The Ghost Story Megapack. Джером К. Джером
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he to hear of my present plight. Both the heart and will are in my favor, hence my tender solicitude for him. I am innocent, of course—convicts always are, you know—but that wouldn’t make any difference. He’d die of mortification just the same. It’s one of our family traits, that. So I gave a false name to the authorities, and secretly informed my uncle that I was about to set out for a walking trip across the great American desert, requesting him not to worry if he did not hear from me for a number of years. America being in a state of semi-civilization, to which mails outside of certain districts are entirely unknown. My uncle being an Englishman and a conservative gentleman, addicted more to reading than to travel, accepts the information as veracious and suspects nothing, and when I am liberated I shall return to him, and at his death shall become a conservative man of wealth myself. See?”
“But if you are innocent and he rich and influential, why did you not appeal to him to save you?” I asked.
“Because I was afraid that he, like the rest of the world, would decline to believe my defence,” sighed 5010. “It was a good defence, if the judge had only known it, and I’m proud of it.”
“But ineffectual,” I put in. “And so, not good.”
“Alas, yes! This is an incredulous age. People, particularly judges, are hard-headed practical men of affairs. My defence was suited more for an age of mystical tendencies. Why, will you believe it, sir, my own lawyer, the man to whom I paid eighteen dollars and seventy-five cents for championing my cause, told me the defence was rubbish, devoid even of literary merit. What chance could a man have if his lawyer even didn’t believe in him?”
“None,” I answered, sadly. “And you had no chance at all, though innocent?”
“Yes, I had one, and I chose not to take it. I might have proved myself non compos mentis; put that involved my making a fool of myself in public before a jury, and I have too much dignity for that, I can tell you. I told my lawyer that I should prefer a felon’s cell to the richly furnished flat of a wealthy lunatic, to which he replied, ‘Then all is lost!’ And so it was. I read my defence in court. The judge laughed, the jury whispered, and I was convicted instanter of stealing spoons, when murder itself was no further from my thoughts than theft.”
“But they tell me you were caught red-handed,” said I. “Were not a half-dozen spoons found upon your person?”
“In my hand,” returned the prisoner. “The spoons were in my hand when I was arrested, and they were seen there by the owner, by the police, and by the usual crowd of small boys that congregate at such embarrassing moments, springing up out of sidewalks, dropping down from the heavens, swarming in from everywhere. I had no idea there were so many small boys in the world until I was arrested, and found myself the cynosure of a million or more innocent blue eyes.”
“Were they all blue-eyed?” I queried, thinking the point interesting from a scientific point of view, hoping to discover that curiosity of a morbid character was always found in connection with eyes of a specified hue.
“Oh no; I fancy not,” returned my host.
“But to a man with a load of another fellow’s spoons in his possession, and a pair of handcuffs on his wrists, everything looks blue.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I replied. “But—er—just how, now, could you defend yourself when every bit of evidence, and—you will excuse me for saying so—conclusive evidence at that, pointed to your guilt?”
“The spoons were a gift,” he answered.
“But the owner denied that.”
“I know it; that’s where the beastly part of it all came in. They were not given to me by the owner, but by a lot of mean, lowdown, practical-joke-loving ghosts.”
Number 5010’s anger as he spoke these words was terrible to witness, and as he strode up and down the floor of his cell and dashed his arms right and left, I wished for a moment that I was elsewhere. I should not have flown, however, even had the cell door been open and my way clear, for his suggestion of a super natural agency in connection with his crime whetted my curiosity until it was more keen than ever, and I made up my mind to hear the story to the end, if I had to commit a crime and get myself sentenced to confinement in that prison for life to do so.
Fortunately, extreme measures of this nature were unnecessary, for after a few moments Surrennes calmed down, and seating himself beside me on the cot, drained his water-pitcher to the dregs, and began.
“Excuse me for not offering you a drink,” he said, “but the wine they serve here while moist is hardly what a connoisseur would choose except for bathing purposes, and I compliment you by assuming that you do not wish to taste it.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I do not like to take water straight, exactly. I always dilute it, in fact, with a little of this.”
Here I extracted a small flask from my pocket and handed it to him.
“Ah!” he said, smacking his lips as he took a long pull at its contents, “that puts spirit into a man.”
“Yes, it does,” I replied, ruefully, as I noted that he had left me very little but the flask; “but I don’t think it was necessary for you to deprive me of all mine.”
“No; that is, you can’t appreciate the necessity unless you—er—you have suffered in your life as I am suffering. You were never sent up yourself?”
I gave him a glance which was all indignation. “I guess not,” I said. “I have led a life that is above reproach.”
“Good!” he replied. “And what a satisfaction that is, eh? I don’t believe I’d be able to stand this jail life if it wasn’t for my conscience, which is as clear and clean as it would be if I’d never used it.”
“Would you mind telling me what your defence was?” I asked.
“Certainly not,” said he, cheerfully. “I’d be very glad to give it to you. But you must remember one thing—it is copyrighted.”
“Fire ahead!” I said, with a smile. “I’ll respect your copyright. I’ll give you a royalty on what I get for the story.”
“Very good,” he answered. “It was like this. To begin, I must tell you that when I was a boy preparing for college I had for a chum a brilliant fun-loving fellow named Hawley Hicks, concerning whose future various prophecies had been made. His mother often asserted that he would be a great poet; his father thought he was born to be a great general; our head-master at the Scarberry Institute for Young Gentlemen prophesied the gallows. They were all wrong; though, for myself, I think that if he had lived long enough almost any one of the prophecies might have come true. The trouble was that Hawley died at the age of twenty-three. Fifteen years elapsed. I was graduated with high honors at Brazenose, lived a life of elegant leisure, and at the age of thirty-seven broke down in health. That was about a year ago. My uncle, whose heir and constant companion I was, gave me a liberal allowance, and sent me off to travel. I came to America, landed in New York early in September, and set about winning back the color which had departed from my cheeks by an assiduous devotion to such pleasures as New York affords. Two days after my arrival, I set out for an airing at Coney Island, leaving my hotel at four in the afternoon. On my way down Broadway I was suddenly startled at hearing my name spoken from behind me, and appalled, on turning, to see standing with outstretched hands no less a person than my defunct chum, Hawley Hicks.”
“Impossible,” said I.
“Exactly my remark,” returned Number 5010. “To which I added, ‘Hawley Hicks, it can’t be you!’
“‘But it is me,’ he replied.
“And then I was convinced, for Hawley never was good on his grammar. I looked at him a minute, and then I said, ‘But, Hawley, I thought you were dead.’
“‘I am,’ he answered. ‘But why should a little thing like that stand between friends?’
“‘It shouldn’t,