Belinda lived in a little white house,With a little black kitten and a little gray mouse,And a little yellow dog and a little red wagon,And a realio, trulio, little pet dragon.
Now the name of the little black kitten was Ink,And the little gray mouse, she called hum Blink,And the little yellow dog was sharp as Mustard,But the dragon was a coward, and she called him Custard.
Custard the dragon had big sharp teeth,And spikes on top of him and scales underneath,Mouth like a fireplace, chimney for a nose,And realio, trulio daggers on his toes.
Belinda was as brave as a barrel full of bears,And Ink and Blink chased lions down the stairs,Mustard was as brave as a tiger in a rage,But Custard cried for a nice safe cage.
Belinda tickled him, she tickled him unmerciful,Ink, Blink and Mustard, they rudely called him Percival,They all sat laughing in the little red wagonAt the realio, trulio, cowardly dragon.
Belinda giggled till she shook the house,and Blink said Weeck! which is giggling for a mouse,Ink and Mustard rudely asked his age,When Custard cried for a nice safe cage.
Suddenly, suddenly they heard a nasty sound,And Mustard growled, and they all looked around.Meowch! cried Ink, and Ooh! cried Belinda,For there was a pirate, climbing in the winda.
Pistol in his left hand, pistol in his right,And he held in his teeth a cutlass bright,His beard was black, one leg was wood;It was clear that the pirate meant no good.
Belinda paled, and she cried Help! Help!But Mustard fled with a terrified yelp,Ink trickled down to the bottom of the household,And little mouse Blink strategically mouseholed.
But up jumped Custard snorting like an engine,Clashed his tail like irons in a dungeon,With a clatter and a clank and a jangling squirm,He went at the pirate like a robin at a worm.
The pirate gaped at Belinda's dragon,And gulped some grog from his pocket flagon,He fired two bullets, but they didn't hit,And Custard gobbled him, every bit.
Belinda embraced him, Mustard licked him,No one mourned for his pirate victim.Ink and Blink in glee did gyrateAround the dragon that ate the pirate.
But presently up spoke little dog Mustard,I'd been twice as brave if I hadn't been flustered.And up spoke Ink and up spoke Blink,We'd have been three times as brave, we think,And Custard said, I quite agreeThat everybody is braver than me.
Belinda still lives in her little white house,With her little black kitten and her little gray mouse,And her little yellow dog and her little red wagon,And her realio, trulio little pet dragon.
Belinda is as brave as a barrel full of bears,And Ink and Blink chase lions down the stairs,Mustard is as brave as a tiger in a rage,But Custard keeps crying for a nice safe cage.
By Ogden Nash
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Monday, March 17, 2008
Just Inside the Cemetery
Are you one of the frightened?
Arthur Wingate was a fairly well-to- do lawyer in the small town of Morrisville. It's a quiet, orderly town. Nothing out of the way ever happens there. Or so he thought for thirty years. But then one day all of it changed -and his whole life lay before him. Like the day he saw those men digging that fresh grave just inside the cemetery gate on his way home from work. You resemble Arthur Wingate, friend. Listen closely and you may avoid the terrible thing that happened to him. . .
It had been a hot, dusty day in Morrisville. Possibly it was the hot sun, but a sudden headache came over Arthur Wingate. His hands were moist, his brow feverish. He decided to go home to his own farm land just over the hill beyond the town. It wasn't too long a walk and maybe the fresh air would do him some good. So Arthur Wingate left his office and walked slowly down main street. It was odd but he met no one on the way. Soon, he was drawing abreast of the long, low- lying wall that bordered Morisville's only cemetery. The rhythmic sound of pickaxes attacking the soft sod came to him from beyond the wall. Someone had died. Life and Death went on in Morrisville same as any other town. But opposite the front gate where the sounds of digging were loudest, Arthur Wingate suddenly halted in confusion. No one had died recently to his knowledge except the Starkey boy and his burial had been a month ago.
Puzzled, Arthur Wingate went into the cemetery, and, just inside the wall, two men were grimly spading the earth into heaping ugly mounds. The heads and shoulders of the men were barely visible. Arthur Wingate approached them and asked them what they were doing. The faces of the two men were strange to him but they both seemed to consider his question even stranger.
"Somebody died," the taller of the two sneered and they both jeered at Arthur Wingate, whose headache was suddenly worse. Feverishly, he stumbled from the cemetery and finally reached home. The day had been too much for him. He fell into a long exhausted sleep. But his mind would not let him rest. The scene at the cemetery stayed with him. Who could have died?
Arthur Wingate felt the cold wind of something fan his spine. He had a curious sensation of unreality that he could not shake off. He could not wait a second longer. He left his home near midnight and ran to the cemetery. It looked eerie, forlorn and cold in the moonlight. The metal gate squealed as he stepped inside. He splashed light in the direction of where he remembered the grave to be. It was still there -but there was something else too.
A pine box was placed to one side of the grave, its lid angled backward to show the contents. Arthur Wingate drew nearer and slowly, fearfully, aimed his flashlight at the interior of the oblong box. The fact that it was empty was far more frightening than if it had been occupied. There was a tag on the box, dangling from a metal hinge. The wind in the graveyard howled and tore at the thing as Arthur Wingate held it up to the light.
Scrawled across the tab in a spidery hand were the words. . . Arthur Wingate. . .1907- 1964. He saw no more. A hideous scream ripped from his throat and he pitched forward into the empty box, the lid slamming down behind him, shutting him in.
Of course, when they found him there the next morning he was dead. Heart attack. Nothing had been written on the tag except a series of numbers indicating the grave's dimensions. And the box had been for the Starkey boy because his grave was being moved at the mother's request. But Arthur Wingate had met his death. . . by premonition, by fate, by manifest destiny. . .
Yes, perhaps it's an interesting tale. . .quiet, unusual. . . but I hear them all the time. . . in my business, you understand. . . huh? Oh, I'm an undertaker. . . can I interest you in a plot of ground. . . at our summer rates?
By Michael Avallone in Tales of the Frightened
Arthur Wingate was a fairly well-to- do lawyer in the small town of Morrisville. It's a quiet, orderly town. Nothing out of the way ever happens there. Or so he thought for thirty years. But then one day all of it changed -and his whole life lay before him. Like the day he saw those men digging that fresh grave just inside the cemetery gate on his way home from work. You resemble Arthur Wingate, friend. Listen closely and you may avoid the terrible thing that happened to him. . .
It had been a hot, dusty day in Morrisville. Possibly it was the hot sun, but a sudden headache came over Arthur Wingate. His hands were moist, his brow feverish. He decided to go home to his own farm land just over the hill beyond the town. It wasn't too long a walk and maybe the fresh air would do him some good. So Arthur Wingate left his office and walked slowly down main street. It was odd but he met no one on the way. Soon, he was drawing abreast of the long, low- lying wall that bordered Morisville's only cemetery. The rhythmic sound of pickaxes attacking the soft sod came to him from beyond the wall. Someone had died. Life and Death went on in Morrisville same as any other town. But opposite the front gate where the sounds of digging were loudest, Arthur Wingate suddenly halted in confusion. No one had died recently to his knowledge except the Starkey boy and his burial had been a month ago.
Puzzled, Arthur Wingate went into the cemetery, and, just inside the wall, two men were grimly spading the earth into heaping ugly mounds. The heads and shoulders of the men were barely visible. Arthur Wingate approached them and asked them what they were doing. The faces of the two men were strange to him but they both seemed to consider his question even stranger.
"Somebody died," the taller of the two sneered and they both jeered at Arthur Wingate, whose headache was suddenly worse. Feverishly, he stumbled from the cemetery and finally reached home. The day had been too much for him. He fell into a long exhausted sleep. But his mind would not let him rest. The scene at the cemetery stayed with him. Who could have died?
Arthur Wingate felt the cold wind of something fan his spine. He had a curious sensation of unreality that he could not shake off. He could not wait a second longer. He left his home near midnight and ran to the cemetery. It looked eerie, forlorn and cold in the moonlight. The metal gate squealed as he stepped inside. He splashed light in the direction of where he remembered the grave to be. It was still there -but there was something else too.
A pine box was placed to one side of the grave, its lid angled backward to show the contents. Arthur Wingate drew nearer and slowly, fearfully, aimed his flashlight at the interior of the oblong box. The fact that it was empty was far more frightening than if it had been occupied. There was a tag on the box, dangling from a metal hinge. The wind in the graveyard howled and tore at the thing as Arthur Wingate held it up to the light.
Scrawled across the tab in a spidery hand were the words. . . Arthur Wingate. . .1907- 1964. He saw no more. A hideous scream ripped from his throat and he pitched forward into the empty box, the lid slamming down behind him, shutting him in.
Of course, when they found him there the next morning he was dead. Heart attack. Nothing had been written on the tag except a series of numbers indicating the grave's dimensions. And the box had been for the Starkey boy because his grave was being moved at the mother's request. But Arthur Wingate had met his death. . . by premonition, by fate, by manifest destiny. . .
Yes, perhaps it's an interesting tale. . .quiet, unusual. . . but I hear them all the time. . . in my business, you understand. . . huh? Oh, I'm an undertaker. . . can I interest you in a plot of ground. . . at our summer rates?
By Michael Avallone in Tales of the Frightened
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
A Lifestyle
In my youth, before becoming a farmer and cattleman, I was a bank employee. This is how it all came about:
I was twenty-four years old at the time and had no close relatives. I was living in this same little apartment on Santa Fe Avenue, between Canning and Araoz.
Now, it's well known that accidents can happen even in such a small space. In my case, it was a tiny accident; when I tried to open the door to go to work, the key broke off in the lock.
After resorting in vain to screwdrivers and pliers, I decided to call a locksmith shop. While waiting for the locksmith, I informed the bank I would be coming in a bit late.
Fortunately, the locksmith arrived quite promptly. Concerning this man, I remember only that, although he looked young, his hair was completely white. Through the peephole I said to him: "My key broke off in the lock."
He sketched a quick gesture of annoyance in the air: "On the inside? In that case, it's already a more difficult matter. It's going to take me at least three hours, and I'll have to charge you about ..."
He estimated a terribly high price.
"I don't have that much money in the house right now," I replied. "But as soon as I get out, I'll go to the bank and pay you."
He looked at me with reproachful eyes, as if I had suggested something immoral to him: "I'm very sorry, sir," he articulated with instructive courtesy. "But I am not only a charter member of the Argentine Locksmiths' Union, but also one of the principal framers of the Magna Carta of our organization. Nothing has been left to chance in it. If you should have the pleasure of reading this inspiring document, you would learn, in the chapter dedicated to 'Basic Maxims,' that the perfect locksmith is prohibited from collecting subsequent to the conclusion of the work."
I smiled, incredulous: "You're joking, of course."
"My dear sir, the subject of the Magna Carta of the Argentine Locksmiths' Union is no joking matter. The writing of our Magna Carta, in which no detail has been overlooked and whose various chapters are governed by an underlying moral principle, took us years of arduous study. Of course, not everyone can understand it, since we often employ a symbolic or esoteric language. Nevertheless, I believe you will understand clause 7 of our Introduction: 'Gold shall open doors, and the doors shall adore it.' "
I prepared not to accept such ridiculousness: "Please," I said to him. "Be reasonable. Open the door for me, and I'll pay you at once."
"I'm sorry, sir. There are ethics in every profession, and in the locksmiths' profession they are inflexible. Good day, sir."
And, with that, he left.
I stood there for a few moments, bewildered. Then I called the bank again and informed them I probably wouldn't be able to come in that day. Later on I thought about the white-haired locksmith and said to myself: "That man is a lunatic. I'm going to call another locksmith shop, and, just in case, I'm not going to say I have no money until after they open the door for me."
I searched in the telephone directory and called.
"What address?" a guarded feminine voice asked me.
"3653 Santa Fe, Apartment 10-A."
She hesitated a moment, had me repeat the address, and said: "Impossible, sir. The Magna Carta of the Argentine Locksmiths' Union prohibits us from doing any work at that address."
I lit up in a flame of anger: "Now listen here! Don't be ridic..."
She hung up without letting me finish the word.
So I went back to the telephone directory and placed some twenty calls to as many locksmith shops. The instant they heard the address, they all flatly refused to do the job.
"O.K., fine," I said to myself. "I'll find a solution elsewhere."
I called the janitor of the building and described the problem to him.
"Two things," he answered. "In the first place, I don't know how to open locks, and, in the second place, even if I did know how, I wouldn't do it, since my job is cleaning up the place and not letting suspicious birds out of their cages. Furthermore, you've never been too generous with your tips."
I then started to get very nervous and carried out a series of useless, illogical actions: I had a cup of coffee, smoked a cigarette, sat down, stood up, took a few steps, washed my hands, drank a glass of water.
Then I remembered Monica DiChiave; I dialed her number, waited, and heard her voice: "Monica," I said, feigning sweetness and nonchalance. "How's everything? How's it goin', honey?"
Her reply left me trembling: "So, you finally remembered to call? I can tell you really love me. I haven't seen hide or hair of you in almost two weeks."
Arguing with women is beyond my capacity, especially in the state of psychological inferiority in which I then found myself. Nevertheless, I tried to explain to her quickly what was happening to me. I don't know whether she didn't understand me or refused to hear me out. The last thing she said before hanging up was: "I'm nobody's plaything."
I now had to carry out a second series of useless, illogical actions.
Then I called the bank, in the hope that some fellow employee could come and open the door. Bad luck; it fell to my lot to talk to Enzo Paredes, a dimwitted joker whom I detested: "So you can't get out of your house?" he exclaimed abominably. "You just never run out of excuses not to come to work!"
I was seized by something akin to a homicidal urge. I hung up, called again, and asked for Michelangelo Laporta, who was a little brighter. Sure enough, he seemed interested in finding a solution: "Tell me, was it the key or the lock that broke?"
"The key."
"And it was left inside the lock?"
"Half of it was left inside," I replied, already somewhat exasperated by this interrogation, "and the other half outside."
"Didn't you try to get out the little piece that's stuck inside with a screwdriver?"
"Yes, of course I tried, but it's impossible."
"Oh. Well then, you're going to have to call a locksmith."
"I already called," I retorted, suppressing the rage that was choking me, "but they want payment in advance."
"So, pay him and there you are."
"But, don't you see, I haven't got any money."
Then he grew bored: "Man, Skinny, you sure have your problems!"
I couldn't come up with a quick reply. I should have asked him for some money, but his remark left me baffled, and I couldn't think of anything.
And so ended that day.
The next day I got up early to start making more phone calls. But - something quite frequent - I found the telephone out of order. Another insoluble problem: how to request the repair service without a telephone to place the call?
I went out onto the balcony and began to shout to people walking along Santa Fe Avenue. The street noise was deafening; who could hear someone yelling from a tenth floor? At most, an occasional person would raise his head distractedly and then continue on his way.
I next placed five sheets of paper and four carbons in the typewriter and composed the following message: "Madam or Sir: My key has broken off in the lock. I have been locked in for two days. Please, do something to free me. 3653 Santa Fe, Apartment 10-A."
I threw the five sheets over the railing. From such a height, the possibilities of a vertical drop were minimal. Wafted about on a whimsical wind, they fluttered around for a long time. Three fell in the street and were immediately run over and blackened by the incessant vehicles. Another landed on a store awning. But the fifth one dropped on the sidewalk. Immediately, a diminutive gentleman picked it up and read it. He then looked up, shading his eyes with his left hand. I put on a friendly face for him. The gentleman tore the paper up into many little pieces and with an irate gesture hurled them into the gutter.
In short, for many more weeks I continued making all kinds of efforts. I threw hundreds of messages from the balcony; either they weren't read or they were read and weren't taken seriously.
One day I saw an envelope that had been slipped under my apartment door; the telephone company was cutting off my service for nonpayment. Then, in succession, they cut off my gas, electricity, and water.
At first, I used up my provisions in an irrational way, but I realized in time what I was doing. I placed receptacles on the balcony to catch the rain water. I ripped out my flowering plants and in their flowerpots I planted tomatoes, lentils, and other vegetables, which I tend with loving and painstaking care. But I also need animal protein, so I learned to breed insects, spiders, and rodents and to make them reproduce in captivity; sometimes I trap an occasional sparrow or pigeon.
On sunny days I manage to light a fire with a magnifying glass and paper. As fuel, I'm slowly burning the books, the furniture, the floorboards. I discovered that there are always more things in a house than are necessary.
I live quite comfortably, although I lack some things. For example, I don't know what's going on anywhere else; I don't read newspapers, and I can't get the television or radio working.
From the balcony I observe the outside world and I notice some changes. At a certain point the trolleys stopped running. I don't know how long ago that happened. I've lost all notion of time, but the mirror, my baldness, my long white beard, and the pain in my joints tell me that I'm very old.
For entertainment I let my thoughts wander. I have no fear or ambitions.
In a word, I'm relatively happy.
Fernando Sorrentino Translated by Thomas C. Meehan
There's a Man in the Habit of Hitting Me on the Head with an Umbrella
There's a man in the habit of hitting me on the head with an umbrella. It's exactly five years today that he's been hitting me on the head with his umbrella. At first I couldn't stand it; now I'm used to it.
I don't know his name. I know he's average in appearance, wears a gray suit, is graying at the temples, and has a common face. I met him five years ago one sultry morning. I was sitting on a tree-shaded bench in Palermo Park, reading the paper. Suddenly I felt something touch my head. It was the very same man who now, as I'm writing, keeps whacking me, mechanically and impassively, with an umbrella.
On that occasion I turned around filled with indignation: he just kept on hitting me. I asked him if he was crazy: he didn't even seem to hear me. Then I threatened to call a policeman. Unperturbed, cool as a cucumber, he stuck with his task. After a few moments of indecision, and seeing that he was not about to change his attitude, I stood up and punched him in the nose. The man fell down, and let out an almost inaudible moan. He immediately got back on his feet, apparently with great effort, and without a word again began hitting me on the head with the umbrella. His nose was bleeding and, at that moment, I felt sorry for him. I felt remorse for having hit him so hard. After all, the man wasn't exactly bludgeoning me; he was merely tapping me lightly with his umbrella, not causing any pain at all. Of course, those taps were extremely bothersome. As we all know, when a fly lands on your forehead, you don't feel any pain whatsoever; what you feel is annoyance. Well then, that umbrella was one humongous fly that kept landing on my head time after time, and at regular intervals.
Convinced that I was dealing with a madman, I tried to escape. But the man followed me, wordlessly continuing to hit me. So I began to run (at this juncture I should point out that not many people run as fast as I do). He took off after me, vainly trying to land a blow. The man was huffing and puffing and gasping so that I thought, if I continued to force him to run at that speed, my tormenter would drop dead right then and there. That's why I slowed down to a walk. I looked at him. There was no trace of either gratitude or reproach on his face. He merely kept hitting me on the head with the umbrella. I thought of showing up at the police station and saying, "Officer, this man is hitting me on the head with an umbrella." It would have been an unprecedented case. The officer would have looked at me suspiciously, would have asked for my papers and begun asking embarrassing questions. And he might even have ended up placing me under arrest.
I thought it best to return home. I took the 67 bus. He, all the while hitting me with his umbrella, got on behind me. I took the first seat. He stood right beside me, and held on to the railing with his left hand. With his right hand he unrelentingly kept whacking me with that umbrella. At first, the passengers exchanged timid smiles. The driver began to observe us in the rearview mirror. Little by little the bus trip turned into one great fit of laughter, an uproarious, interminable fit of laughter. I was burning with shame. My persecutor, impervious to the laughter, continued to strike me.
I got off - we got off - at Pacifico Bridge. We walked along Santa Fe Avenue. Everyone stupidly turned to stare at us. It occurred to me to say to them, "What are you looking at, you idiots? Haven't you ever seen a man hit another man on the head with an umbrella?" But it also occurred to me that they probably never had seen such a spectacle. Then five or six little boys began chasing after us, shouting like maniacs.
But I had a plan. Once I reached my house, I tried to slam the door in his face. That didn't happen. He must have read my mind, because he firmly seized the doorknob and pushed his way in with me.
From that time on, he has continued to hit me on the head with his umbrella. As far as I can tell, he has never either slept or eaten anything. His sole activity consists of hitting me. He is with me in everything I do, even in my most intimate activities. I remember that at first, the blows kept me awake all night. Now I think it would be impossible for me to sleep without them.
Still and all, our relations have not always been good. I've asked him, on many occasions, and in all possible tones, to explain his behavior to me. To no avail: he has wordlessly continued to hit me on the head with his umbrella. Many times I have let him have it with punches, kicks, and even - God forgive me - umbrella blows. He would meekly accept the blows. He would accept them as though they were part of his job. And this is precisely the weirdest aspect of his personality: that unshakable faith in his work coupled with a complete lack of animosity. In short, that conviction that he was carrying out some secret mission that responded to a higher authority.
Despite his lack of physiological needs, I know that when I hit him, he feels pain. I know he is weak. I know he is mortal. I also know that I could be rid of him with a single bullet. What I don't know is if it would be better for that bullet to kill him or to kill me. Neither do I know if, when the two of us are dead, he might not continue to hit me on the head with his umbrella. In any event, this reasoning is pointless; I recognize that I would never dare to kill him or kill myself.
On the other hand, I have recently come to the realization that I couldn't live without those blows. Now, more and more frequently, a certain foreboding overcomes me. A new anxiety is eating at my soul: the anxiety stemming from the thought that this man, perhaps when I need him most, will depart and I will no longer feel those umbrella taps that helped me sleep so soundly.
Fernando Sorrentino Translated by Clark M. Zlotchew
I don't know his name. I know he's average in appearance, wears a gray suit, is graying at the temples, and has a common face. I met him five years ago one sultry morning. I was sitting on a tree-shaded bench in Palermo Park, reading the paper. Suddenly I felt something touch my head. It was the very same man who now, as I'm writing, keeps whacking me, mechanically and impassively, with an umbrella.
On that occasion I turned around filled with indignation: he just kept on hitting me. I asked him if he was crazy: he didn't even seem to hear me. Then I threatened to call a policeman. Unperturbed, cool as a cucumber, he stuck with his task. After a few moments of indecision, and seeing that he was not about to change his attitude, I stood up and punched him in the nose. The man fell down, and let out an almost inaudible moan. He immediately got back on his feet, apparently with great effort, and without a word again began hitting me on the head with the umbrella. His nose was bleeding and, at that moment, I felt sorry for him. I felt remorse for having hit him so hard. After all, the man wasn't exactly bludgeoning me; he was merely tapping me lightly with his umbrella, not causing any pain at all. Of course, those taps were extremely bothersome. As we all know, when a fly lands on your forehead, you don't feel any pain whatsoever; what you feel is annoyance. Well then, that umbrella was one humongous fly that kept landing on my head time after time, and at regular intervals.
Convinced that I was dealing with a madman, I tried to escape. But the man followed me, wordlessly continuing to hit me. So I began to run (at this juncture I should point out that not many people run as fast as I do). He took off after me, vainly trying to land a blow. The man was huffing and puffing and gasping so that I thought, if I continued to force him to run at that speed, my tormenter would drop dead right then and there. That's why I slowed down to a walk. I looked at him. There was no trace of either gratitude or reproach on his face. He merely kept hitting me on the head with the umbrella. I thought of showing up at the police station and saying, "Officer, this man is hitting me on the head with an umbrella." It would have been an unprecedented case. The officer would have looked at me suspiciously, would have asked for my papers and begun asking embarrassing questions. And he might even have ended up placing me under arrest.
I thought it best to return home. I took the 67 bus. He, all the while hitting me with his umbrella, got on behind me. I took the first seat. He stood right beside me, and held on to the railing with his left hand. With his right hand he unrelentingly kept whacking me with that umbrella. At first, the passengers exchanged timid smiles. The driver began to observe us in the rearview mirror. Little by little the bus trip turned into one great fit of laughter, an uproarious, interminable fit of laughter. I was burning with shame. My persecutor, impervious to the laughter, continued to strike me.
I got off - we got off - at Pacifico Bridge. We walked along Santa Fe Avenue. Everyone stupidly turned to stare at us. It occurred to me to say to them, "What are you looking at, you idiots? Haven't you ever seen a man hit another man on the head with an umbrella?" But it also occurred to me that they probably never had seen such a spectacle. Then five or six little boys began chasing after us, shouting like maniacs.
But I had a plan. Once I reached my house, I tried to slam the door in his face. That didn't happen. He must have read my mind, because he firmly seized the doorknob and pushed his way in with me.
From that time on, he has continued to hit me on the head with his umbrella. As far as I can tell, he has never either slept or eaten anything. His sole activity consists of hitting me. He is with me in everything I do, even in my most intimate activities. I remember that at first, the blows kept me awake all night. Now I think it would be impossible for me to sleep without them.
Still and all, our relations have not always been good. I've asked him, on many occasions, and in all possible tones, to explain his behavior to me. To no avail: he has wordlessly continued to hit me on the head with his umbrella. Many times I have let him have it with punches, kicks, and even - God forgive me - umbrella blows. He would meekly accept the blows. He would accept them as though they were part of his job. And this is precisely the weirdest aspect of his personality: that unshakable faith in his work coupled with a complete lack of animosity. In short, that conviction that he was carrying out some secret mission that responded to a higher authority.
Despite his lack of physiological needs, I know that when I hit him, he feels pain. I know he is weak. I know he is mortal. I also know that I could be rid of him with a single bullet. What I don't know is if it would be better for that bullet to kill him or to kill me. Neither do I know if, when the two of us are dead, he might not continue to hit me on the head with his umbrella. In any event, this reasoning is pointless; I recognize that I would never dare to kill him or kill myself.
On the other hand, I have recently come to the realization that I couldn't live without those blows. Now, more and more frequently, a certain foreboding overcomes me. A new anxiety is eating at my soul: the anxiety stemming from the thought that this man, perhaps when I need him most, will depart and I will no longer feel those umbrella taps that helped me sleep so soundly.
Fernando Sorrentino Translated by Clark M. Zlotchew
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Keys And Locks And Open Doors
"Quiet the dog, house the pony and bar the doors against the dark." Each night we heard and obeyed Pa's telling and each morning we woke safe, forgetting the terrors of the night in the new sun's warm shine and our breakfast bread. Then Ma sickened bad and Pa carted her to Biddy Makepeace's for a laying on of hands. "Remember," he instructed Rory, "Be sure and lock up tight come nightfall." "I promise faithful Pa," I heard my oldest brother say. But come the dark he was out sparking Lucy Lovedance and Sim was left in charge. And Sim paid no heed to tellings. "Waste of time, locking every door. Sick of pissing in pee-pots, me. And double sick of cleaning them each morn." I begged him do as our father said, but he only laughed, did Sim. So I took the bairns to bed with me, making certain sure my door was locked and the shutters firmly barred. And in the morning on rising to oven the bread I found the outer door wide open and no sight nor sign of Sim. When Rory rolled in lazy eyed and rough I told him all and he went in search. Was still out when Pa 'rived home at noon. I recounted Pa the tale and he heard me out grim faced, but shook his head when I asked if he was going hunting for our Sim. "No point," he said. "Now get the dinner served." Rory came back as we were finishing the stew. Pa cuffed him hard about the head and wouldn't let him speak or eat the portion I'd kept by. Then Pa coughed and cleared his throat, and when we looked at him he told us Ma had died with the sinking of the day. Padre Filton had her resting in the church, he said, to be dug in on the morrow. Then he handed me the ring of household keys. And Rory watched all squint eyed and pinched, knowing that by rights as eldest they should have passed to him. I held on to the keys, my two hands fighting the cold heavy weight that tried to drag them to the beaten earth. And as I clutched them so I studied them. I saw that each key large or small was welded firmly to the iron circlet. I held there in my hands the keys to every chest and every door within Pa's holding. They were my responsibility till Father relieved me of the charge. I was now the guardian, he said, seeing as I had a mind to keep the young 'uns safe and obey his words full strength, unlike some who should know better.
At first light Pa stowed the spades and lifted the girls into the cart. May took charge of the reins while me and Pa and Rory walked holding to the sides. When we reached the graveyard me and Pa and Rory took turns to open up the flinty ground while the bairns ranged about for pretties to place inside the grave. Then Pa and Padre placed her in. Padre said the binding words, my three sisters mewling and moaning and dropping in daisy buds onto the muslin shroud. Then my brother and I filled back the gritty soil and watched Pa and Padre Filton lay the blessed ironstone slab athwart her lying place to keep her safe. And when it was all done and Pa had paid the burial toll we set out straight for home. This time Eve and Silence held the reins and all else walked to save the ageing mule. Once home I warmed the stew pot and we ate. After food Pa and Rory worked the land while I, with my sisters' help, cleaned and sewed and baked. At day's end Pa watched to see how I locked the doors and shutters against the coming of the night and nodded satisfied when I had it done. And that night with the keys hard beneath my thin flock pillow, I heard the voices clearly for the first time. They sounded loud and plain outside my shuttered window abegging me to open up and come to them. And one of the voices was my brother Sim's. Another sounded lighter, like my Ma's. But mindful of my father's words I held to the keys and kept the shutters barred. And gradually the voices drifted quiet and sleep took me down. And ever after it was as if Ma and Sim had never been. Pa never spoke of them and turned aside all questions and he never spoke again to Rory save for yes and no. After a month of this silence Rory left to marry Lucy Makepeace and spend his strength in her father's flourmill. I watched Pa's face set harder, carven lines of wrinkles digging valley's in his leathered skin and I went outside all day to take my brother's work-share then cooked and baked all eve. My sister May took duty for the house and twins all day.
From the very time that Rory left our home Pa shifted all his custom to Marlin's mill. Though being over in the next valley it was a longer trek to take the grain and the mule was far from strong. For me, most nights, the voices came; the voices Pa said were only in my head. He gave me quintain boiled in honey to make me sleep but the taste was harsh and cast a dullness over me the following day. But I pretended to drink to keep from causing strife. And my questions grew, filling my brain to bursting point till at last I took my thoughts to Padre Filton in the secrecy of Disclosing Hour. He refused to look me in the eye and talked of devils and temptations. Then he broke the holy pact and betrayed the questions to my Pa. And Pa bound my mouth with garlic cloth and he beat me till my skin was bruised and split and snatched back the keys till I could walk again. And with the keys in Pa's hands I found that I slept quiet, nights. I heard no sounds, quested not for dimly recognised voices, but only slept soft sleep. When I was fit again he gave me back my guardianship of the keys and the first night I slept upon their bulk I heard scratchings at my wooden shutters and the moaning of what might have been the wind. At first light on going to the running spring to cleanse my chamber pot I walked the long way round, past my chamber window and saw score marks bit deep into the ebony-wood shutters. I felt the chill of night come on me despite the warming of the sun. But I kept my counsel and Pa had replaced the wood by noon. That night I kept the dog inside my room, putting him at the foot of my bed. And though I heard a lone voice keening and crying out my name the dog he didn't stir. The weeks turned and I learned to sleep with stopping in my ears. May and the bairns cast off their childhood with frightening speed and Pa rarely spoke outside the meeting house and took to reading sermon books. But I would not go to meetings any more and Pa ignored my backsliding. As long as I did my work and kept safety on my mind he seemed satisfied.
Then Widow Range took sick. She and her daughter lived a scant two fields away from us and Tildy asked my help to nurse her and Pa said I was to go. So I gave him back the keys and went to sit with Tildy. But like my Ma the widow sank fast and died swift as the sun did sink. Tildy begged for me to go to church with her and stand vigil till the morn and I went with her and Padre Filton into the church as night fell down upon us. That long night passed in dull-dead numbing coldness. I heard no outside sounds, no moans no skirl of wind but only the praying padre thanking his god for the ironwood and ironstone that kept us safe from harm. We buried Widow Range, like Ma, soon as we could when the sun had risen above the mountains. Me and Tildy did the digging but it took all three of us to drag the heavy holding stone across the grave. Padre wore his leather gauntlets but me and Tildy had to do without, and sore rough bleeding work it was. But still he took the full toll into his strong-gloved hands when the burial was done. He then took us in his wagon and dropped us to our homes as he went on his praying rounds. And that night with the keys once again beneath my head I heard voices calling in the dark and the loudest one sounded like the Widow Range. I took care to go to Meeting with Pa and the bairns the next meeting morn but left the service before time, pleading my bowels. I walked then to Widow Range's grave and saw her capping stone was out of line. I'd helped lay it and knew full well it was not the same. And now, tonight, I sit and wait the voices. My shutters are opened wide, my bedroom door unlocked, my binding keys thrown deep within the spring. The house is open to what may come and I am also ready. I will heed this call. I will leave the confines of my father's house and join that which waits outside. And as I go I call to the bairns, my sisters, to come and join the free.
Jane Wallis Hicks
At first light Pa stowed the spades and lifted the girls into the cart. May took charge of the reins while me and Pa and Rory walked holding to the sides. When we reached the graveyard me and Pa and Rory took turns to open up the flinty ground while the bairns ranged about for pretties to place inside the grave. Then Pa and Padre placed her in. Padre said the binding words, my three sisters mewling and moaning and dropping in daisy buds onto the muslin shroud. Then my brother and I filled back the gritty soil and watched Pa and Padre Filton lay the blessed ironstone slab athwart her lying place to keep her safe. And when it was all done and Pa had paid the burial toll we set out straight for home. This time Eve and Silence held the reins and all else walked to save the ageing mule. Once home I warmed the stew pot and we ate. After food Pa and Rory worked the land while I, with my sisters' help, cleaned and sewed and baked. At day's end Pa watched to see how I locked the doors and shutters against the coming of the night and nodded satisfied when I had it done. And that night with the keys hard beneath my thin flock pillow, I heard the voices clearly for the first time. They sounded loud and plain outside my shuttered window abegging me to open up and come to them. And one of the voices was my brother Sim's. Another sounded lighter, like my Ma's. But mindful of my father's words I held to the keys and kept the shutters barred. And gradually the voices drifted quiet and sleep took me down. And ever after it was as if Ma and Sim had never been. Pa never spoke of them and turned aside all questions and he never spoke again to Rory save for yes and no. After a month of this silence Rory left to marry Lucy Makepeace and spend his strength in her father's flourmill. I watched Pa's face set harder, carven lines of wrinkles digging valley's in his leathered skin and I went outside all day to take my brother's work-share then cooked and baked all eve. My sister May took duty for the house and twins all day.
From the very time that Rory left our home Pa shifted all his custom to Marlin's mill. Though being over in the next valley it was a longer trek to take the grain and the mule was far from strong. For me, most nights, the voices came; the voices Pa said were only in my head. He gave me quintain boiled in honey to make me sleep but the taste was harsh and cast a dullness over me the following day. But I pretended to drink to keep from causing strife. And my questions grew, filling my brain to bursting point till at last I took my thoughts to Padre Filton in the secrecy of Disclosing Hour. He refused to look me in the eye and talked of devils and temptations. Then he broke the holy pact and betrayed the questions to my Pa. And Pa bound my mouth with garlic cloth and he beat me till my skin was bruised and split and snatched back the keys till I could walk again. And with the keys in Pa's hands I found that I slept quiet, nights. I heard no sounds, quested not for dimly recognised voices, but only slept soft sleep. When I was fit again he gave me back my guardianship of the keys and the first night I slept upon their bulk I heard scratchings at my wooden shutters and the moaning of what might have been the wind. At first light on going to the running spring to cleanse my chamber pot I walked the long way round, past my chamber window and saw score marks bit deep into the ebony-wood shutters. I felt the chill of night come on me despite the warming of the sun. But I kept my counsel and Pa had replaced the wood by noon. That night I kept the dog inside my room, putting him at the foot of my bed. And though I heard a lone voice keening and crying out my name the dog he didn't stir. The weeks turned and I learned to sleep with stopping in my ears. May and the bairns cast off their childhood with frightening speed and Pa rarely spoke outside the meeting house and took to reading sermon books. But I would not go to meetings any more and Pa ignored my backsliding. As long as I did my work and kept safety on my mind he seemed satisfied.
Then Widow Range took sick. She and her daughter lived a scant two fields away from us and Tildy asked my help to nurse her and Pa said I was to go. So I gave him back the keys and went to sit with Tildy. But like my Ma the widow sank fast and died swift as the sun did sink. Tildy begged for me to go to church with her and stand vigil till the morn and I went with her and Padre Filton into the church as night fell down upon us. That long night passed in dull-dead numbing coldness. I heard no outside sounds, no moans no skirl of wind but only the praying padre thanking his god for the ironwood and ironstone that kept us safe from harm. We buried Widow Range, like Ma, soon as we could when the sun had risen above the mountains. Me and Tildy did the digging but it took all three of us to drag the heavy holding stone across the grave. Padre wore his leather gauntlets but me and Tildy had to do without, and sore rough bleeding work it was. But still he took the full toll into his strong-gloved hands when the burial was done. He then took us in his wagon and dropped us to our homes as he went on his praying rounds. And that night with the keys once again beneath my head I heard voices calling in the dark and the loudest one sounded like the Widow Range. I took care to go to Meeting with Pa and the bairns the next meeting morn but left the service before time, pleading my bowels. I walked then to Widow Range's grave and saw her capping stone was out of line. I'd helped lay it and knew full well it was not the same. And now, tonight, I sit and wait the voices. My shutters are opened wide, my bedroom door unlocked, my binding keys thrown deep within the spring. The house is open to what may come and I am also ready. I will heed this call. I will leave the confines of my father's house and join that which waits outside. And as I go I call to the bairns, my sisters, to come and join the free.
Jane Wallis Hicks
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Leave it to Jeeves
Jeeves--my man, you know--is really a most extraordinary chap. So capable. Honestly, I shouldn't know what to do without him. On broader lines he's like those chappies who sit peering sadly over the marble battlements at the Pennsylvania Station in the place marked "Inquiries." You know the Johnnies I mean. You go up to them and say: "When's the next train for Melonsquashville, Tennessee?" and they reply, without stopping to think, "Two-forty-three, track ten, change at San Francisco." And they're right every time. Well, Jeeves gives you just the same impression of omniscience.
As an instance of what I mean, I remember meeting Monty Byng in Bond Street one morning, looking the last word in a grey check suit, and I felt I should never be happy till I had one like it. I dug the address of the tailors out of him, and had them working on the thing inside the hour.
"Jeeves," I said that evening. "I'm getting a check suit like that one of Mr. Byng's."
"Injudicious, sir," he said firmly. "It will not become you."
"What absolute rot! It's the soundest thing I've struck for years."
"Unsuitable for you, sir."
Well, the long and the short of it was that the confounded thing came home, and I put it on, and when I caught sight of myself in the glass I nearly swooned. Jeeves was perfectly right. I looked a cross between a music-hall comedian and a cheap bookie. Yet Monty had looked fine in absolutely the same stuff. These things are just Life's mysteries, and that's all there is to it.
But it isn't only that Jeeves's judgment about clothes is infallible, though, of course, that's really the main thing. The man knows everything. There was the matter of that tip on the "Lincolnshire." I forget now how I got it, but it had the aspect of being the real, red-hot tabasco.
"Jeeves," I said, for I'm fond of the man, and like to do him a good turn when I can, "if you want to make a bit of money have something on Wonderchild for the 'Lincolnshire.'"
He shook his head.
"I'd rather not, sir."
"But it's the straight goods. I'm going to put my shirt on him."
"I do not recommend it, sir. The animal is not intended to win. Second place is what the stable is after."
Perfect piffle, I thought, of course. How the deuce could Jeeves know anything about it? Still, you know what happened. Wonderchild led till he was breathing on the wire, and then Banana Fritter came along and nosed him out. I went straight home and rang for Jeeves.
"After this," I said, "not another step for me without your advice. From now on consider yourself the brains of the establishment."
"Very good, sir. I shall endeavour to give satisfaction."
And he has, by Jove! I'm a bit short on brain myself; the old bean would appear to have been constructed more for ornament than for use, don't you know; but give me five minutes to talk the thing over with Jeeves, and I'm game to advise any one about anything. And that's why, when Bruce Corcoran came to me with his troubles, my first act was to ring the bell and put it up to the lad with the bulging forehead.
"Leave it to Jeeves," I said.
I first got to know Corky when I came to New York. He was a pal of my cousin Gussie, who was in with a lot of people down Washington Square way. I don't know if I ever told you about it, but the reason why I left England was because I was sent over by my Aunt Agatha to try to stop young Gussie marrying a girl on the vaudeville stage, and I got the whole thing so mixed up that I decided that it would be a sound scheme for me to stop on in America for a bit instead of going back and having long cosy chats about the thing with aunt. So I sent Jeeves out to find a decent apartment, and settled down for a bit of exile. I'm bound to say that New York's a topping place to be exiled in. Everybody was awfully good to me, and there seemed to be plenty of things going on, and I'm a wealthy bird, so everything was fine. Chappies introduced me to other chappies, and so on and so forth, and it wasn't long before I knew squads of the right sort, some who rolled in dollars in houses up by the Park, and others who lived with the gas turned down mostly around Washington Square--artists and writers and so forth. Brainy coves.
Corky was one of the artists. A portrait-painter, he called himself, but he hadn't painted any portraits. He was sitting on the side-lines with a blanket over his shoulders, waiting for a chance to get into the game. You see, the catch about portrait-painting--I've looked into the thing a bit--is that you can't start painting portraits till people come along and ask you to, and they won't come and ask you to until you've painted a lot first. This makes it kind of difficult for a chappie. Corky managed to get along by drawing an occasional picture for the comic papers--he had rather a gift for funny stuff when he got a good idea--and doing bedsteads and chairs and things for the advertisements. His principal source of income, however, was derived from biting the ear of a rich uncle--one Alexander Worple, who was in the jute business. I'm a bit foggy as to what jute is, but it's apparently something the populace is pretty keen on, for Mr. Worple had made quite an indecently large stack out of it.
Now, a great many fellows think that having a rich uncle is a pretty soft snap: but, according to Corky, such is not the case. Corky's uncle was a robust sort of cove, who looked like living for ever. He was fifty-one, and it seemed as if he might go to par. It was not this, however, that distressed poor old Corky, for he was not bigoted and had no objection to the man going on living. What Corky kicked at was the way the above Worple used to harry him.
Corky's uncle, you see, didn't want him to be an artist. He didn't think he had any talent in that direction. He was always urging him to chuck Art and go into the jute business and start at the bottom and work his way up. Jute had apparently become a sort of obsession with him. He seemed to attach almost a spiritual importance to it. And what Corky said was that, while he didn't know what they did at the bottom of the jute business, instinct told him that it was something too beastly for words. Corky, moreover, believed in his future as an artist. Some day, he said, he was going to make a hit. Meanwhile, by using the utmost tact and persuasiveness, he was inducing his uncle to cough up very grudgingly a small quarterly allowance.
He wouldn't have got this if his uncle hadn't had a hobby. Mr. Worple was peculiar in this respect. As a rule, from what I've observed, the American captain of industry doesn't do anything out of business hours. When he has put the cat out and locked up the office for the night, he just relapses into a state of coma from which he emerges only to start being a captain of industry again. But Mr. Worple in his spare time was what is known as an ornithologist. He had written a book called American Birds, and was writing another, to be called More American Birds. When he had finished that, the presumption was that he would begin a third, and keep on till the supply of American birds gave out. Corky used to go to him about once every three months and let him talk about American birds. Apparently you could do what you liked with old Worple if you gave him his head first on his pet subject, so these little chats used to make Corky's allowance all right for the time being. But it was pretty rotten for the poor chap. There was the frightful suspense, you see, and, apart from that, birds, except when broiled and in the society of a cold bottle, bored him stiff.
To complete the character-study of Mr. Worple, he was a man of extremely uncertain temper, and his general tendency was to think that Corky was a poor chump and that whatever step he took in any direction on his own account, was just another proof of his innate idiocy. I should imagine Jeeves feels very much the same about me.
So when Corky trickled into my apartment one afternoon, shooing a girl in front of him, and said, "Bertie, I want you to meet my fiancee, Miss Singer," the aspect of the matter which hit me first was precisely the one which he had come to consult me about. The very first words I spoke were, "Corky, how about your uncle?"
The poor chap gave one of those mirthless laughs. He was looking anxious and worried, like a man who has done the murder all right but can't think what the deuce to do with the body.
"We're so scared, Mr. Wooster," said the girl. "We were hoping that you might suggest a way of breaking it to him."
Muriel Singer was one of those very quiet, appealing girls who have a way of looking at you with their big eyes as if they thought you were the greatest thing on earth and wondered that you hadn't got on to it yet yourself. She sat there in a sort of shrinking way, looking at me as if she were saying to herself, "Oh, I do hope this great strong man isn't going to hurt me." She gave a fellow a protective kind of feeling, made him want to stroke her hand and say, "There, there, little one!" or words to that effect. She made me feel that there was nothing I wouldn't do for her. She was rather like one of those innocent-tasting American drinks which creep imperceptibly into your system so that, before you know what you're doing, you're starting out to reform the world by force if necessary and pausing on your way to tell the large man in the corner that, if he looks at you like that, you will knock his head off. What I mean is, she made me feel alert and dashing, like a jolly old knight-errant or something of that kind. I felt that I was with her in this thing to the limit.
"I don't see why your uncle shouldn't be most awfully bucked," I said to Corky. "He will think Miss Singer the ideal wife for you."
Corky declined to cheer up.
"You don't know him. Even if he did like Muriel he wouldn't admit it. That's the sort of pig-headed guy he is. It would be a matter of principle with him to kick. All he would consider would be that I had gone and taken an important step without asking his advice, and he would raise Cain automatically. He's always done it."
I strained the old bean to meet this emergency.
"You want to work it so that he makes Miss Singer's acquaintance without knowing that you know her. Then you come along----"
"But how can I work it that way?"
I saw his point. That was the catch.
"There's only one thing to do," I said.
"What's that?"
"Leave it to Jeeves."
And I rang the bell.
"Sir?" said Jeeves, kind of manifesting himself. One of the rummy things about Jeeves is that, unless you watch like a hawk, you very seldom see him come into a room. He's like one of those weird chappies in India who dissolve themselves into thin air and nip through space in a sort of disembodied way and assemble the parts again just where they want them. I've got a cousin who's what they call a Theosophist, and he says he's often nearly worked the thing himself, but couldn't quite bring it off, probably owing to having fed in his boyhood on the flesh of animals slain in anger and pie.
The moment I saw the man standing there, registering respectful attention, a weight seemed to roll off my mind. I felt like a lost child who spots his father in the offing. There was something about him that gave me confidence.
Jeeves is a tallish man, with one of those dark, shrewd faces. His eye gleams with the light of pure intelligence.
"Jeeves, we want your advice."
"Very good, sir."
I boiled down Corky's painful case into a few well-chosen words.
"So you see what it amount to, Jeeves. We want you to suggest some way by which Mr. Worple can make Miss Singer's acquaintance without getting on to the fact that Mr. Corcoran already knows her. Understand?"
"Perfectly, sir."
"Well, try to think of something."
"I have thought of something already, sir."
"You have!"
"The scheme I would suggest cannot fail of success, but it has what may seem to you a drawback, sir, in that it requires a certain financial outlay."
"He means," I translated to Corky, "that he has got a pippin of an idea, but it's going to cost a bit."
Naturally the poor chap's face dropped, for this seemed to dish the whole thing. But I was still under the influence of the girl's melting gaze, and I saw that this was where I started in as a knight-errant.
"You can count on me for all that sort of thing, Corky," I said. "Only too glad. Carry on, Jeeves."
"I would suggest, sir, that Mr. Corcoran take advantage of Mr. Worple's attachment to ornithology."
"How on earth did you know that he was fond of birds?"
"It is the way these New York apartments are constructed, sir. Quite unlike our London houses. The partitions between the rooms are of the flimsiest nature. With no wish to overhear, I have sometimes heard Mr. Corcoran expressing himself with a generous strength on the subject I have mentioned."
"Oh! Well?"
"Why should not the young lady write a small volume, to be entitled--let us say--The Children's Book of American Birds, and dedicate it to Mr. Worple! A limited edition could be published at your expense, sir, and a great deal of the book would, of course, be given over to eulogistic remarks concerning Mr. Worple's own larger treatise on the same subject. I should recommend the dispatching of a presentation copy to Mr. Worple, immediately on publication, accompanied by a letter in which the young lady asks to be allowed to make the acquaintance of one to whom she owes so much. This would, I fancy, produce the desired result, but as I say, the expense involved would be considerable."
I felt like the proprietor of a performing dog on the vaudeville stage when the tyke has just pulled off his trick without a hitch. I had betted on Jeeves all along, and I had known that he wouldn't let me down. It beats me sometimes why a man with his genius is satisfied to hang around pressing my clothes and whatnot. If I had half Jeeves's brain, I should have a stab, at being Prime Minister or something.
"Jeeves," I said, "that is absolutely ripping! One of your very best efforts."
"Thank you, sir."
The girl made an objection.
"But I'm sure I couldn't write a book about anything. I can't even write good letters."
"Muriel's talents," said Corky, with a little cough "lie more in the direction of the drama, Bertie. I didn't mention it before, but one of our reasons for being a trifle nervous as to how Uncle Alexander will receive the news is that Muriel is in the chorus of that show Choose your Exit at the Manhattan. It's absurdly unreasonable, but we both feel that that fact might increase Uncle Alexander's natural tendency to kick like a steer."
I saw what he meant. Goodness knows there was fuss enough in our family when I tried to marry into musical comedy a few years ago. And the recollection of my Aunt Agatha's attitude in the matter of Gussie and the vaudeville girl was still fresh in my mind. I don't know why it is--one of these psychology sharps could explain it, I suppose--but uncles and aunts, as a class, are always dead against the drama, legitimate or otherwise. They don't seem able to stick it at any price.
But Jeeves had a solution, of course.
"I fancy it would be a simple matter, sir, to find some impecunious author who would be glad to do the actual composition of the volume for a small fee. It is only necessary that the young lady's name should appear on the title page."
"That's true," said Corky. "Sam Patterson would do it for a hundred dollars. He writes a novelette, three short stories, and ten thousand words of a serial for one of the all-fiction magazines under different names every month. A little thing like this would be nothing to him. I'll get after him right away."
"Will that be all, sir?" said Jeeves. "Very good, sir. Thank you, sir."
I always used to think that publishers had to be devilish intelligent fellows, loaded down with the grey matter; but I've got their number now. All a publisher has to do is to write cheques at intervals, while a lot of deserving and industrious chappies rally round and do the real work. I know, because I've been one myself. I simply sat tight in the old apartment with a fountain-pen, and in due season a topping, shiny book came along.
I happened to be down at Corky's place when the first copies of The Children's Book of American Birds bobbed up. Muriel Singer was there, and we were talking of things in general when there was a bang at the door and the parcel was delivered.
It was certainly some book. It had a red cover with a fowl of some species on it, and underneath the girl's name in gold letters. I opened a copy at random.
"Often of a spring morning," it said at the top of page twenty-one, "as you wander through the fields, you will hear the sweet-toned, carelessly flowing warble of the purple finch linnet. When you are older you must read all about him in Mr. Alexander Worple's wonderful book--American Birds."
You see. A boost for the uncle right away. And only a few pages later there he was in the limelight again in connection with the yellow-billed cuckoo. It was great stuff. The more I read, the more I admired the chap who had written it and Jeeves's genius in putting us on to the wheeze. I didn't see how the uncle could fail to drop. You can't call a chap the world's greatest authority on the yellow-billed cuckoo without rousing a certain disposition towards chumminess in him.
"It's a cert!" I said.
"An absolute cinch!" said Corky.
And a day or two later he meandered up the Avenue to my apartment to tell me that all was well. The uncle had written Muriel a letter so dripping with the milk of human kindness that if he hadn't known Mr. Worple's handwriting Corky would have refused to believe him the author of it. Any time it suited Miss Singer to call, said the uncle, he would be delighted to make her acquaintance.
Shortly after this I had to go out of town. Divers sound sportsmen had invited me to pay visits to their country places, and it wasn't for several months that I settled down in the city again. I had been wondering a lot, of course, about Corky, whether it all turned out right, and so forth, and my first evening in New York, happening to pop into a quiet sort of little restaurant which I go to when I don't feel inclined for the bright lights, I found Muriel Singer there, sitting by herself at a table near the door. Corky, I took it, was out telephoning. I went up and passed the time of day.
"Well, well, well, what?" I said.
"Why, Mr. Wooster! How do you do?"
"Corky around?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"You're waiting for Corky, aren't you?"
"Oh, I didn't understand. No, I'm not waiting for him."
It seemed to roe that there was a sort of something in her voice, a kind of thingummy, you know.
"I say, you haven't had a row with Corky, have you?"
"A row?"
"A spat, don't you know--little misunderstanding--faults on both sides--er--and all that sort of thing."
"Why, whatever makes you think that?"
"Oh, well, as it were, what? What I mean is--I thought you usually dined with him before you went to the theatre."
"I've left the stage now."
Suddenly the whole thing dawned on me. I had forgotten what a long time I had been away.
"Why, of course, I see now! You're married!"
"How perfectly topping! I wish you all kinds of happiness."
"Thank you, so much. Oh Alexander," she said, looking past me, "this is a friend of mine--Mr. Wooster."
I spun round. A chappie with a lot of stiff grey hair and a red sort of healthy face was standing there. Rather a formidable Johnnie, he looked, though quite peaceful at the moment.
"I want you to meet my husband, Mr. Wooster. Mr. Wooster is a friend of Bruce's, Alexander."
The old boy grasped my hand warmly, and that was all that kept me from hitting the floor in a heap. The place was rocking. Absolutely.
"So you know my nephew, Mr. Wooster," I heard him say. "I wish you would try to knock a little sense into him and make him quit this playing at painting. But I have an idea that he is steadying down. I noticed it first that night he came to dinner with us, my dear, to be introduced to you. He seemed altogether quieter and more serious. Something seemed to have sobered him. Perhaps you will give us the pleasure of your company at dinner to-night, Mr. Wooster? Or have you dined?"
I said I had. What I needed then was air, not dinner. I felt that I wanted to get into the open and think this thing out.
When I reached my apartment I heard Jeeves moving about in his lair. I called him.
"Jeeves," I said, "now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party. A stiff b.-and-s. first of all, and then I've a bit of news for you."
He came back with a tray and a long glass.
"Better have one yourself, Jeeves. You'll need it."
"Later on, perhaps, thank you, sir."
"All right. Please yourself. But you're going to get a shock. You remember my friend, Mr. Corcoran?"
"Yes, sir."
"And the girl who was to slide gracefully into his uncle's esteem by writing the book on birds?"
"Perfectly, sir."
"Well, she's slid. She's married the uncle."
He took it without blinking. You can't rattle Jeeves.
"That was always a development to be feared, sir."
"You don't mean to tell me that you were expecting it?"
"It crossed my mind as a possibility."
"Did it, by Jove! Well, I think, you might have warned us!"
"I hardly liked to take the liberty, sir."
Of course, as I saw after I had had a bite to eat and was in a calmer frame of mind, what had happened wasn't my fault, if you come down to it. I couldn't be expected to foresee that the scheme, in itself a cracker-jack, would skid into the ditch as it had done; but all the same I'm bound to admit that I didn't relish the idea of meeting Corky again until time, the great healer, had been able to get in a bit of soothing work. I cut Washington Square out absolutely for the next few months. I gave it the complete miss-in-baulk. And then, just when I was beginning to think I might safely pop down in that direction and gather up the dropped threads, so to speak, time, instead of working the healing wheeze, went and pulled the most awful bone and put the lid on it. Opening the paper one morning, I read that Mrs. Alexander Worple had presented her husband with a son and heir.
I was so darned sorry for poor old Corky that I hadn't the heart to touch my breakfast. I told Jeeves to drink it himself. I was bowled over. Absolutely. It was the limit.
I hardly knew what to do. I wanted, of course, to rush down to Washington Square and grip the poor blighter silently by the hand; and then, thinking it over, I hadn't the nerve. Absent treatment seemed the touch. I gave it him in waves.
But after a month or so I began to hesitate again. It struck me that it was playing it a bit low-down on the poor chap, avoiding him like this just when he probably wanted his pals to surge round him most. I pictured him sitting in his lonely studio with no company but his bitter thoughts, and the pathos of it got me to such an extent that I bounded straight into a taxi and told the driver to go all out for the studio.
I rushed in, and there was Corky, hunched up at the easel, painting away, while on the model throne sat a severe-looking female of middle age, holding a baby.
A fellow has to be ready for that sort of thing.
"Oh, ah!" I said, and started to back out.
Corky looked over his shoulder.
"Halloa, Bertie. Don't go. We're just finishing for the day. That will be all this afternoon," he said to the nurse, who got up with the baby and decanted it into a perambulator which was standing in the fairway.
"At the same hour to-morrow, Mr. Corcoran?"
"Yes, please."
"Good afternoon."
"Good afternoon."
Corky stood there, looking at the door, and then he turned to me and began to get it off his chest. Fortunately, he seemed to take it for granted that I knew all about what had happened, so it wasn't as awkward as it might have been.
"It's my uncle's idea," he said. "Muriel doesn't know about it yet. The portrait's to be a surprise for her on her birthday. The nurse takes the kid out ostensibly to get a breather, and they beat it down here. If you want an instance of the irony of fate, Bertie, get acquainted with this. Here's the first commission I have ever had to paint a portrait, and the sitter is that human poached egg that has butted in and bounced me out of my inheritance. Can you beat it! I call it rubbing the thing in to expect me to spend my afternoons gazing into the ugly face of a little brat who to all intents and purposes has hit me behind the ear with a blackjack and swiped all I possess. I can't refuse to paint the portrait because if I did my uncle would stop my allowance; yet every time I look up and catch that kid's vacant eye, I suffer agonies. I tell you, Bertie, sometimes when he gives me a patronizing glance and then turns away and is sick, as if it revolted him to look at me, I come within an ace of occupying the entire front page of the evening papers as the latest murder sensation. There are moments when I can almost see the headlines: 'Promising Young Artist Beans Baby With Axe.'"
I patted his shoulder silently. My sympathy for the poor old scout was too deep for words.
I kept away from the studio for some time after that, because it didn't seem right to me to intrude on the poor chappie's sorrow. Besides, I'm bound to say that nurse intimidated me. She reminded me so infernally of Aunt Agatha. She was the same gimlet-eyed type.
But one afternoon Corky called me on the 'phone.
"Are you doing anything this afternoon?"
"Nothing special."
"You couldn't come down here, could you?"
"What's the trouble? Anything up?"
"I've finished the portrait."
"Good boy! Stout work!"
"Yes." His voice sounded rather doubtful. "The fact is, Bertie, it doesn't look quite right to me. There's something about it--My uncle's coming in half an hour to inspect it, and--I don't know why it is, but I kind of feel I'd like your moral support!"
I began to see that I was letting myself in for something. The sympathetic co-operation of Jeeves seemed to me to be indicated.
"You think he'll cut up rough?"
"He may."
I threw my mind back to the red-faced chappie I had met at the restaurant, and tried to picture him cutting up rough. It was only too easy. I spoke to Corky firmly on the telephone.
"I'll come," I said.
"But only if I may bring Jeeves!"
"Why Jeeves? What's Jeeves got to do with it? Who wants Jeeves? Jeeves is the fool who suggested the scheme that has led----"
"Listen, Corky, old top! If you think I am going to face that uncle of yours without Jeeves's support, you're mistaken. I'd sooner go into a den of wild beasts and bite a lion on the back of the neck."
"Oh, all right," said Corky. Not cordially, but he said it; so I rang for Jeeves, and explained the situation.
"Very good, sir," said Jeeves.
That's the sort of chap he is. You can't rattle him.
We found Corky near the door, looking at the picture, with one hand up in a defensive sort of way, as if he thought it might swing on him.
"Stand right where you are, Bertie," he said, without moving. "Now, tell me honestly, how does it strike you?"
The light from the big window fell right on the picture. I took a good look at it. Then I shifted a bit nearer and took another look. Then I went back to where I had been at first, because it hadn't seemed quite so bad from there.
"Well?" said Corky, anxiously.
I hesitated a bit.
"Of course, old man, I only saw the kid once, and then only for a moment, but--but it was an ugly sort of kid, wasn't it, if I remember rightly?"
"As ugly as that?"
I looked again, and honesty compelled me to be frank.
"I don't see how it could have been, old chap."
Poor old Corky ran his fingers through his hair in a temperamental sort of way. He groaned.
"You're right quite, Bertie. Something's gone wrong with the darned thing. My private impression is that, without knowing it, I've worked that stunt that Sargent and those fellows pull--painting the soul of the sitter. I've got through the mere outward appearance, and have put the child's soul on canvas."
"But could a child of that age have a soul like that? I don't see how he could have managed it in the time. What do you think, Jeeves?"
"I doubt it, sir."
"It--it sorts of leers at you, doesn't it?"
"You've noticed that, too?" said Corky.
"I don't see how one could help noticing."
"All I tried to do was to give the little brute a cheerful expression. But, as it worked out, he looks positively dissipated."
"Just what I was going to suggest, old man. He looks as if he were in the middle of a colossal spree, and enjoying every minute of it. Don't you think so, Jeeves?"
"He has a decidedly inebriated air, sir."
Corky was starting to say something when the door opened, and the uncle came in.
For about three seconds all was joy, jollity, and goodwill. The old boy shook hands with me, slapped Corky on the back, said that he didn't think he had ever seen such a fine day, and whacked his leg with his stick. Jeeves had projected himself into the background, and he didn't notice him.
"Well, Bruce, my boy; so the portrait is really finished, is it--really finished? Well, bring it out. Let's have a look at it. This will be a wonderful surprise for your aunt. Where is it? Let's----"
And then he got it--suddenly, when he wasn't set for the punch; and he rocked back on his heels.
"Oosh!" he exclaimed. And for perhaps a minute there was one of the scaliest silences I've ever run up against.
"Is this a practical joke?" he said at last, in a way that set about sixteen draughts cutting through the room at once.
I thought it was up to me to rally round old Corky.
"You want to stand a bit farther away from it," I said.
"You're perfectly right!" he snorted. "I do! I want to stand so far away from it that I can't see the thing with a telescope!" He turned on Corky like an untamed tiger of the jungle who has just located a chunk of meat. "And this--this--is what you have been wasting your time and my money for all these years! A painter! I wouldn't let you paint a house of mine! I gave you this commission, thinking that you were a competent worker, and this--this--this extract from a comic coloured supplement is the result!" He swung towards the door, lashing his tail and growling to himself. "This ends it! If you wish to continue this foolery of pretending to be an artist because you want an excuse for idleness, please yourself. But let me tell you this. Unless you report at my office on Monday morning, prepared to abandon all this idiocy and start in at the bottom of the business to work your way up, as you should have done half a dozen years ago, not another cent--not another cent--not another--Boosh!"
Then the door closed, and he was no longer with us. And I crawled out of the bombproof shelter.
"Corky, old top!" I whispered faintly.
Corky was standing staring at the picture. His face was set. There was a hunted look in his eye.
"Well, that finishes it!" he muttered brokenly.
"What are you going to do?"
"Do? What can I do? I can't stick on here if he cuts off supplies. You heard what he said. I shall have to go to the office on Monday."
I couldn't think of a thing to say. I knew exactly how he felt about the office. I don't know when I've been so infernally uncomfortable. It was like hanging round trying to make conversation to a pal who's just been sentenced to twenty years in quod.
And then a soothing voice broke the silence.
"If I might make a suggestion, sir!"
It was Jeeves. He had slid from the shadows and was gazing gravely at the picture. Upon my word, I can't give you a better idea of the shattering effect of Corky's uncle Alexander when in action than by saying that he had absolutely made me forget for the moment that Jeeves was there.
"I wonder if I have ever happened to mention to you, sir, a Mr. Digby Thistleton, with whom I was once in service? Perhaps you have met him? He was a financier. He is now Lord Bridgnorth. It was a favourite saying of his that there is always a way. The first time I heard him use the expression was after the failure of a patent depilatory which he promoted."
"Jeeves," I said, "what on earth are you talking about?"
"I mentioned Mr. Thistleton, sir, because his was in some respects a parallel case to the present one. His depilatory failed, but he did not despair. He put it on the market again under the name of Hair-o, guaranteed to produce a full crop of hair in a few months. It was advertised, if you remember, sir, by a humorous picture of a billiard-ball, before and after taking, and made such a substantial fortune that Mr. Thistleton was soon afterwards elevated to the peerage for services to his Party. It seems to me that, if Mr. Corcoran looks into the matter, he will find, like Mr. Thistleton, that there is always a way. Mr. Worple himself suggested the solution of the difficulty. In the heat of the moment he compared the portrait to an extract from a coloured comic supplement. I consider the suggestion a very valuable one, sir. Mr. Corcoran's portrait may not have pleased Mr. Worple as a likeness of his only child, but I have no doubt that editors would gladly consider it as a foundation for a series of humorous drawings. If Mr. Corcoran will allow me to make the suggestion, his talent has always been for the humorous. There is something about this picture--something bold and vigorous, which arrests the attention. I feel sure it would be highly popular."
Corky was glaring at the picture, and making a sort of dry, sucking noise with his mouth. He seemed completely overwrought.
And then suddenly he began to laugh in a wild way.
"Corky, old man!" I said, massaging him tenderly. I feared the poor blighter was hysterical.
He began to stagger about all over the floor.
"He's right! The man's absolutely right! Jeeves, you're a life-saver! You've hit on the greatest idea of the age! Report at the office on Monday! Start at the bottom of the business! I'll buy the business if I feel like it. I know the man who runs the comic section of the Sunday Star. He'll eat this thing. He was telling me only the other day how hard it was to get a good new series. He'll give me anything I ask for a real winner like this. I've got a gold-mine. Where's my hat? I've got an income for life! Where's that confounded hat? Lend me a fiver, Bertie. I want to take a taxi down to Park Row!"
Jeeves smiled paternally. Or, rather, he had a kind of paternal muscular spasm about the mouth, which is the nearest he ever gets to smiling.
"If I might make the suggestion, Mr. Corcoran--for a title of the series which you have in mind--'The Adventures of Baby Blobbs.'"
Corky and I looked at the picture, then at each other in an awed way. Jeeves was right. There could be no other title.
"Jeeves," I said. It was a few weeks later, and I had just finished looking at the comic section of the Sunday Star. "I'm an optimist. I always have been. The older I get, the more I agree with Shakespeare and those poet Johnnies about it always being darkest before the dawn and there's a silver lining and what you lose on the swings you make up on the roundabouts. Look at Mr. Corcoran, for instance. There was a fellow, one would have said, clear up to the eyebrows in the soup. To all appearances he had got it right in the neck. Yet look at him now. Have you seen these pictures?"
"I took the liberty of glancing at them before bringing them to you, sir. Extremely diverting."
"They have made a big hit, you know."
"I anticipated it, sir."
I leaned back against the pillows.
"You know, Jeeves, you're a genius. You ought to be drawing a commission on these things."
"I have nothing to complain of in that respect, sir. Mr. Corcoran has been most generous. I am putting out the brown suit, sir."
"No, I think I'll wear the blue with the faint red stripe."
"Not the blue with the faint red stripe, sir."
"But I rather fancy myself in it."
"Not the blue with the faint red stripe, sir."
"Oh, all right, have it your own way."
"Very good, sir. Thank you, sir."
Of course, I know it's as bad as being henpecked; but then Jeeves is always right. You've got to consider that, you know. What?
P.G. Wodehouse
Monday, March 03, 2008
That Hell -Bound Train
WHEN MARTIN WAS A LITTLE BOY, his Daddy was
a Railroad Man. He never rode the high iron, but he
walked the tracks for the CB&Q, and he was proud of his
job. And when he got drunk (which was every night), he
sang this old song about "That Hell-Bound Train."
Martin didn't quite remember any of the words,
but he couldn't forget the way his Daddy sang them out.
And when Daddy made the mistake of getting drunk in the
afternoon and got squeezed between a Pennsy tank car and
an AT&SF gondola, Martin sort of wondered why the
Brotherhood didn't sing the song at his funeral.
After that, things didn't go so good for Martin,
but somehow he always recalled Daddy's song. When
Mom up and ran off with a traveling salesman from
Keokuk (Daddy must have turned over in his grave,
knowing she'd done such a thing, and with a *passenger*, too!),
Martin hummed the tune to himself every night in the Orphan
Home. And after Martin himself ran away, he used to whistle
the song at night in the jungles, after the other tramps were
asleep.
Martin was on the road for four to five years
before he realized he wasn't getting anyplace. Of course he'd
tried his hand at a lot of things - picking fruit in Oregon,
washing dishes in a Montana hash house - but he just wasn't cut
out for seasonal labor or pearl-diving, either. Then he graduated
to stealing hubcaps in Denver, and for a while he did pretty well
with tires in Oklahoma City, but by the time he'd put in six
months on the chain gang down in Alabama, he knew he had no
future drifting around this way on his own.
So he tried to get on the railroad like his Daddy had,
but they told him times were bad; and between the truckers and
the airlines and those fancy new fintails General Motors was
making, it looked as if the days of the highballers were just
about over.
But Martin couldn't keep away from the railroads.
Wherever he traveled, he rode the rods; he'd rather hop a
freight heading north in subzero weather than lift his thumb
to hitch a ride with a Cadillac headed for Florida. Because
Martin was loyal to the memory of his Daddy, and he wanted to
be as much like him as possible, come what may. Of course, he
couldn't get drunk every night, but whenever he did manage to
get hold of a can of Sterno, he'd sit there under a nice warm
culvert and think about the old days.
Often as not, he'd hum the song about "That
Hell-Bound Train." That was the train the drunks and
sinners rode: the gambling men and the grifters, the big-time
spenders, the skirt chasers, and all the jolly crew. It would be
fun to take a trip in such good company, but Martin didn't like
to think of what happened when that train finally pulled into
the Depot Way Down Yonder. He didn't figure on spending
eternity stoking boilers in Hell, without even a company union
to protect him. Still, it would be a lovely ride. If there *was*
such a thing as a Hell-Bound Train. Which, of course, there
wasn't.
At least Martin didn't *think* there was, until
that evening when he found himself walking the tracks
heading south, just outside of Appleton Junction. The night
was cold and dark, the way November nights are in the Fox
River Valley, and he knew he'd have to work his way down to
New Orleans for the winter, or maybe even Texas. Somehow he
didn't much feel like going, even though he'd heard tell that a
lot of those Texans' automobiles had solid gold hubcaps.
No sir, he just wasn't cut out for petty larceny.
It was worse than a sin - it was unprofitable, too. Bad
enough to do the Devil's work, but then to get such miserable
pay on top of it! Maybe he'd better let the Salvation Army
convert him.
Martin trudged along, humming Daddy's song,
waiting for a rattler to pull out of the junction behind
him. He'd have to catch it - there was nothing else for him to
do.
Too bad there wasn't a chance to make a better
deal for himself somewhere. Might as well be a rich
sinner as a poor sinner. Besides, he had a notion that he could
strike a pretty shrewd bargain. He'd thought about it a lot,
these past few years, particularly when the Sterno was
working. Then his ideas would come on strong, and he could
figure a way to rig the setup. But that was all nonsense, of
course. He might as well join the gospel shouters and turn
into a working stiff like all the rest of the world. No use
dreaming dreams; a song was only a song and there was no
Hell-Bound Train.
There was only *this* train, rumbling out of the
night, roaring toward him along the track from the south.
Martin peered ahead, but his eyes couldn't
match his ears, and so far all he could recognize was
the sound. It *was* a train, though; he felt the steel
shudder and sing beneath his feet.
And yet, how could it be? The next station
south was Neenah-Menasha, and there was nothing due
out of there for hours.
The clouds were thick overhead, and the field
mists rolled like a cold fog in a November midnight.
Even so, Martin should have been able to see the
headlights as the train rushed on. But there were no lights.
There was only the whistle, screaming out
of the black throat of the night. Martin could recognize
the equipment of just about any locomotive ever built, but
he'd never heard a whistle that sounded like this one. It
wasn't signaling; it was screaming like a lost soul.
He stepped to one side, for the train was
almost on top of him now, and suddenly there it was,
looming along the tracks and grinding to a stop in less
time than he'd ever believed possible. The wheels hadn't
been oiled, because they screamed too, screamed like the
damned. But the train slid to a halt and the screams died
away into a series of low, groaning sounds, and Martin
looked up and saw that this was a passenger train. It was
big and black, without a single light shining in the engine
cab or any of the long string of cars, and Martin couldn't
read any lettering on the sides, but he was pretty sure this
train didn't belong on the Northwestern Road.
He was even more sure when he saw the man
clamber down out of the forward car. There was something
wrong about the way he walked, as though one of his feet
dragged. And there was something even more disturbing
about the lantern he carried, and what he did with it. The
lantern was dark, and when the man alighted, he held it up
to his mouth and blew. Instantly the lantern glowed redly.
You don't have to be a member of the Railway Brotherhood
to know that this is a mighty peculiar way of lighting a
lantern.
As the figure approached, Martin recognized
the conductor's cap perched on his head, and this made
him feel a little better for a moment - until he noticed that
it was worn a bit too high, as though there might be
something sticking up on the forehead underneath it.
Still, Martin knew his manners, and when the man
smiled at him, he said, "Good evening, Mr. Conductor."
"Good evening, Martin."
"How did you know my name?"
The man shrugged. "How did you know I was the conductor?"
"You *are*, aren't you?"
"To you, yes. Although other people, in other
walks of life, may recognize me in different roles. For
instance, you ought to see what I look like to the folks out in
Hollywood." The man grinned. "I travel a great deal," he
explained.
"What brings you here?" Martin asked.
"Why, you ought to know the answer to that, Martin.
I came because you needed me."
"I did?"
"Don't play the innocent. Ordinarily, I seldom
bother with single individuals anymore. The way the
world is going, I can expect to carry a full load of passengers
without soliciting business. Your name has been down on the
list for several years already - I reserved a seat for you as a
matter of course. But then, tonight, I suddenly realized you
were backsliding. Thinking of joining the Salvation Army,
weren't you?"
"Well - " Martin hesitated.
"Don't be ashamed. To err is human, as
somebody-or-other once said. _Reader's Digest_,wasn't
it? Never mind. The point is, I felt you needed me. So I
switched over and came your way."
"What for?"
"Why, to offer you a ride, of course. Isn't it
better to travel comfortably by train than to march along
the cold streets behind a Salvation Army band? Hard on the
feet, they tell me, and even harder on the eardrums."
"I'm not sure I'd care to ride your train, sir," Martin
said. "Considering where I'm likely to end up."
"Ah, yes. The old argument." The conductor sighed.
"I suppose you'd prefer some sort of bargain, is that it?"
"Exactly," Martin answered.
"Well, I'm afraid I'm all through with that sort
of thing. As I mentioned before, times have changed.
There's no shortage of prospective passengers anymore.
Why should I offer you any special inducements?"
"You must want me, or else you wouldn't have
bothered to go out of your way to find me."
The conductor sighed again. "There you have a point.
Pride was always my besetting weakness, I admit. And
somehow I'd hate to lose you to the competition, after
thinking of you as my own all these years." He hesitated.
"Yes, I'm prepared to deal with you on your own terms,
if you insist."
"The terms?" Martin asked.
"Standard proposition. Anything you want."
"Ah," said Martin.
"But I warn you in advance, there'll be no tricks.
I'll grant you any wish you can name - but in return,
you must promise to ride the train when the time comes."
"Suppose it never comes?"
"It will."
"Suppose I've got the kind of a wish that will
keep me off forever?"
"There *is* no such wish."
"Don't be too sure."
"Let me worry about that," the conductor told
him. "No matter what you have in mind, I warn you that
I'll collect in the end. And there'll be none of this last-minute
hocus-pocus, either. No last-hour repentances, no blonde
*FrŠuleins* or fancy lawyers showing up to get you off. I
offer a clean deal. That is to say, you'll get what you want,
and I'll get what I want."
"I've heard you trick people. They say you're
worse than a used-car salesman."
"Now wait a minute - "
"I apologize," Martin said, hastily. "But it *is*
supposed to be a fact that you can't be trusted."
"I admit it. On the other hand, you seem to think
you have found a way out."
"A surefire proposition."
"Surefire? Very funny!" The man began to
chuckle, then halted. "But we waste valuable time,
Martin. Let's get down to cases. What do you want from me?"
"A single wish."
"Name it and I shall grant it."
"Anything, you said?"
"Anything at all."
"Very well, then." Martin took a deep breath. "I
want to be able to stop Time."
"Right now?"
"No. Not yet. And not for everybody. I realize that
would be impossible, of course. But I want to be able to
stop Time for myself. Just once, in the future. Whenever I
get to a point where I know I'm happy and contented, that's
where I'd like to stop. So I can just keep on being happy forever."
"That's quite a proposition," the conductor mused.
"I've got to admit I've never heard anything just like it before -
and believe me, I've listened to some lulus in my day." He
grinned at Martin. "You've really been thinking about this,
haven't you?"
"For years," Martin admitted. Then he coughed.
"Well, what do you say?"
"It's not impossible in terms of your own
*subjective* time sense," the conductor murmured.
"Yes, I think it could be arranged."
"But I mean *really* to stop. Not for me just
to *imagine* it."
"I understand. And it can be done."
"Then you'll agree?"
"Why not? I promised you, didn't I? Give me your
hand." Martin hesitated. "Will it hurt very much? I mean, I
don't like the sight of blood, and - "
"Nonsense! You've been listening to a lot of
poppycock. We already have made our bargain, my boy. No
need for a lot of childish rigamarole. I merely intend to put
something into your hand. The ways and means of fulfilling
your wish. After all, there's no telling at just what moment
you may decide to exercise the agreement, and I can't drop
everything and come running. So it's better to regulate
matters for yourself."
"You're going to give me a time stopper?"
"That's the general idea. As soon as I can decide
what would be practical." The conductor hesitated. "Ah,
the very thing! Here, take my watch."
He pulled it out of his vest pocket: a railroad
watch in a silver case. He opened the back and made a
delicate adjustment; Martin tried to see just exactly what
he was doing, but the fingers moved in a blinding blur.
"There we are," the conductor smiled. "It's
all set, now. When you finally decide where you'd like
to call a halt, merely turn the stem in reverse and unwind
the watch until it stops. When it stops, Time stops, for
you. Simple enough?"
"Sure thing."
"Then, here, take it." And the conductor dropped
the watch into Martin's hand.
The young man closed his fingers tightly around
the case. "That's all there is to it, eh?"
"Absolutely. But remember - you can stop the
watch only once. So you'd better make sure that you're
satisfied with the moment you choose to prolong. I caution
you in all fairness; make very certain of your choice."
"I will." Martin grinned. "And since you've
been so fair about it, I'll be fair, too. There's one thing
you seem to have forgotten. It doesn't really matter *what*
moment I choose. Because once I stop Time for myself,
that means I stay where I am forever. I'll never have to get
any older. And if I don't get any older, I'll never die. And if I
never die, then I'll never have to take a ride on your train."
The conductor turned away. His shoulders
shook convulsively, and he may have been crying. "And
you said *I* was worse than a used-car salesman," he gasped,
in a strangled voice.
Then he wandered off into the fog, and the
train whistle gave an impatient shriek, and all at
once it was moving swiftly down the track, rumbling
out of sight in the darkness. Martin stood there, blinking
down at the silver watch in his hand. If it wasn't that he
could actually see it and feel it there, and if he couldn't
smell that peculiar odor, he might have thought he'd
imagined the whole thing from start to finish - train,
conductor, bargain, and all.
But he had the watch, and he could recognize
the scent left by the train as it departed, even though
there aren't many locomotives around that use sulphur
and brimstone as fuel.
And he had no doubts about his bargain.
Better still, he had no doubts as to the advantages
of the pact he'd made. That's what came of thinking
things through to a logical conclusion. Some fools
would have settled for wealth, or power, or Kim Novak.
Daddy might have sold out for a fifth of whiskey.
Martin knew that he'd made a better deal.
Better? It was foolproof. All he needed to do now was
choose his moment. And when the right time came, it
was his - forever.
He put the watch in his pocket and started
back down the railroad track. He hadn't really had a
destination in mind before, but he did now. He was
going to find a moment of happiness. . . .
Now young Martin wasn't altogether a ninny.
He realized perfectly well that happiness is a relative
thing; there are conditions and degrees of contentment,
and they vary with one's lot in life. As a hobo, he was
often satisfied with a warm handout, a double-length
bench in the park, or a can of Sterno made in 1957 (a
vintage year). Many a time he had reached a state of
momentary bliss through such simple agencies, but he
was aware that there were better things. Martin
determined to seek them out.
Within two days he was in the great
city of Chicago. Quite naturally, he drifted
over to West Madison Street, and there he took
steps to elevate his role in life. He became a city bum,
a panhandler, a moocher. Within a week he had risen to
the point where happiness was a meal in a regular
one-arm luncheon joint, a two-bit flop on a real army
cot in a real flophouse, and a full fifth of muscatel.
There was a night, after enjoying all three
of these luxuries to the full, when Martin was
tempted to unwind his watch at the pinnacle of
intoxication. Then he remembered the faces of the
honest johns he'd braced for a handout today. Sure, they
were squares, but they were prosperous. They wore good
clothes, held good jobs, drove nice cars. And for them,
happiness was even more ecstatic: They ate dinner in fine
hotels, they slept on innerspring mattresses, they drank
blended whiskey.
Squares or no, they *had* something there.
Martin fingered his watch, put aside the temptation to
hock it for another bottle of muscatel, and went to sleep
determining to get himself a job and improve his
happiness quotient.
When he awoke he had a hangover, but the
determination was still with him. It stayed long after
the hangover disappeared, and before the month was out
Martin found himself working for a general contractor
over on the South Side, at one of the big rehabilitation
projects. He hated the grind, but the pay was good, and
pretty soon he got himself a one-room apartment out on
Blue Island Avenue. He was accustomed to eating in decent
restaurants now, and he bought himself a comfortable bed,
and every Saturday night he went down to the corner tavern.
It was all very pleasant, but -
The foreman liked his work and promised him
a raise in a month. If he waited around, the raise would
mean that he could even start picking up a girl for a date
now and then. Lots of the other fellows on the job did, and
they seemed pretty happy.
So Martin kept on working, and the raise came
through and the car came through and pretty soon a couple
of girls came along.
The first time it happened, he wanted to unwind
his watch immediately. Until he got to thinking about
what some of the older men always said. There was a
guy named Charlie, for example, who worked alongside
him on the hoist. "When you're young and don't know the
score, maybe you gett a kick out of running around with
those pigs. But after a while, you want something better. A
nice girl of your own. That's the ticket."
Well, he might have something there. At least,
Martin owed it to himself to find out. If he didn't like it
better, he could always go back to what he had.
It was worth a try. Of course, nice girls don't
grow on trees (if they did, a lot more men would become
forest rangers), and almost six months went by before
Martin met Lillian Gillis. By that time he'd had another
promotion and was working inside, in the office. They
made him go to night school to learn how to do simple
bookkeeping, but it meant another fifteen bucks extra a
week, and it was nicer working indoors.
And Lillian *was* a lot of fun. When she told
him she'd marry him, Martin was almost sure that the
time was now. Except that she was sort of - well, she was
a *nice* girl, and she said they'd have to wait until they
were married. Of course, Martin couldn't expect to marry
her until he had a little money saved up, and another raise
would help, too.
That took a year. Martin was patient, because
he knew it was going to be worth it. Every time he had
any doubts, he took out his watch and looked at it. But he
never showed it to Lillian, or anybody else. Most of the
other men wore expensive wristwatches and the old silver
railroad watch looked just a little cheap.
Martin smiled as he gazed at the stem. Just a
few twists and he'd have something none of these other
poor working slobs would ever have. Permanent
satisfaction, with his blushing bride -
Only getting married turned out to be just
the beginning. Sure, it was wonderful, but Lillian told
him how much better things would be if they could move
into a new place and fix it up. Martin wanted decent
furniture, a TV set, a nice car.
So he started taking night courses and got
a promotion to the front office. With the baby coming,
he wanted to stick around and see his son arrive. And
when it came, he realized he'd have to wait until it got
a little older, started to walk and talk and develop a
personality of its own.
About this time the company sent him out
on the road as a troubleshooter on some of those other
jobs, and now *he* was eating at those good hotels,
living high on the hog and the expense account. More than
once he was tempted to unwind his watch. This was the
good life. And he realized it could be even better if he just
didn't have to *work.* Sooner or later, if he could cut in
on one of the company deals, he could make a pile and
retire. Then everything would be ideal.
It happened, but it took time. Martin's son
was going to high school before he really got up there
into the chips. Martin got the feeling that it was now or
never, because he wasn't exactly a kid anymore.
But right about then he met Sherry Westcott, and
she didn't seem to think he was middle-aged at all, in
spite of the way he was losing hair and adding stomach.
She taught him that a toupee could cover the bald spot and
a cummerbund could cover the potbelly. In fact, she taught
him quite a number of things, and he so enjoyed learning
that he actually took out his watch and prepared to unwind
it.
Unfortunately, he chose the very moment that
the private detectives broke down the door of the hotel
room, and then there was a long stretch of time when
Martin was so busy fighting the divorce action that he
couldn't honestly say he was enjoying any given amount.
When he made the final settlement with Lil, he
was broke again, and Sherry didn't seem to think he was
so young, after all. So he squared his shoulders and went
back to work.
He made his pile, eventually, but it took longer
this time, and there wasn't much chance to have fun along
the way. The fancy dames in the fancy cocktail lounges
didn't seem to interest him anymore, and neither did the
liquor. Besides, the Doc had warned him about that.
But there were other pleasures for a rich man to
investigate. Travel, for instance - and not riding the rods
from one hick burg to another, either. Martin went around
the world via plane and luxury liner. For a while it seemed
as though he would find his moment after all. Visiting the
Taj Mahal by moonlight, the moon's radiance was reflected
from the back of the battered old watchcase, and Martin
got ready to unwind it. Nobody else was there to watch him -
And that's why he hesitated. Sure, this was an
enjoyable moment, but he was alone. Lil and the kid were
gone, Sherry was gone, and somehow he'd never had time to
make any friends. Maybe if he found a few congenial people,
he'd have the ultimate happiness. That must be the answer -
it wasn't just money or power or sex or seeing beautiful
things. The real satisfaction lay in friendship.
So on the boat trip home, Martin tried to
strike up a few acquaintances at the ship's bar. But all
these people were so much younger, and Martin had nothing
in common with them. Also, they wanted to dance and drink,
and Martin wasn't in condition to appreciate such pastimes.
Nevertheless, he tried.
Perhaps that's why he had the little accident
the day before they docked in San Francisco. "Little
accident" was the ship's doctor's way of describing it, but
Martin noticed he looked very grave when he told him to
stay in bed, and he'd called an ambulance to meet the liner
at the dock and take the patient right to the hospital.
At the hospital, all the expensive treatment and
expensive smiles and expensive words didn't fool Martin
any. He was an old man with a bad heart, and they thought
he was going to die.
But he could fool them. He still had the
watch. He found it in his coat when he put on his
clothes and sneaked out of the hospital before dawn.
He didn't have to die. He could cheat death with
a single gesture - and he intended to do it as a free man,
out there under a free sky.
That was the real secret of happiness. He
understood it now. Not even friendship meant as
much as freedom. This was the best thing of all - to be
free of friends or family or the furies of the flesh.
Martin walked slowly beside the embankment
under the night sky. Come to think of it, he was just
about back where he'd started, so many years ago. But
the moment was good, good enough to prolong forever.
Once a bum, always a bum.
He smiled as he thought about it, and then
the smile twisted sharply and suddenly, like the pain
twisting sharply and suddenly in his chest. The world
began to spin and he fell down on the side of the
embankment.
He couldn't see very well, but he was still
conscious, and he knew what had happened. Another
stroke, and a bad one. Maybe this was it. Except that he
wouldn't be a fool any longer. He wouldn't wait to see
what was still around the corner.
Right now was his chance to use his power and
save his life. And he was going to do it. He could still
move, nothing could stop him.
He groped in his pocket and pulled out the old
silver watch, fumbling with the stem. A few twists and
he'd cheat death, he wouldn't have to ride That
Hell-Bound Train. He could go on forever.
*Forever.*
Martin had never really considered the word
before. To go on forever - but *how*? Did he *want* to
go on forever, like this: a sick old man, lying helplessly
here in the grass?
No. He couldn't do it. He wouldn't do it. And
suddenly he wanted very much to cry, because he knew
that somewhere along the line he'd outsmarted himself. And
now it was too late. His eyes dimmed, there was this roaring
in his ears. . . .
He recognized the roaring, of course, and he
wasn't at all surprised to see the train come rushing out
of the fog up there on the embankment. He wasn't surprised
when it stopped, either, or when the conductor climbed off
and walked slowly toward him.
The conductor hadn't changed a bit. Even his grin
was still the same.
"Hello, Martin," he said. "All aboard."
"I know," Martin whispered. "But you'll have to
carry me. I can't walk. I'm not even really talking anymore,
am I?"
"Yes you are," the conductor said. "I can hear
you fine. And you can walk, too." He leaned down and
placed his hand on Martin's chest. There was a moment of
icy numbness, and then, sure enough, Martin could walk after
all.
He got up and followed the conductor along the
slope, moving to the side of the train.
"In here?" he asked.
"No, the next car," the conductor murmured.
"I guess you're entitled to ride Pullman. After all, you're
quite a successful man. You've tasted the joys of wealth and
position and prestige. You've known the pleasures of marriage
and fatherhood. You've sampled the delights of dining and
drinking and debauchery, too, and you traveled high, wide, and
handsome. So let's not have any last-minute recriminations."
"All right," Martin sighed. "I guessed I can't blame
you for my mistakes. On the other hand, you can't take credit
for what happened either. I worked for everything I got. I did
it all on my own. I didn't even need your watch."
"So you didn't," the conductor said, smiling. "But
would you mind giving it back to me now?"
"Need it for the next sucker, eh?" Martin muttered.
"Perhaps."
Something about the way he said it made
Martin look up. He tried to see the conductor's eyes,
but the brim of his cap cast a shadow. So Martin looked
down at the watch instead, as if seeking an answer there.
"Tell me something," he said, softly. "If I give
you the watch, what will you do with it?"
"Why, throw it into the ditch," the conductor
told him. "That's all I'll do with it." And he held out his hand.
"What if somebody comes along and finds
it? And twists the stem backward, and stops Time?"
"Nobody would do that," the conductor murmured.
"Even if they knew."
"You mean, it was all a trick? This is only an
ordinary cheap watch?"
"I didn't say that," whispered the conductor.
"I only said that no one has ever twisted the stem
backward. They've all been like you, Martin - looking ahead
to find that perfect happiness. Waiting for the moment that
never comes."
The conductor held out his hand again.
Martin sighed and shook his head. "You cheated
me after all."
"You cheated yourself, Martin. And now you're
going to ride That Hell-Bound Train."
He pushed Martin up the steps and into the
car ahead. As he entered, the train began to move and
the whistle screamed. And Martin stood there in the
swaying Pullman, gazing down the aisle at the other
passengers. He could see them sitting there, and somehow
it didn't seem strange at all.
Here they were: the drunks and the sinners, the
gambling men and the grifters, the big-time spenders,
the skirt chasers, and all the jolly crew. They knew where
they were going, of course, but they didn't seem to be
particularly concerned at the moment. The blinds were
drawn on the windows, yet it was light inside, and they
were all sitting around and singing and passing the bottle
and laughing it up, telling their jokes and bragging their
brags, just the way Daddy used to sing about them in the
old song.
"Mighty nice traveling companions," Martin said.
"Why, I've never seen such a pleasant bunch of people. I
mean, they seem to be really enjoying themselves!"
"Sorry," the conductor told him. "I'm afraid things
may not be quite so enjoyable once we pull into that Depot
Way Down Yonder. "
For the third time, he held out his hand. "Now,
before you sit down, if you'll just give me that watch.
I mean, a bargain's a bargain - "
Martin smiled. "A bargain's a bargain," he echoed.
"I agreed to ride your train if I could stop Time when I
found the right moment of happiness. So, if you don't mind,
I think I'll just make certain adjustments."
Very slowly, Martin twisted the silver watch stem.
"No!" gasped the conductor. "No!"
But the watch stem turned.
"Do you realize what you've done?" the conductor
panted. "Now we'll never reach the Depot. We'll just go on
riding, all of us, forever and ever!"
Martin grinned. "I know," he said. "But the fun is in
the trip, not the destination. You taught me that. And I'm
looking forward to a wonderful trip."
The conductor groaned. "All right," he sighed, at
last. "You got the best of me, after all. But when I think
of spending eternity trapped here riding this train - "
"Cheer up!" Martin told him. "It won't be that bad.
Looks like we have plenty to eat and drink. And after all,
these are *your* kind of folks."
"But I'm the conductor! Think of the endless work
this means for me!"
"Don't let it worry you," Martin said. "Look, maybe
I can even help. If you were to find me another one of those
caps, now, and let me keep this watch - "
And that's the way it finally worked out. Wearing
his cap and silver watch, there's no happier person in or
out of this world - now and forever - than Martin. Martin, the
new brakeman on That Hell-Bound Train.
By Robert Bloch
"That Hell-Bound Train," by Robert Bloch. Copyright © 1958 by Mercury Press
a Railroad Man. He never rode the high iron, but he
walked the tracks for the CB&Q, and he was proud of his
job. And when he got drunk (which was every night), he
sang this old song about "That Hell-Bound Train."
Martin didn't quite remember any of the words,
but he couldn't forget the way his Daddy sang them out.
And when Daddy made the mistake of getting drunk in the
afternoon and got squeezed between a Pennsy tank car and
an AT&SF gondola, Martin sort of wondered why the
Brotherhood didn't sing the song at his funeral.
After that, things didn't go so good for Martin,
but somehow he always recalled Daddy's song. When
Mom up and ran off with a traveling salesman from
Keokuk (Daddy must have turned over in his grave,
knowing she'd done such a thing, and with a *passenger*, too!),
Martin hummed the tune to himself every night in the Orphan
Home. And after Martin himself ran away, he used to whistle
the song at night in the jungles, after the other tramps were
asleep.
Martin was on the road for four to five years
before he realized he wasn't getting anyplace. Of course he'd
tried his hand at a lot of things - picking fruit in Oregon,
washing dishes in a Montana hash house - but he just wasn't cut
out for seasonal labor or pearl-diving, either. Then he graduated
to stealing hubcaps in Denver, and for a while he did pretty well
with tires in Oklahoma City, but by the time he'd put in six
months on the chain gang down in Alabama, he knew he had no
future drifting around this way on his own.
So he tried to get on the railroad like his Daddy had,
but they told him times were bad; and between the truckers and
the airlines and those fancy new fintails General Motors was
making, it looked as if the days of the highballers were just
about over.
But Martin couldn't keep away from the railroads.
Wherever he traveled, he rode the rods; he'd rather hop a
freight heading north in subzero weather than lift his thumb
to hitch a ride with a Cadillac headed for Florida. Because
Martin was loyal to the memory of his Daddy, and he wanted to
be as much like him as possible, come what may. Of course, he
couldn't get drunk every night, but whenever he did manage to
get hold of a can of Sterno, he'd sit there under a nice warm
culvert and think about the old days.
Often as not, he'd hum the song about "That
Hell-Bound Train." That was the train the drunks and
sinners rode: the gambling men and the grifters, the big-time
spenders, the skirt chasers, and all the jolly crew. It would be
fun to take a trip in such good company, but Martin didn't like
to think of what happened when that train finally pulled into
the Depot Way Down Yonder. He didn't figure on spending
eternity stoking boilers in Hell, without even a company union
to protect him. Still, it would be a lovely ride. If there *was*
such a thing as a Hell-Bound Train. Which, of course, there
wasn't.
At least Martin didn't *think* there was, until
that evening when he found himself walking the tracks
heading south, just outside of Appleton Junction. The night
was cold and dark, the way November nights are in the Fox
River Valley, and he knew he'd have to work his way down to
New Orleans for the winter, or maybe even Texas. Somehow he
didn't much feel like going, even though he'd heard tell that a
lot of those Texans' automobiles had solid gold hubcaps.
No sir, he just wasn't cut out for petty larceny.
It was worse than a sin - it was unprofitable, too. Bad
enough to do the Devil's work, but then to get such miserable
pay on top of it! Maybe he'd better let the Salvation Army
convert him.
Martin trudged along, humming Daddy's song,
waiting for a rattler to pull out of the junction behind
him. He'd have to catch it - there was nothing else for him to
do.
Too bad there wasn't a chance to make a better
deal for himself somewhere. Might as well be a rich
sinner as a poor sinner. Besides, he had a notion that he could
strike a pretty shrewd bargain. He'd thought about it a lot,
these past few years, particularly when the Sterno was
working. Then his ideas would come on strong, and he could
figure a way to rig the setup. But that was all nonsense, of
course. He might as well join the gospel shouters and turn
into a working stiff like all the rest of the world. No use
dreaming dreams; a song was only a song and there was no
Hell-Bound Train.
There was only *this* train, rumbling out of the
night, roaring toward him along the track from the south.
Martin peered ahead, but his eyes couldn't
match his ears, and so far all he could recognize was
the sound. It *was* a train, though; he felt the steel
shudder and sing beneath his feet.
And yet, how could it be? The next station
south was Neenah-Menasha, and there was nothing due
out of there for hours.
The clouds were thick overhead, and the field
mists rolled like a cold fog in a November midnight.
Even so, Martin should have been able to see the
headlights as the train rushed on. But there were no lights.
There was only the whistle, screaming out
of the black throat of the night. Martin could recognize
the equipment of just about any locomotive ever built, but
he'd never heard a whistle that sounded like this one. It
wasn't signaling; it was screaming like a lost soul.
He stepped to one side, for the train was
almost on top of him now, and suddenly there it was,
looming along the tracks and grinding to a stop in less
time than he'd ever believed possible. The wheels hadn't
been oiled, because they screamed too, screamed like the
damned. But the train slid to a halt and the screams died
away into a series of low, groaning sounds, and Martin
looked up and saw that this was a passenger train. It was
big and black, without a single light shining in the engine
cab or any of the long string of cars, and Martin couldn't
read any lettering on the sides, but he was pretty sure this
train didn't belong on the Northwestern Road.
He was even more sure when he saw the man
clamber down out of the forward car. There was something
wrong about the way he walked, as though one of his feet
dragged. And there was something even more disturbing
about the lantern he carried, and what he did with it. The
lantern was dark, and when the man alighted, he held it up
to his mouth and blew. Instantly the lantern glowed redly.
You don't have to be a member of the Railway Brotherhood
to know that this is a mighty peculiar way of lighting a
lantern.
As the figure approached, Martin recognized
the conductor's cap perched on his head, and this made
him feel a little better for a moment - until he noticed that
it was worn a bit too high, as though there might be
something sticking up on the forehead underneath it.
Still, Martin knew his manners, and when the man
smiled at him, he said, "Good evening, Mr. Conductor."
"Good evening, Martin."
"How did you know my name?"
The man shrugged. "How did you know I was the conductor?"
"You *are*, aren't you?"
"To you, yes. Although other people, in other
walks of life, may recognize me in different roles. For
instance, you ought to see what I look like to the folks out in
Hollywood." The man grinned. "I travel a great deal," he
explained.
"What brings you here?" Martin asked.
"Why, you ought to know the answer to that, Martin.
I came because you needed me."
"I did?"
"Don't play the innocent. Ordinarily, I seldom
bother with single individuals anymore. The way the
world is going, I can expect to carry a full load of passengers
without soliciting business. Your name has been down on the
list for several years already - I reserved a seat for you as a
matter of course. But then, tonight, I suddenly realized you
were backsliding. Thinking of joining the Salvation Army,
weren't you?"
"Well - " Martin hesitated.
"Don't be ashamed. To err is human, as
somebody-or-other once said. _Reader's Digest_,wasn't
it? Never mind. The point is, I felt you needed me. So I
switched over and came your way."
"What for?"
"Why, to offer you a ride, of course. Isn't it
better to travel comfortably by train than to march along
the cold streets behind a Salvation Army band? Hard on the
feet, they tell me, and even harder on the eardrums."
"I'm not sure I'd care to ride your train, sir," Martin
said. "Considering where I'm likely to end up."
"Ah, yes. The old argument." The conductor sighed.
"I suppose you'd prefer some sort of bargain, is that it?"
"Exactly," Martin answered.
"Well, I'm afraid I'm all through with that sort
of thing. As I mentioned before, times have changed.
There's no shortage of prospective passengers anymore.
Why should I offer you any special inducements?"
"You must want me, or else you wouldn't have
bothered to go out of your way to find me."
The conductor sighed again. "There you have a point.
Pride was always my besetting weakness, I admit. And
somehow I'd hate to lose you to the competition, after
thinking of you as my own all these years." He hesitated.
"Yes, I'm prepared to deal with you on your own terms,
if you insist."
"The terms?" Martin asked.
"Standard proposition. Anything you want."
"Ah," said Martin.
"But I warn you in advance, there'll be no tricks.
I'll grant you any wish you can name - but in return,
you must promise to ride the train when the time comes."
"Suppose it never comes?"
"It will."
"Suppose I've got the kind of a wish that will
keep me off forever?"
"There *is* no such wish."
"Don't be too sure."
"Let me worry about that," the conductor told
him. "No matter what you have in mind, I warn you that
I'll collect in the end. And there'll be none of this last-minute
hocus-pocus, either. No last-hour repentances, no blonde
*FrŠuleins* or fancy lawyers showing up to get you off. I
offer a clean deal. That is to say, you'll get what you want,
and I'll get what I want."
"I've heard you trick people. They say you're
worse than a used-car salesman."
"Now wait a minute - "
"I apologize," Martin said, hastily. "But it *is*
supposed to be a fact that you can't be trusted."
"I admit it. On the other hand, you seem to think
you have found a way out."
"A surefire proposition."
"Surefire? Very funny!" The man began to
chuckle, then halted. "But we waste valuable time,
Martin. Let's get down to cases. What do you want from me?"
"A single wish."
"Name it and I shall grant it."
"Anything, you said?"
"Anything at all."
"Very well, then." Martin took a deep breath. "I
want to be able to stop Time."
"Right now?"
"No. Not yet. And not for everybody. I realize that
would be impossible, of course. But I want to be able to
stop Time for myself. Just once, in the future. Whenever I
get to a point where I know I'm happy and contented, that's
where I'd like to stop. So I can just keep on being happy forever."
"That's quite a proposition," the conductor mused.
"I've got to admit I've never heard anything just like it before -
and believe me, I've listened to some lulus in my day." He
grinned at Martin. "You've really been thinking about this,
haven't you?"
"For years," Martin admitted. Then he coughed.
"Well, what do you say?"
"It's not impossible in terms of your own
*subjective* time sense," the conductor murmured.
"Yes, I think it could be arranged."
"But I mean *really* to stop. Not for me just
to *imagine* it."
"I understand. And it can be done."
"Then you'll agree?"
"Why not? I promised you, didn't I? Give me your
hand." Martin hesitated. "Will it hurt very much? I mean, I
don't like the sight of blood, and - "
"Nonsense! You've been listening to a lot of
poppycock. We already have made our bargain, my boy. No
need for a lot of childish rigamarole. I merely intend to put
something into your hand. The ways and means of fulfilling
your wish. After all, there's no telling at just what moment
you may decide to exercise the agreement, and I can't drop
everything and come running. So it's better to regulate
matters for yourself."
"You're going to give me a time stopper?"
"That's the general idea. As soon as I can decide
what would be practical." The conductor hesitated. "Ah,
the very thing! Here, take my watch."
He pulled it out of his vest pocket: a railroad
watch in a silver case. He opened the back and made a
delicate adjustment; Martin tried to see just exactly what
he was doing, but the fingers moved in a blinding blur.
"There we are," the conductor smiled. "It's
all set, now. When you finally decide where you'd like
to call a halt, merely turn the stem in reverse and unwind
the watch until it stops. When it stops, Time stops, for
you. Simple enough?"
"Sure thing."
"Then, here, take it." And the conductor dropped
the watch into Martin's hand.
The young man closed his fingers tightly around
the case. "That's all there is to it, eh?"
"Absolutely. But remember - you can stop the
watch only once. So you'd better make sure that you're
satisfied with the moment you choose to prolong. I caution
you in all fairness; make very certain of your choice."
"I will." Martin grinned. "And since you've
been so fair about it, I'll be fair, too. There's one thing
you seem to have forgotten. It doesn't really matter *what*
moment I choose. Because once I stop Time for myself,
that means I stay where I am forever. I'll never have to get
any older. And if I don't get any older, I'll never die. And if I
never die, then I'll never have to take a ride on your train."
The conductor turned away. His shoulders
shook convulsively, and he may have been crying. "And
you said *I* was worse than a used-car salesman," he gasped,
in a strangled voice.
Then he wandered off into the fog, and the
train whistle gave an impatient shriek, and all at
once it was moving swiftly down the track, rumbling
out of sight in the darkness. Martin stood there, blinking
down at the silver watch in his hand. If it wasn't that he
could actually see it and feel it there, and if he couldn't
smell that peculiar odor, he might have thought he'd
imagined the whole thing from start to finish - train,
conductor, bargain, and all.
But he had the watch, and he could recognize
the scent left by the train as it departed, even though
there aren't many locomotives around that use sulphur
and brimstone as fuel.
And he had no doubts about his bargain.
Better still, he had no doubts as to the advantages
of the pact he'd made. That's what came of thinking
things through to a logical conclusion. Some fools
would have settled for wealth, or power, or Kim Novak.
Daddy might have sold out for a fifth of whiskey.
Martin knew that he'd made a better deal.
Better? It was foolproof. All he needed to do now was
choose his moment. And when the right time came, it
was his - forever.
He put the watch in his pocket and started
back down the railroad track. He hadn't really had a
destination in mind before, but he did now. He was
going to find a moment of happiness. . . .
Now young Martin wasn't altogether a ninny.
He realized perfectly well that happiness is a relative
thing; there are conditions and degrees of contentment,
and they vary with one's lot in life. As a hobo, he was
often satisfied with a warm handout, a double-length
bench in the park, or a can of Sterno made in 1957 (a
vintage year). Many a time he had reached a state of
momentary bliss through such simple agencies, but he
was aware that there were better things. Martin
determined to seek them out.
Within two days he was in the great
city of Chicago. Quite naturally, he drifted
over to West Madison Street, and there he took
steps to elevate his role in life. He became a city bum,
a panhandler, a moocher. Within a week he had risen to
the point where happiness was a meal in a regular
one-arm luncheon joint, a two-bit flop on a real army
cot in a real flophouse, and a full fifth of muscatel.
There was a night, after enjoying all three
of these luxuries to the full, when Martin was
tempted to unwind his watch at the pinnacle of
intoxication. Then he remembered the faces of the
honest johns he'd braced for a handout today. Sure, they
were squares, but they were prosperous. They wore good
clothes, held good jobs, drove nice cars. And for them,
happiness was even more ecstatic: They ate dinner in fine
hotels, they slept on innerspring mattresses, they drank
blended whiskey.
Squares or no, they *had* something there.
Martin fingered his watch, put aside the temptation to
hock it for another bottle of muscatel, and went to sleep
determining to get himself a job and improve his
happiness quotient.
When he awoke he had a hangover, but the
determination was still with him. It stayed long after
the hangover disappeared, and before the month was out
Martin found himself working for a general contractor
over on the South Side, at one of the big rehabilitation
projects. He hated the grind, but the pay was good, and
pretty soon he got himself a one-room apartment out on
Blue Island Avenue. He was accustomed to eating in decent
restaurants now, and he bought himself a comfortable bed,
and every Saturday night he went down to the corner tavern.
It was all very pleasant, but -
The foreman liked his work and promised him
a raise in a month. If he waited around, the raise would
mean that he could even start picking up a girl for a date
now and then. Lots of the other fellows on the job did, and
they seemed pretty happy.
So Martin kept on working, and the raise came
through and the car came through and pretty soon a couple
of girls came along.
The first time it happened, he wanted to unwind
his watch immediately. Until he got to thinking about
what some of the older men always said. There was a
guy named Charlie, for example, who worked alongside
him on the hoist. "When you're young and don't know the
score, maybe you gett a kick out of running around with
those pigs. But after a while, you want something better. A
nice girl of your own. That's the ticket."
Well, he might have something there. At least,
Martin owed it to himself to find out. If he didn't like it
better, he could always go back to what he had.
It was worth a try. Of course, nice girls don't
grow on trees (if they did, a lot more men would become
forest rangers), and almost six months went by before
Martin met Lillian Gillis. By that time he'd had another
promotion and was working inside, in the office. They
made him go to night school to learn how to do simple
bookkeeping, but it meant another fifteen bucks extra a
week, and it was nicer working indoors.
And Lillian *was* a lot of fun. When she told
him she'd marry him, Martin was almost sure that the
time was now. Except that she was sort of - well, she was
a *nice* girl, and she said they'd have to wait until they
were married. Of course, Martin couldn't expect to marry
her until he had a little money saved up, and another raise
would help, too.
That took a year. Martin was patient, because
he knew it was going to be worth it. Every time he had
any doubts, he took out his watch and looked at it. But he
never showed it to Lillian, or anybody else. Most of the
other men wore expensive wristwatches and the old silver
railroad watch looked just a little cheap.
Martin smiled as he gazed at the stem. Just a
few twists and he'd have something none of these other
poor working slobs would ever have. Permanent
satisfaction, with his blushing bride -
Only getting married turned out to be just
the beginning. Sure, it was wonderful, but Lillian told
him how much better things would be if they could move
into a new place and fix it up. Martin wanted decent
furniture, a TV set, a nice car.
So he started taking night courses and got
a promotion to the front office. With the baby coming,
he wanted to stick around and see his son arrive. And
when it came, he realized he'd have to wait until it got
a little older, started to walk and talk and develop a
personality of its own.
About this time the company sent him out
on the road as a troubleshooter on some of those other
jobs, and now *he* was eating at those good hotels,
living high on the hog and the expense account. More than
once he was tempted to unwind his watch. This was the
good life. And he realized it could be even better if he just
didn't have to *work.* Sooner or later, if he could cut in
on one of the company deals, he could make a pile and
retire. Then everything would be ideal.
It happened, but it took time. Martin's son
was going to high school before he really got up there
into the chips. Martin got the feeling that it was now or
never, because he wasn't exactly a kid anymore.
But right about then he met Sherry Westcott, and
she didn't seem to think he was middle-aged at all, in
spite of the way he was losing hair and adding stomach.
She taught him that a toupee could cover the bald spot and
a cummerbund could cover the potbelly. In fact, she taught
him quite a number of things, and he so enjoyed learning
that he actually took out his watch and prepared to unwind
it.
Unfortunately, he chose the very moment that
the private detectives broke down the door of the hotel
room, and then there was a long stretch of time when
Martin was so busy fighting the divorce action that he
couldn't honestly say he was enjoying any given amount.
When he made the final settlement with Lil, he
was broke again, and Sherry didn't seem to think he was
so young, after all. So he squared his shoulders and went
back to work.
He made his pile, eventually, but it took longer
this time, and there wasn't much chance to have fun along
the way. The fancy dames in the fancy cocktail lounges
didn't seem to interest him anymore, and neither did the
liquor. Besides, the Doc had warned him about that.
But there were other pleasures for a rich man to
investigate. Travel, for instance - and not riding the rods
from one hick burg to another, either. Martin went around
the world via plane and luxury liner. For a while it seemed
as though he would find his moment after all. Visiting the
Taj Mahal by moonlight, the moon's radiance was reflected
from the back of the battered old watchcase, and Martin
got ready to unwind it. Nobody else was there to watch him -
And that's why he hesitated. Sure, this was an
enjoyable moment, but he was alone. Lil and the kid were
gone, Sherry was gone, and somehow he'd never had time to
make any friends. Maybe if he found a few congenial people,
he'd have the ultimate happiness. That must be the answer -
it wasn't just money or power or sex or seeing beautiful
things. The real satisfaction lay in friendship.
So on the boat trip home, Martin tried to
strike up a few acquaintances at the ship's bar. But all
these people were so much younger, and Martin had nothing
in common with them. Also, they wanted to dance and drink,
and Martin wasn't in condition to appreciate such pastimes.
Nevertheless, he tried.
Perhaps that's why he had the little accident
the day before they docked in San Francisco. "Little
accident" was the ship's doctor's way of describing it, but
Martin noticed he looked very grave when he told him to
stay in bed, and he'd called an ambulance to meet the liner
at the dock and take the patient right to the hospital.
At the hospital, all the expensive treatment and
expensive smiles and expensive words didn't fool Martin
any. He was an old man with a bad heart, and they thought
he was going to die.
But he could fool them. He still had the
watch. He found it in his coat when he put on his
clothes and sneaked out of the hospital before dawn.
He didn't have to die. He could cheat death with
a single gesture - and he intended to do it as a free man,
out there under a free sky.
That was the real secret of happiness. He
understood it now. Not even friendship meant as
much as freedom. This was the best thing of all - to be
free of friends or family or the furies of the flesh.
Martin walked slowly beside the embankment
under the night sky. Come to think of it, he was just
about back where he'd started, so many years ago. But
the moment was good, good enough to prolong forever.
Once a bum, always a bum.
He smiled as he thought about it, and then
the smile twisted sharply and suddenly, like the pain
twisting sharply and suddenly in his chest. The world
began to spin and he fell down on the side of the
embankment.
He couldn't see very well, but he was still
conscious, and he knew what had happened. Another
stroke, and a bad one. Maybe this was it. Except that he
wouldn't be a fool any longer. He wouldn't wait to see
what was still around the corner.
Right now was his chance to use his power and
save his life. And he was going to do it. He could still
move, nothing could stop him.
He groped in his pocket and pulled out the old
silver watch, fumbling with the stem. A few twists and
he'd cheat death, he wouldn't have to ride That
Hell-Bound Train. He could go on forever.
*Forever.*
Martin had never really considered the word
before. To go on forever - but *how*? Did he *want* to
go on forever, like this: a sick old man, lying helplessly
here in the grass?
No. He couldn't do it. He wouldn't do it. And
suddenly he wanted very much to cry, because he knew
that somewhere along the line he'd outsmarted himself. And
now it was too late. His eyes dimmed, there was this roaring
in his ears. . . .
He recognized the roaring, of course, and he
wasn't at all surprised to see the train come rushing out
of the fog up there on the embankment. He wasn't surprised
when it stopped, either, or when the conductor climbed off
and walked slowly toward him.
The conductor hadn't changed a bit. Even his grin
was still the same.
"Hello, Martin," he said. "All aboard."
"I know," Martin whispered. "But you'll have to
carry me. I can't walk. I'm not even really talking anymore,
am I?"
"Yes you are," the conductor said. "I can hear
you fine. And you can walk, too." He leaned down and
placed his hand on Martin's chest. There was a moment of
icy numbness, and then, sure enough, Martin could walk after
all.
He got up and followed the conductor along the
slope, moving to the side of the train.
"In here?" he asked.
"No, the next car," the conductor murmured.
"I guess you're entitled to ride Pullman. After all, you're
quite a successful man. You've tasted the joys of wealth and
position and prestige. You've known the pleasures of marriage
and fatherhood. You've sampled the delights of dining and
drinking and debauchery, too, and you traveled high, wide, and
handsome. So let's not have any last-minute recriminations."
"All right," Martin sighed. "I guessed I can't blame
you for my mistakes. On the other hand, you can't take credit
for what happened either. I worked for everything I got. I did
it all on my own. I didn't even need your watch."
"So you didn't," the conductor said, smiling. "But
would you mind giving it back to me now?"
"Need it for the next sucker, eh?" Martin muttered.
"Perhaps."
Something about the way he said it made
Martin look up. He tried to see the conductor's eyes,
but the brim of his cap cast a shadow. So Martin looked
down at the watch instead, as if seeking an answer there.
"Tell me something," he said, softly. "If I give
you the watch, what will you do with it?"
"Why, throw it into the ditch," the conductor
told him. "That's all I'll do with it." And he held out his hand.
"What if somebody comes along and finds
it? And twists the stem backward, and stops Time?"
"Nobody would do that," the conductor murmured.
"Even if they knew."
"You mean, it was all a trick? This is only an
ordinary cheap watch?"
"I didn't say that," whispered the conductor.
"I only said that no one has ever twisted the stem
backward. They've all been like you, Martin - looking ahead
to find that perfect happiness. Waiting for the moment that
never comes."
The conductor held out his hand again.
Martin sighed and shook his head. "You cheated
me after all."
"You cheated yourself, Martin. And now you're
going to ride That Hell-Bound Train."
He pushed Martin up the steps and into the
car ahead. As he entered, the train began to move and
the whistle screamed. And Martin stood there in the
swaying Pullman, gazing down the aisle at the other
passengers. He could see them sitting there, and somehow
it didn't seem strange at all.
Here they were: the drunks and the sinners, the
gambling men and the grifters, the big-time spenders,
the skirt chasers, and all the jolly crew. They knew where
they were going, of course, but they didn't seem to be
particularly concerned at the moment. The blinds were
drawn on the windows, yet it was light inside, and they
were all sitting around and singing and passing the bottle
and laughing it up, telling their jokes and bragging their
brags, just the way Daddy used to sing about them in the
old song.
"Mighty nice traveling companions," Martin said.
"Why, I've never seen such a pleasant bunch of people. I
mean, they seem to be really enjoying themselves!"
"Sorry," the conductor told him. "I'm afraid things
may not be quite so enjoyable once we pull into that Depot
Way Down Yonder. "
For the third time, he held out his hand. "Now,
before you sit down, if you'll just give me that watch.
I mean, a bargain's a bargain - "
Martin smiled. "A bargain's a bargain," he echoed.
"I agreed to ride your train if I could stop Time when I
found the right moment of happiness. So, if you don't mind,
I think I'll just make certain adjustments."
Very slowly, Martin twisted the silver watch stem.
"No!" gasped the conductor. "No!"
But the watch stem turned.
"Do you realize what you've done?" the conductor
panted. "Now we'll never reach the Depot. We'll just go on
riding, all of us, forever and ever!"
Martin grinned. "I know," he said. "But the fun is in
the trip, not the destination. You taught me that. And I'm
looking forward to a wonderful trip."
The conductor groaned. "All right," he sighed, at
last. "You got the best of me, after all. But when I think
of spending eternity trapped here riding this train - "
"Cheer up!" Martin told him. "It won't be that bad.
Looks like we have plenty to eat and drink. And after all,
these are *your* kind of folks."
"But I'm the conductor! Think of the endless work
this means for me!"
"Don't let it worry you," Martin said. "Look, maybe
I can even help. If you were to find me another one of those
caps, now, and let me keep this watch - "
And that's the way it finally worked out. Wearing
his cap and silver watch, there's no happier person in or
out of this world - now and forever - than Martin. Martin, the
new brakeman on That Hell-Bound Train.
By Robert Bloch
"That Hell-Bound Train," by Robert Bloch. Copyright © 1958 by Mercury Press
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