Twelve Stories and a Dream. Герберт Уэллс
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up.
I rang the bell at the lattice-door upon the landing.
“He shouldn’t have tried it, anyhow,” I said to myself. “A man who eats like a pig ought to look like a pig.”
An obviously worthy woman, with an anxious face and a carelessly placed cap, came and surveyed me through the lattice.
I gave my name and she let me in in a dubious fashion.
“Well?” said I, as we stood together inside Pyecraft’s piece of the landing.
“‘E said you was to come in if you came,” she said, and regarded me, making no motion to show me anywhere. And then, confidentially, “‘E’s locked in, sir.”
“Locked in?”
“Locked himself in yesterday morning and ‘asn’t let any one in since, sir. And ever and again SWEARING. Oh, my!”
I stared at the door she indicated by her glances.
“In there?” I said.
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s up?”
She shook her head sadly, “‘E keeps on calling for vittles, sir. ‘EAVY vittles ‘e wants. I get ‘im what I can. Pork ‘e’s ‘ad, sooit puddin’, sossiges, noo bread. Everythink like that. Left outside, if you please, and me go away. ‘E’s eatin’, sir, somethink AWFUL.”
There came a piping bawl from inside the door: “That Formalyn?”
“That you, Pyecraft?” I shouted, and went and banged the door.
“Tell her to go away.”
I did.
Then I could hear a curious pattering upon the door, almost like some one feeling for the handle in the dark, and Pyecraft’s familiar grunts.
“It’s all right,” I said, “she’s gone.”
But for a long time the door didn’t open.
I heard the key turn. Then Pyecraft’s voice said, “Come in.”
I turned the handle and opened the door. Naturally I expected to see Pyecraft.
Well, you know, he wasn’t there!
I never had such a shock in my life. There was his sitting-room in a state of untidy disorder, plates and dishes among the books and writing things, and several chairs overturned, but Pyecraft —
“It’s all right, o’ man; shut the door,” he said, and then I discovered him.
There he was right up close to the cornice in the corner by the door, as though some one had glued him to the ceiling. His face was anxious and angry. He panted and gesticulated. “Shut the door,” he said. “If that woman gets hold of it – ”
I shut the door, and went and stood away from him and stared.
“If anything gives way and you tumble down,” I said, “you’ll break your neck, Pyecraft.”
“I wish I could,” he wheezed.
“A man of your age and weight getting up to kiddish gymnastics – ”
“Don’t,” he said, and looked agonised.
“I’ll tell you,” he said, and gesticulated.
“How the deuce,” said I, “are you holding on up there?”
And then abruptly I realised that he was not holding on at all, that he was floating up there – just as a gas-filled bladder might have floated in the same position. He began a struggle to thrust himself away from the ceiling and to clamber down the wall to me. “It’s that prescription,” he panted, as he did so. “Your great-gran – ”
He took hold of a framed engraving rather carelessly as he spoke and it gave way, and he flew back to the ceiling again, while the picture smashed onto the sofa. Bump he went against the ceiling, and I knew then why he was all over white on the more salient curves and angles of his person. He tried again more carefully, coming down by way of the mantel.
It was really a most extraordinary spectacle, that great, fat, apoplectic-looking man upside down and trying to get from the ceiling to the floor. “That prescription,” he said. “Too successful.”
“How?”
“Loss of weight – almost complete.”
And then, of course, I understood.
“By Jove, Pyecraft,” said I, “what you wanted was a cure for fatness! But you always called it weight. You would call it weight.”
Somehow I was extremely delighted. I quite liked Pyecraft for the time. “Let me help you!” I said, and took his hand and pulled him down. He kicked about, trying to get a foothold somewhere. It was very like holding a flag on a windy day.
“That table,” he said, pointing, “is solid mahogany and very heavy. If you can put me under that – ”
I did, and there he wallowed about like a captive balloon, while I stood on his hearthrug and talked to him.
I lit a cigar. “Tell me,” I said, “what happened?”
“I took it,” he said.
“How did it taste?”
“Oh, BEASTLY!”
I should fancy they all did. Whether one regards the ingredients or the probable compound or the possible results, almost all of my great-grandmother’s remedies appear to me at least to be extraordinarily uninviting. For my own part —
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