and surveyed the hill.
At first I noticed nothing, not even a buzzard; then, of a sudden, my attention was attracted to something moving among the fern-covered slabs of coquina just above where we lay concealed — a slim, graceful shape half shadowed under a veil of lustrous hair which glittered like gold in the sun.
“Mink!” I whispered hoarsely. “One of them is coming! This — this indeed is the stupendous and crowning climax of my scientific career!”
His comment was incredibly coarse: “Gimme the dough,” he said without a tremor of surprise. Indeed there was a metallic ring of menace in his low and entirely cold tones as he laid one hand on my arm. “No welchin’,” he said, “or I put the whole show on the bum!”
The overwhelming excitement of the approaching crisis neutralized my disgust; I fished out the certified check from my pocket and flung the miserable scrap of paper at him. “Get your machine ready!” I hissed. “Do you understand what these moments mean to the civilized world!”
“I sure do,” he said.
Nearer and nearer came the lithe white figure under its glorious crown of hair, moving warily and gracefully amid the great coquina slabs — nearer, nearer, until I no longer required my glasses.
“Moving warily and gracefully amid the great coquina slabs.”
She was a slender red-lipped thing, blue-eyed, dainty of hand and foot.
The spotted pelt of a wild-cat covered her, or attempted to.
I unfolded a large canvas sack as she approached the pool. For a moment or two she stood gazing around her and her close-set ears seemed to be listening. Then, apparently satisfied, she threw back her beautiful young head and sent a sweet wild call floating back to the sunny hillside.
“Blub-blub!” rang her silvery voice; “blub-blub! Muck-a-muck!” And from the fern-covered hollows above other voices replied joyously to her reassuring call, “Blub-blub-blub!”
The whole bunch was coming down to drink — the entire remnant of a prehistoric and almost extinct race of human creatures was coming to quench its thirst at this water-hole. How I wished for James Barnes at the camera’s crank! He alone could do justice to this golden girl before me.
One by one, clad in their simple yet modest gowns of pelts and garlands, five exquisitively superb specimens of cave-girl came gracefully down to the water-hole to drink.
Almost swooning with scientific excitement I whispered to the unspeakable Mink: “Begin to crank as soon as I move!” And, gathering up my big canvas sack I rose, and, still crouching, stole through the ferns on tip-toe.
They had already begun to drink when they heard me; I must have made some slight sound in the ferns, for their keen ears detected it and they sprang to their feet.
It was a magnificent sight to see them there by the pool, tense, motionless, at gaze, their dainty noses to the wind, their beautiful eyes wide and alert.
For a moment, enchanted, I remained spellbound in the presence of this prehistoric spectacle, then, waving my sack, I sprang out from behind the rock and cantered toward them.
Instead of scattering and flying up the hillside they seemed paralyzed, huddling together as though to get into the picture. Delighted I turned and glanced at Mink; he was cranking furiously.
With an uncontrollable shout of triumph and delight I pra
nced toward the huddling cave-girls, arms outspread as though heading a horse or concentrating chickens. And, totally forgetting the uselessness of urbanity and civilized speech as I danced around that lovely but terrified group, “Ladies!” I cried, “do not be alarmed, because I mean only kindness and proper respect. Civilization calls you from the wilds! Sentiment, pity, piety propel my legs, not the ruthless desire to injure or enslave you! Ladies! You are under the wing of science. An anthropologist is speaking to you! Fear nothing! Rather rejoice! Your wonderful race shall be rescued from extinction — even if I have to do it myself! Ladies, don’t run!” They had suddenly scattered and were now beginning to dodge me. “I come among you bearing the precious promises of education, of religion, of equal franchise, of fashion!”
“Blub-blub!” they whimpered continuing to dodge me.
“Yes!” I cried in an excess of transcendental enthusiasm. “Blub-blub! And though I do not comprehend the exquisite simplicity of your primeval speech, I answer with all my heart, ‘Blub-blub!’”
Meanwhile, they were dodging and eluding me as I chased first one, then another, one hand outstretched, the other invitingly clutching the sack.
A hasty glance at Mink now and then revealed him industriously cranking away.
Once I fell into the pool. That section of the film should never be released, I determined, as I blew the water out of my mouth, gasped, and started after a lovely, ruddy-haired cave-girl whose curiosity had led her to linger beside the pool in which I was floundering.
But run as fast as I could and skip hither and thither with all the agility I could muster I did not seem to be able to seize a single cave-girl.
Every few minutes, baffled and breathless, I rested; and they always clustered together uttering their plaintively musical “blub-blub,” not apparently very much afraid of me, and even exhibiting curiosity. Now and then they cast glances toward Mink who was grinding away steadily, and I could scarcely retain a shout of joy as I realized what wonderful pictures he was taking. Indeed luck seemed to be with me, so far, for never once did these beautiful prehistoric creatures retire out of photographic range.
But otherwise the problem was becoming serious. I could not catch one of them; they eluded me with maddening swiftness and grace; my pauses to recover my breath became more frequent.
At last, dead beat, I sat down on a slab of coquina. And when I was able to articulate I turned around toward Mink.
“You’ll have to drop your camera and come over and help me,” I panted. “I’m all in!”
“Not quite,” he said.
For a moment I did not understand him; then under my outraged eyes, and within the hearing of my horrified ears a terrible thing occurred.
“Now, ladies!” yelled Mink, “all on for the fine-ally! Up-stage there, you red-headed little spot-crabber! Mabel! Take the call! Now smile the whole bloomin’ bunch of you!”
What was he saying? I did not comprehend. I stared dully at the six cave-girls as they grouped themselves in a semi-circle behind me.
Then, as one of them came up and unfolded a white strip of cloth behind my head, the others drew from concealed pockets in their kilts of cat-fur, little silk flags of all nations and began to wave them.
Paralyzed I turned my head. On the strip of white cloth, which the tallest cave-girl was holding directly behind my head, was printed in large black letters:
SUNSET SOAP
For one cataclysmic instant I gazed upon this hideous spectacle, then with an unearthly cry I collapsed into the arms of the nicest looking one.
“I collapsed into the arms of the nicest looking one.”
There is little more to say. Contrary to my fears the release of this outrageous film did not injure my scientific standing. Modern science, accustomed to proprietary testimonials, has become reconciled to such things.
My appearance upon the films in the movies in behalf of Sunset Soap, oddly enough, seemed to enhance my scientific reputation. Even such austere purists as Guilford, the Cubist poet, congratulated me upon my fearless independence of ethical tradition.
And I had lived to learn a gentler truth than that, for, the pretty girl who had been cast for Cave-girl No. 3 — But let that pass. Adhibenda est in jocando moderatio.
Sweet are the uses of advertisement.
THE LADIES OF THE LAKE
I
At the suggestion of several hundred thousand ladies desiring to revel and possibly riot in the saturnalia of equal franchise, the unnamed lakes in that vast and little known region in Alaska bounded by the Ylanqui River and the Thunder Mountains were now being inexorably named after women.
It was a beautiful thought. Already several exquisite, lonely bits of water, gem-set among the eternal peaks, mirrors for cloud and soaring eagle, a glass for the moon as keystone to the towering arch of stars, had been irrevocably labelled.
Already there was Lake Amelia Jones, Lake Sadie Dingleheimer, Lake Maggie McFadden, and Lake Mrs. Gladys Doolittle Batt.
I longed to see these lakes under the glamour of their newly added beauty.
Imagine, therefore, my surprise and happiness when I received the following communication from my revered and beloved chief, Professor Farrago, dated from the Smithsonian Institute, Washington, whither he had been summoned in haste to examine and pronounce upon the identity of a very small bird supposed to be a specimen of that rare and almost extinct creature, the two-toed titmouse, Mustitta duototus, to be scientifically exact, as I invariably strive to be.
The important letter in question was as follows:
To Percy Smith, B.S., D.F., etc., etc., Curator, Department of Anthropology, Administration Building, Bronx Park, N.Y.
My Dear Mr. Smith:
Several very important and determined ladies, recently honoured by the Government in having a number of lakes in Alaska named after them, have decided to make a pilgrimage to that region, inspired by a characteristic desire to gaze upon the lakes named after them individually.
They request information upon the following points:
1st. Are the waters of the lakes in that locality sufficiently clear for a lady to do her hair by? In that event, the expedition will not burden itself with looking-glasses.
2nd. Are there any hotels? (You need merely say, no. I have tried to explain to them that it is, for the most part, an unexplored wilderness, but they insist upon further information from you.)
3rd. If there are hotels, is there also running water to be had? (You may tell them that there is plenty of running water.)
4th. What are the summer outdoor amusements? (You may inform them that there is plenty of bathing, boating, fishing, and an abundance of shade trees. Also, excellent mountain-climbing to be had in the vicinity. You need not mention the pastimes of “Hunt the Flea” or “Dodge the Skeeter.”)
I am not by nature cruel, Mr. Smith, but when these ladies informed me that they had decided to penetrate that howling and unexplored wilderness without being burdened or interfered with by any member of my sex, for one horrid and criminal moment I hoped they would. Because in that event none of them would ever come back.
However, in my heart milder and more humane sentiments prevailed. I pointed out to them the peril of their undertaking, the dangers of an unexplored region, the necessity of masculine guidance and support.
My earnestness and solicitude were, I admit, prompted partly by a desire to utilize this expensively projected expedition as a vehicle for the accumulation of scientific data.
As soon as I heard of it I conceived the plan of attaching two members of our Bronx Park scientific staff to the expedition — you, and Mr. Brown.
But no sooner did these determined ladies hear of it than they repelled the suggestion with indignation.
Now, the matter stands as follows: These ladies don’t want any man in the expedition; but they have at last realized that they’ve got to take a guide or two. And there are no feminine guides in Alaska.
Therefore, considering the immense a
nd vital importance of such an opportunity to explore and report upon this unknown region at somebody else’s expense, I suggest that you and Brown meet these ladies at Lake Mrs. Susan W. Pillsbury, which lies on the edge of the region to be explored; that you, without actually perjuring yourselves too horribly, convey to them the misleading impression that you are the promised guides provided for them by a cowed and avuncular Government; and that you take these fearsome ladies about and let them gaze at their reflections in the various lakes named after them; and that, while the expedition lasts, you secretly make such observations, notes, reports, and collections of the flora and fauna of the region as your opportunities may permit.
No time is to be lost. If, at Lake Susan W. Pillsbury, you find regular guides awaiting these ladies, you will bribe these guides to go away and you yourselves will then impersonate the guides. I know of no other way for you to explore this region, as all our available resources at Bronx Park have already been spent in painting appropriate scenery to line the cages of the mammalia, and also in the present exceedingly expensive expedition in search of the polka-dotted boom-bock, which is supposed to inhabit the jungle beyond Lake Niggerplug.
My most solemn and sincere wishes accompany you. Bless you!
Farrago.
II
This, then, is how it came about that “Kitten” Brown and I were seated, one midgeful morning in July, by the pellucid waters of Lake Susan W. Pillsbury, gnawing sections from a greasily fried trout, upon which I had attempted culinary operations.
Brown’s baptismal name was William; but the unfortunate young man was once discovered indiscreetly embracing a pretty assistant in the Administration Building at Bronx, and, furthermore, was overheard to address her as “Kitten.”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 1163
