Complete weird tales of.., p.238
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 238
“Professor Farrago asked me to speak of this to no one except the man who should come to his assistance. He desired the first chance of clearing this — this rather perplexing matter. No doubt he didn’t want exploring parties prowling about him,” added Rowan, smiling. “But there’s no fear of that, I fancy. I never expect to tell that story again to anybody; I shouldn’t have told him, only somehow it’s worried me for three years, and though I was deadly afraid of ridicule, I finally made up my mind that science ought to have a hack at it.
“When I was in New York last winter I summoned up courage and wrote Professor Farrago. He came to see me at the Holland House that same evening; I told him as much as I ever shall tell anybody. That is all, Mr. Gilland.”
For a long time I sat silent, musing over the strange words. After a while I asked him whether Professor Farrago was supplied with provisions; and he said he was; that a great store of staples and tins of concentrated rations had been carried in as far as Little Sprite Lake; that Professor Farrago was now there alone, having insisted upon dismissing all those he had employed.
“There was no practical use for a guide,” added Rowan, “because no cracker, no Indian, and no guide knows the region beyond the Seminole country.”
I rose, thanking him and offering my hand. He took it and shook it in manly fashion, saying: “I consider Professor Farrago a very brave man; I may say the same of any man who volunteers to accompany him. Good-bye, Mr. Gilland; I most earnestly wish for your success. Professor Farrago left this letter for you.”
And that was all. I climbed back into the rickety carriage, carrying my unopened letter; the negro driver cracked his whip and whistled, and the horses trotted inland over a fine shell road which was to lead us across Verbena Junction to Citron City. Half an hour later we crossed the tracks at Verbena and turned into a broad marl road. This aroused me from my deep and speculative reverie, and after a few moments I asked Miss Barrison’s indulgence and read the letter from Professor Farrago which Mr. Rowan had given me:
“Dear Mr. Gilland, — You now know all I dared not write, fearing to bring a swarm of explorers about my ears in case the letter was lost, and found by unscrupulous meddlers. If you still are willing to volunteer, knowing all that I know, join me as soon as possible. If family considerations deter you from taking what perhaps is an insane risk, I shall not expect you to join me. In that event, return to New York immediately and send Kingsley.
“Yours, F.”
“What the deuce is the matter with him!” I exclaimed, irritably. “I’ll take any chances Kingsley does!”
Miss Barrison looked up in surprise.
“Miss Barrison,” I said, plunging into the subject headfirst, “I’m extremely sorry, but I have news that forces me to believe the journey too dangerous for you to attempt, so I think that it would be much better—” The consternation in her pretty face checked me.
“I’m awfully sorry,” I muttered, appalled by her silence.
“But — but you engaged me!”
“I know it — I should not have done it. I only—”
“But you did engage me, didn’t you?”
“I believe that I did — er — oh, of course—”
“But a verbal contract is binding between honorable people, isn’t it, Mr. Gilland?”
“Yes, but—”
“And ours was a verbal contract; and in consideration you paid me my first week’s salary, and I bought shirt-waists and a short skirt and three changes of — and tooth-brushes and—”
“I know, I know,” I groaned. “But I’ll fix all that.”
“You can’t if you break your contract.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” she said, flushing up, “I should not accept.”
“You don’t understand—”
“Really I do. You are going into a dangerous country and you’re afraid I’ll be frightened.”
“It’s something like that.”
“Tell me what are the dangers?”
“Alligators, big, bitey snakes—”
“Oh, you’ve said all that before!”
“Seminoles—”
“And that too. What else is there? Did the young man in the sun-helmet tell you of something worse?”
“Yes — much worse! Something so dreadfully horrible that—”
“What?”
“I am not at liberty to tell you, Miss Barrison,” I said, striving to appear shocked.
“It would not make any difference anyway,” she observed, calmly. “I’m not afraid of anything in the world.”
“Yes, you are!” I said. “Listen to me; I’d be awfully glad to have you go — I — I really had no idea how I’d miss you — miss such pleasant companionship. But it is not possible—” The recollection of Professor Farrago’s aversion suddenly returned. “No, no,” I said, “it can’t be done. I’m most unhappy over this mistake of mine; please don’t look as though you were ready to cry!”
“Don’t discharge me, Mr. Gilland,” she said.
“I’m a brute to do it, but I must; I was a bigger brute to engage you, but I did. Don’t — please don’t look at me that way, Miss Barrison! As a matter of fact, I’m tender-hearted and I can’t endure it.”
“If you only knew what I had been through you wouldn’t send me away,” she said, in a low voice. “It took my last penny to clothe myself and pay for the last lesson at the college of stenography. I — I lived on almost nothing for weeks; every respectable place was filled; I walked and walked and walked, and nobody wanted me — they all required people with experience — and how can I have experience until I begin, Mr. Gilland? I was perfectly desperate when I went to see you, knowing that you had advertised for a man—” The slightest break in her clear voice scared me.
“I’m not going to cry,” she said, striving to smile. “If I must go, I will go. I — I didn’t mean to say all this — but — but I’ve been so — so discouraged; — and you were not very cross with me—”
Smitten with remorse, I picked up her hand and fell to patting it violently, trying to think of something to say. The exercise did not appear to stimulate my wits.
“Then — then I’m to go with you?” she asked.
“I will see,” I said, weakly, “but I fear there’s trouble ahead for this expedition.”
“I fear there is,” she agreed, in a cheerful voice. “You have a rifle and a cage in your luggage. Are you going to trap Indians and have me report their language?”
“No, I’m not going to trap Indians,” I said, sharply. “They may trap us — but that’s a detail. What I want to say to you is this: Professor Farrago detests unmarried women, and I forgot it when I engaged you.”
“Oh, is that all?” she asked, laughing.
“Not all, but enough to cost me my position.”
“How absurd! Why, there are millions of things we might do! — millions!”
“What’s one of them?” I inquired.
“Why, we might pretend to be married!” Her frank and absolutely innocent delight in this suggestion was refreshing, but troubling.
“We would have to be demonstrative to make that story go,” I said.
“Why? Well-bred people are not demonstrative in public,” she retorted, turning a trifle pink.
“No, but in private—”
“I think there is no necessity for carrying a pleasantry into our private life,” she said, in a perfectly amiable voice. “Anyway, if Professor Farrago’s feelings are to be spared, no sacrifice on the part of a mere girl could be too great,” she added, gayly; “I will wear men’s clothes if you wish.”
“You may have to anyhow in the jungle,” I said; “and as it’s not an uncommon thing these days, nobody would ever take you for anything except what you are — a very wilful and plucky and persistent and—”
“And what, Mr. Gilland?”
“And attractive,” I muttered.
“Thank you, Mr. Gilland.”
“You’re welcome,” I snapped. The near whistle of a locomotive warned us, and I rose in the carriage, looking out across the sand-hills.
“That is probably our train,” observed the pretty stenographer.
“Our train!”
“Yes; isn’t it?”
“Then you insist—”
“Ah, no, Mr. Gilland; I only trust implicitly in my employer.”
“We’ll wait till we get to Citron City,” I said, weakly; “then it will be time enough to discuss the situation, won’t it?”
“Yes, indeed,” she said, smiling; but she knew, and I already feared, that the situation no longer admitted of discussion. In a few moments more we emerged, without warning, from the scrub-crested sand-hills into the single white street of Citron City, where China-trees hung heavy with bloom, and magnolias, already set with perfumed candelabra, spread soft, checkered shadows over the marl.
The train lay at the station, oceans of heavy, black smoke lazily flowing from the locomotive; negroes were hoisting empty fruit-crates aboard the baggage-car, through the door of which I caught a glimpse of my steel cage and remaining paraphernalia, all securely crated.
“Telegram hyah foh Mistuh Gilland,” remarked the operator, lounging at his window as we descended from our dusty vehicle. He had not addressed himself to anybody in particular, but I said that I was Mr. Gilland, and he produced the envelope. “Toted in from Okeechobee?” he inquired, listlessly.
“Probably; it’s signed ‘Farrago,’ isn’t it?”
“It’s foh yoh, suh, I reckon,” said the operator, handing it out with a yawn. Then he removed his hat and fanned his head, which was perfectly bald.
I opened the yellow envelope. “Get me a good dog with points,” was the laconic message; and it irritated me to receive such idiotic instructions at such a time and in such a place. A good dog? Where the mischief could I find a dog in a town consisting of ten houses and a water-tank? I said as much to the bald-headed operator, who smiled wearily and replaced his hat: “Dawg? They’s moh houn’-dawgs in Citron City than they’s wood-ticks to keep them busy. I reckon a dollah ‘ll do a heap foh you, suh.”
“Could you get me a dog for a dollar?” I asked;— “one with points?”
“Points? I sholy can, suh; — plenty of points. What kind of dawg do yoh requiah, suh? — live dawg? daid dawg? houn’-dawg? raid-dawg? hawg-dawg? coon-dawg?—”
The locomotive emitted a long, lazy, softly modulated and thoroughly Southern toot. I handed the operator a silver dollar, and he presently emerged from his office and slouched off up the street, while I walked with Miss Barrison to the station platform, where I resumed the discussion of her future movements.
“You are very young to take such a risk,” I said, gravely. “Had I not better buy your ticket back to New York? The north-bound train meets this one. I suppose we are waiting for it now—” I stopped, conscious of her impatience.
Her face flushed brightly: “Yes; I think it best. I have embarrassed you too long already—”
“Don’t say that!” I muttered. “I — I — shall be deadly bored without you.”
“I am not an entertainer, only a stenographer,” she said, curtly. “Please get me my ticket, Mr. Gilland.”
She gazed at me from the car-platform; the locomotive tooted two drawling toots.
“It is for your sake,” I said, avoiding her gaze as the far-off whistle of the north-bound express came floating out of the blue distance.
She did not answer; I fished out my watch, regarding it in silence, listening to the hum of the approaching train, which ought presently to bear her away into the North, where nothing could menace her except the brilliant pitfalls of a Christian civilization. But I stood there, temporizing, unable to utter a word as her train shot by us with a rush, slower, slower, and finally stopped, with a long-drawn sigh from the air-brakes.
At that instant the telegraph-operator appeared, carrying a dog by the scruff of the neck — a sad-eyed, ewe-necked dog, from the four corners of which dangled enormous, cushion-like paws. He yelped when he beheld me. Miss Barrison leaned down from the car-platform and took the animal into her arms, uttering a suppressed exclamation of pity as she lifted him.
“You have your hands full,” she said to me; “I’ll take him into the car for you.”
She mounted the steps; I followed with the valises, striving to get a good view of my acquisition over her shoulder.
“That isn’t the kind of dog I wanted!” I repeated again and again, inspecting the animal as it sprawled on the floor of the car at the edge of Miss Barrison’s skirt. “That dog is all voice and feet and emotion! What makes it stick up its paws like that? I don’t want that dog and I’m not going to identify myself with it! Where’s the operator—”
I turned towards the car-window; the operator’s bald head was visible on a line with the sill, and I made motions at him. He bowed with courtly grace, as though I were thanking him.
“I’m not!” I cried, shaking my head. “I wanted a dog with points — not the kind of points that stick up all over this dog. Take him away!”
The operator’s head appeared to be gliding out of my range of vision; then the windows of the north-bound train slid past, faster and faster. A melancholy grace-note from the dog, a jolt, and I turned around, appalled.
“This train is going,” I stammered, “and you are on it!”
Miss Barrison sprang up and started towards the door, and I sped after her.
“I can jump,” she said, breathlessly, edging out to the platform; “please let me! There is time yet — if you only wouldn’t hold me — so tight—”
A few moments later we walked slowly back together through the car and took seats facing one another.
Between us sat the hound-dog, a prey to melancholy unutterable.
* * *
XV
IT WAS ON Sunday when I awoke to the realization that I had quitted civilization and was afloat on an unfamiliar body of water in an open boat containing —
One light steel cage, One rifle and ammunition, One stenographer, Three ounces rosium oxide, One hound-dog, Two valises.
A playful wave slopped over the bow and I lost count; but the pretty stenographer made the inventory, while I resumed the oars, and the dog punctured the primeval silence with staccato yelps.
A few minutes later everything and everybody was accounted for; the sky was blue and the palms waved, and several species of dicky-birds tuned up as I pulled with powerful strokes out into the sunny waters of Little Sprite Lake, now within a few miles of my journey’s end.
From ponds hidden in the marshes herons rose in lazily laborious flight, flapping low across the water; high in the cypress yellow-eyed ospreys bent crested heads to watch our progress; sun-baked alligators, lying heavily in the shoreward sedge, slid open, glassy eyes as we passed.
“Even the ‘gators make eyes at you,” I said, resting on my oars.
We were on terms of badinage.
“Who was it who shed crocodile tears at the prospect of shipping me North?” she inquired.
“Speaking of tears,” I observed, “somebody is likely to shed a number when Professor Farrago is picked up.”
“Pooh!” she said, and snapped her pretty, sun-tanned fingers; and I resumed the oars in time to avoid shipwreck on a large mud-bar.
She reclined in the stern, serenely occupied with the view, now and then caressing the discouraged dog, now and then patting her hair where the wind had loosened a bright strand.
“If Professor Farrago didn’t expect a woman stenographer,” she said, abruptly, “why did he instruct you to bring a complete outfit of woman’s clothing?”
“I don’t know,” I said, tartly.
“But you bought them. Are they for a young woman or an old woman?”
“I don’t know; I sent a messenger to a department store. I don’t know what he bought.”
“Didn’t you look them over?”
“No. Why? I should have been no wiser. I fancy they’re all right, because the bill was eighteen hundred dollars—”
The pretty stenographer sat up abruptly.
“Is that much?” I asked, uneasily. “I’ve always heard women’s clothing was expensive. Wasn’t it enough? I told the boy to order the best; — Professor Farrago always requires the very best scientific instruments, and — I listed the clothes as scientific accessories — that being the object of this expedition — What are you laughing at?”
When it pleased her to recover her gravity she announced her desire to inspect and repack the clothing; but I refused.
“They’re for Professor Farrago,” I said. “I don’t know what he wants of them. I don’t suppose he intends to wear ’em and caper about the jungle, but they’re his. I got them because he told me to. I bought a cage, too, to fit myself, but I don’t suppose he means to put me in it. Perhaps,” I added, “he may invite you into it.”
“Let me refold the gowns,” she pleaded, persuasively. “What does a clumsy man know about packing such clothing as that? If you don’t, they’ll be ruined. It’s a shame to drag those boxes about through mud and water!”
So we made a landing, and lifted out and unlocked the boxes. All I could see inside were mounds of lace and ribbons, and with a vague idea that Miss Barrison needed no assistance I returned to the boat and sat down to smoke until she was ready.
When she summoned me her face was flushed and her eyes bright.
“Those are certainly the most beautiful things!” she said, softly. “Why, it is like a bride’s trousseau — absolutely complete — all except the bridal gown—”
“Isn’t there a dress there?” I exclaimed, in alarm.
“No — not a day-dress.”
“Night-dresses!” I shrieked. “He doesn’t want women’s night-dresses! He’s a bachelor! Good Heavens! I’ve done it this time!”
“But — but who is to wear them?” she asked.
“How do I know? I don’t know anything; I can only presume that he doesn’t intend to open a department store in the Everglades. And if any lady is to wear garments in his vicinity, I assume that those garments are to be anything except diaphanous!... Please take your seat in the boat, Miss Barrison. I want to row and think.”
