The Ghost Story Megapack. Джером К. Джером
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to leave them here if there is any question of the propriety of my—’
“Here,” continued 5010, “Hawley seemed to grow impatient, for he stamped his foot angrily, and bade me go at once or there might be trouble. I proceeded to obey him, and left the house instanter, slamming the door somewhat angrily behind me. Hawley’s unceremonious way of speeding his parting guest did not seem to me to be exactly what I had a right to expect at the time. I see now what his object was, and acquit him of any intention to be rude, though I must say if I ever catch him again, I’ll wring an explanation from him for having introduced me into such bad company.
“As I walked down the steps,” said 5010, “the chimes of the neighboring church were clanging out the hour of eleven. I stopped on the last step to look for a possible hansom-cab, when a portly gentleman accompanied by a lady started to mount the stoop. The man eyed me narrowly for a moment, and then, sending the lady up the steps, he turned to me and said,
“‘What are you doing here?’
“‘I’ve just left the club,’ I answered. ‘It’s all right. I was Hawley Hicks’s guest. Whose ghost are you?’
“‘What the deuce are you talking about?’ he asked, rather gruffly, much to my surprise and discomfort.
“‘I tried to give you a civil answer to your question,’ I returned, indignantly.
“‘I guess you’re crazy—or a thief,’ he rejoined.
“‘See here, friend,’ I put in, rather impressively, ‘just remember one thing. You are talking to a gentleman, and I don’t take remarks of that sort from anybody, spook or otherwise. I don’t care if you are the ghost of the Emperor Nero, if you give me any more of your impudence I’ll dissipate you to the four quarters of the universe—see?’
“Then he grabbed me and shouted for the police, and I was painfully surprised to find that instead of coping with a mysterious being from another world, I had two hundred and ten pounds of flesh and blood to handle. The populace began to gather. The million and a half of small boys of whom I have already spoken—mostly street gamins, owing to the lateness of the hour—sprang up from all about us. Hansom-cab drivers, attracted by the noise of our altercation, drew up to the sidewalk to watch developments, and then, after the usual fifteen or twenty minutes, the blue-coat emissary of justice appeared.
“‘Phat’s dthis?’ he asked.
“‘I have detected this man leaving my house in a suspicious manner,’ said my adversary. ‘I have reason to suspect him of thieving.’
“‘Your house!’ I ejaculated, with fine scorn. ‘I’ve got you there; this is the house of the New York Branch of the Ghost Club. If you want it proved,’ I added, turning to the policeman, ‘ring the bell, and ask.’
“‘Oi t’ink dthat’s a fair prophosition,’ observed the policeman. ‘Is the motion siconded?’
“‘Oh, come now!’ cried my captor. ‘Stop this nonsense, or I’ll report you to the department. This is my house, and has been for twenty years. I want this man searched.’
“‘Oi hov no warrant permithin’ me to invistigate the contints ov dthe gintlemon’s clothes,’ returned the intelligent member of the force. ‘But av yez‘ll take yer solemn alibi dthat yez hov rayson t’ belave the gintlemon has worked ony habeas corpush business on yure propherty, oi’ll jug dthe blagyard.’
“‘I’ll be responsible,’ said the alleged owner of the house. ‘Take him to the station.’
“‘I refuse to move,’ I said.
“‘Oi’ll not carry yez,’ said the policeman, ‘and oi’d advoise ye to furnish yure own locomotion. Av ye don’t, oi’ll use me club. Dthot’s th’ ounly waa yez’ll git dthe ambulanch.’
“‘Oh, well, if you insist,’ I replied, ‘of course I’ll go. I have nothing to fear.’
(“You see,” added 5010 to me, in parenthesis, “the thought suddenly flashed across my mind that if all was as my captor said, if the house was really his and not the Ghost Club’s, and if the whole thing was only my fancy, the spoons themselves would turn out to be entirely fanciful; so I was all right—or at least I thought I was. So we trotted along to the police station. On the way I told the policeman the whole story, which impressed him so that he crossed himself a half-dozen times, and uttered numerous ejaculatory prayers—‘Maa dthe shaints presharve us,’ and ‘Hivin hov mershy,’ and others of a like import.)
“‘Waz dthe ghosht ov Dan O’Connell dthere?’ he asked.
“‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘I shook hands with it.’
“‘Let me shaak dthot hana,’ he said, his voice trembling with emotion, and then he whispered in my ear: ‘Oi belave yez to be innoshunt; but av yez ain’t, for the love of Dan, oi’ll let yez eshcape.’
“‘Thanks, old fellow,’ I replied. ‘But I am innocent of wrong-doing, as I can prove.’
“Alas!” sighed the convict, “it was not to be so. When I arrived at the station-house, I was dumfounded to learn that the spoons were all, too real. I told my story to the sergeant, and pointed to the monogram, ‘G. C.,’ on the spoons as evidence that my story was correct; but even that told against me, for the alleged owner’s initials were G. C.—his name I withhold—and the monogram only served to substantiate his claim to the spoons. Worst of all, he claimed that he had been robbed on several occasions before this, and by midnight I found myself locked up in a dirty cell to await trial.
“I got a lawyer, and, as I said before, even he declined to believe my story, and suggested the insanity dodge. Of course I wouldn’t agree to that. I tried to get him to subpoena Ferdinand and Isabella and Euripides and Hawley Hicks in my behalf, and all he’d do was to sit there and shake his head at me. Then I suggested going up to the Metropolitan Opera-house some fearful night as the clock struck twelve, and try to serve papers on Wagner’s spook—all of which he treated as unworthy of a moment’s consideration. Then I was tried, convicted, and sentenced to live in this beastly hole; but I have one strong hope to buoy me up, and if that is realized, I’ll be free tomorrow morning.”
“What is that?” I asked.
“Why,” he answered, with a sigh, as the bell rang summoning him to his supper—“why, the whole horrid business has been so weird and uncanny that I’m beginning to believe it’s all a dream. If it is, why, I’ll wake up, and find myself at home in bed; that’s all. I’ve clung to that hope for nearly a year now, but it’s getting weaker every minute.”
“Yes, 5010,” I answered, rising and shaking him by the hand in parting; “that’s a mighty forlorn hope, because I’m pretty wide awake myself at this moment, and can’t be a part of your dream. The great pity is you didn’t try the insanity dodge.”
“Tut!” he answered. “That is the last resource of a weak mind.”
THE SHADOWS OF THE DEAD, by Louis Becke
“It is bad to speak of the ghosts of the dead when their shadows may be near,” said Tulpé, the professed Christian, but pure, unsophisticated heathen at heart; “no one but a fool—or a careless white man such as thee, Tenisoni—would do that.”
Denison laughed, but Kusis, the stalwart husband of black-browed Tulpé, looked at him with grave reproval, and said in English, as he struck his paddle into the water—
“Tulpé speak true, Mr. Denison. This place is a bad place at night-time, suppose you no make fire before you sleep. Plenty men—white men—been die here, and now us native people only come here when plenty of us come together. Then we not feel much afraid. Oh, yes, these two little island very bad places; long time ago many white men die here in the night. And sometimes, if any man come here and sleep by himself, he hear the dead white men walk about and cry out.”
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